by Ann Clement
She turned abruptly just as a man appeared around the rock. He was tall, broad-shouldered and, she estimated, about thirty. Dark curls framed his tanned face. He might be a gentleman if not for his scuffed riding boots and a worn-out coat that had definitely seen better days in the previous century. His gloves showed some use as well. His shirt, though snow-white, was undone at the throat and called attention to the shocking lack of neckcloth. She swallowed at the sight of his Adam’s apple. A true gentleman would not expose himself with such blatant disregard for decorum.
Despite fear gathering in the pit of her stomach, the irony of the situation did not escape her. Instead, it put her in a caustic frame of mind. She was alone with a complete stranger, but this time there wouldn’t be a scandal. There was no one around to see and report her reprehensible behavior. She could do anything she pleased, without consequences.
Worse, the stranger too could do anything he pleased, and without any consequences at all. Josepha, her maid and only friend, had been confined to the house by her father, and no footman hovered nearby to provide protection.
Letitia took a deep breath. Judging by the stranger’s looks, he spent a lot of time outdoors. He might be her father’s steward. Or, God forbid, a highwayman. She hoped he was the former rather than the latter, given that they were far from any major highway. Unless he was fleeing prosecution… But he was not brandishing a pistol or a club, and seemed in no hurry. Instead, a shadow of astonishment and displeasure passed over his features. It was gone by the time he took off his hat in a gesture of greeting.
“Forgive the intrusion. I did not expect to meet anyone here.” His voice had a pleasantly deep timbre.
“What are you doing on these rocks?” she demanded, glad that her sharp tone disguised the lingering fear.
“I could ask you the same question, miss,” the stranger rejoined. He glanced at the sketchbook in her lap and the pencils laying on top of the knapsack. “It seems I have my answer already.”
Letitia’s panic eased a little. He might not be as dangerous as she’d imagined. To be on the safe side, she held her ground.
“But why are you here?”
“To admire the view.” He leaned with his back against the same rock, a few feet away from her, and gazed toward the village clustered beyond the fields. The afternoon breeze played gently with his hair. “You do agree that it is spectacular, or else you wouldn’t be here drawing.”
“Do you live nearby?”
“I do.”
“Are you Lord Stanville’s steward, then?”
He turned toward her. His eyes were as dark as his hair. He let them roam over her face and figure in a leisurely yet bold examination, making her bristle inside at this uninvited forwardness.
“No,” he said. “And who are you? I do not recall seeing you in the village.”
Ah, so he was a mere tenant. Wouldn’t her father have a fit if he knew she was hobnobbing with a man from whom his steward collected rent?
“I have no reason to visit the village,” she said, wishing the stranger would go back to admiring the view instead of making her uneasy with his persistent gaze.
“You might enjoy it.” He finally turned away, this time focusing on the nasty ruin surrounded by a parkland gone wild. “Are you always this pleasant when conversing with others?”
“I am not used to being accosted by trespassing strangers. You are trespassing, my good man, on the Earl of Stanville’s property,” she informed him. “I advise you to remove yourself with utmost celerity.”
He only smiled at that. His words rang with a faint amusement when he said after a moment, “I hope to find you in better spirits when we meet again.”
“I wonder what your spirits would be like if you were to— Never mind,” she huffed, releasing the pent-up frustration.
“If I were to…what?” he prompted. “I cannot give you an answer unless I know your predicament.”
“I doubt you could give me an answer anyway.”
He bent down, pulled a long blade of grass from a clump nesting in the rocks and began chewing on it. Since he didn’t seem in a hurry to leave, she might as well try to use his presence to her advantage.
“Whose lands adjoin Lord Stanville’s property?” she asked.
The question surprised him enough to abandon the contemplation of Wycombe Oaks’ sad prospect and focus on her again.
“Hanbury’s,” he answered.
“Ah, the old baronet’s.” Letitia sighed with feigned indifference, although curiosity was nearly choking her. “Is he really very old?”
The stranger’s mouth quirked up in one corner, but he quickly schooled his features.
“The baronet is…of mature years,” he replied, eyeing her with definite interest now.
So her guess was correct. “Is he well-liked by his neighbors?” she probed.
There was that quick quirk again. “I don’t believe he is disliked by them. However, I may be a poor authority on the subject.”
She swallowed a sigh of disappointment. Indeed, how would a tenant know what Sir Percival Hanbury’s neighbors thought about him? “Do you know the baronet?”
Her accidental companion tossed away the blade of grass. “Yes. He is a little younger than you expect. With respect to everything else, you may want to draw your own conclusions when you meet him.” At that, he bowed, turned and left.
“Wait!” Letitia called. She was not afraid of him any longer.
But the stranger must not have heard her. He disappeared back the way he came.
She frowned at the empty space, wondering if he had been only a figment of her imagination. Too bad they were unequal socially. He would cut a fine figure among the ton in London. Her painter’s eye tucked into memory the image of his thoughtful eyes, strong features and a mouth betraying authority. He also spoke with a more cultured accent than she would have expected from a mere tenant.
Letitia returned to her drawing. But it did not go as well as before. Her concentration was shattered. She still didn’t know anything about the man she was to marry the following day.
Getting information from the housekeeper had already proven almost impossible. The woman had betrayed an undue partiality for red-faced squires and told her only that Sir Percival Hanbury was a good man in need of a wife and lived on the neighboring estate not three miles away.
Her father did not tell her anything at all beyond her intended’s name. She hardly ever saw her father anyway. He had been in a restless, almost-absentminded and explosive mood since they’d arrived in Norfolk more than a week ago. Twenty-three years under the same roof with him had taught her to avoid that keg of powder whenever it was ready to catch a spark.
Too late now, but she should have held her tongue. She could just imagine Mr. Stranger/Highwayman recounting his little adventure over a pint of ale in the local inn. Worst of all, he’d readily confirmed her otherwise unfounded opinion of her betrothed. Without a doubt, her father had handpicked a son-in-law after his own heart.
Chapter Three
Percy arrived at the church half an hour before the ceremony. Having done this before, he felt no particular anxiety about going through the required motions. There was only the sense of doom uncomfortably lodged in his chest since Stanville’s visit to Bromsholme a week earlier. Percy’s life’s goal was now achieved, but at a cost he had never anticipated. The deep satisfaction that his old home would be his in a matter of minutes was marred by the impediment of a bride—the bride he would have never chosen if he had had the choice. True, Lady Letitia seemed pretty enough, perched yesterday on that rock at the top of the outcropping bordering Wycombe Oaks’ park. But he hadn’t missed the hauteur when she practically questioned his reason for climbing up there. And if half the gossip circulating about her in London was true, that had been only a preview of the spoiled heiress’s willful ways.
His gaze wandered to the altar and a couple of small flower arrangements placed there for the occasion. How different from his first wedding in London when the church had resembled a hothouse and the pews had overflowed with guests. Then he could hardly contain his happiness, and the wait at the altar had seemed interminable. He remembered Sarah walking down the aisle on her father’s arm, and his adoration for her, love bursting in his heart when she smiled shyly at him. Ah, Sarah…
He shifted his gaze to a nondescript spot on the wall and his thoughts to the present moment. He was about to enter a marriage of convenience from which there was nothing to be expected. And yet, nothingness was this marriage’s most attractive promise. He did not need or want another woman in his life.
The sounds at the door resonating through the empty church interrupted his thoughts. His bride must have arrived.
Percy turned. She stood next to her father, a slim girl with hair the color of ripe wheat, arranged high on her head and adorned with some lace and dainty, white flowers. She wore a simple, white dress and held a bouquet of white roses.
She gazed at him then, and he saw a sudden flicker of recognition in her eyes. Her lips compressed with displeasure. No wonder. He should have introduced himself yesterday.
With visible impatience, the Earl of Stanville offered his daughter an arm and started walking down the aisle rather too quickly for the occasion. Apparently, he too could not wait for this to be over. Lady Letitia Parker had hardly time to lift the hem of her dress before stepping on it.
They reached the altar in record time, and after responding to Percy’s perfunctory bow with a mere jerk of his head, Stanville motioned the parson to proceed.
Percy said his vows as prompted and listened with indifference to his bride’s recitation of her part. When a moment later he bent down to place a disinterested peck near the corner of her mouth, her large green eyes seared him with a pointed accusation.
Stanville was already walking away from the table where the register had been placed for their convenience. He reached them as soon as they turned away from the altar.
“My best wishes for your happiness,” he mumbled, examining his pocket watch. “I must be off, if you will excuse me.”
And without so much as one look at his daughter and son-in-law, he turned and hastily left the church. The sounds of his departing carriage echoed between the old walls as Percy led his bride toward the table with the register. Stanville’s lack of paternal love barely intruded upon his mind. His heart already beat with the expectation of the coming night. The moment he had dreamed of for years was only hours away.
Letitia glanced at the elegant man next to her as the carriage set in motion. He had a good profile too, but that meant nothing to her now. She was driving away with a stranger who had just become her closest family for the rest of her life. It was a very depressing realization. Only the knowledge that Josepha must have already reached their new home brought a measure of comfort and consolation.
“You knew yesterday who I was, but you deliberately misled me,” she said, breaking the silence eclipsed only by the sounds of a moving carriage.
Sir Percival turned toward her. His eyes, inscrutable and as dark as she remembered them, measured her face with slow interest. He leaned back against the seat cushions.
“And you were deliberately rude, ma’am.”
“I was not the one trespassing. And you looked like a highwayman escaping the noose in that horrible coat of yours.”
His set features relaxed for the first time since she’d seen him standing at the altar. “I beg your pardon for giving you such a fright,” he replied with a hint of laughter. “As it happens, I am attached to that garment.”
“Why did you not introduce yourself?”
“Neither did you,” he pointed out.
When it became apparent he was not going to say anything more, she said, “I assume my father paid you well.”
“Your father gave me what I wanted.”
Fear gripped her by the throat. Doubtless, his appetite did not differ much from that of the others.
“What about the plantations?” She tried to keep the anxiety from her question.
He seemed surprised by it. “What do you mean?”
“Did my father give them to you? As my dowry?”
“No.”
She bit her lip to hide the involuntary smile of relief, then glanced at her husband to see if he’d noticed her reaction. He regarded her with some curiosity.
“I’m relieved to see you do not seem distressed by your father’s decision,” he remarked. “I would find it impossible to accept them, even if he wished to include them in your dowry. Forgive me for saying this, but slavery is a repugnant way of obtaining wealth.”
Then he shifted to face her better. “Since we have another mile or so before we reach my home at Bromsholme, let us use it to discuss the subject of our impending coexistence and try to settle the affairs between us as much as possible at this stage. In a marriage of convenience, we ought to make our covenant clear from the start.”
“Covenant? Whatever you mean by that, sir, I am sure I do not know.” She peered at him, but his face betrayed nothing. Weariness crept into her heart. Whatever tiny hope she had nurtured that perhaps, just perhaps, he might be a little different from her father seemed to be dissipating under his pronouncement.
“In such cases as ours, it is advantageous, I believe, to state clearly the expectations each party has of the other,” he explained. “I will tell you, then, what I expect of you as my wife, and you can do the same. I trust we can resolve our differences expeditiously.”
“Frankly, sir, if I could have my way, I would not be here.”
“For my part,” he said, ignoring her comment, “I expect you to take over the duties of running the household, fulfill our social obligations in the neighborhood and behave as a lady should.”
“Behave as a lady? How dare you! You know nothing about me.”
“Very true. We are complete strangers. I know only what your father chose to tell me and what I was able to confirm when in town last week.”
“You went to London to inquire after my conduct?” she asked incredulously.
“No. I went to purchase the special license we used so successfully half an hour ago. However, my curiosity was easily satisfied. You are still the talk of town, even though, I suspect, most of what I heard must be pure imagination.”
“Indeed, sir, it is all one big lie!”
“My point exactly,” he agreed. “You will keep from fueling circulation of such lies, as my wife and in this neighborhood.”
“Is this all?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied. “Now, perhaps you can tell me what you expect of me.”
Letitia darted an assessing glance at him. “How many children do you have, and what are their ages?” she asked.
He blinked as if she’d taken him by surprise, and pressed his lips together in a tight line, without responding immediately. After a few seconds, she began to worry that he had trouble counting them all or remembering their ages.
“None,” he said at last.
Well, that at least was a relief.
“You haven’t told me yet about your expectations,” he reminded her when she said nothing more.
“I have none.”
“Not quite. You were about to marry Viscount Darnley. You must have thought about your future together and what it would mean for you. Surely you had some expectations.”
“Whatever my expectations were before, they do not apply to you, sir. I do not hope for the same degree of happiness with you as I had hoped to have with—”
“Lord Ogilby?” he supplied. “No, you certainly cannot.”
Her heart hammered with indignation. So the lies spread about her were still in circulation. Besides, she had meant Sir Walter Hastin
g, not the poor Lord Ogilby. Luckily, she’d held her tongue just in time. Yet Sir Percival’s calm, if not cynical, reply pierced at last the bubble of restraint and provoked an outburst.
“Have you ever loved someone?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. “Really loved? So much you were ready to do anything for that person? So much that the disappointment they dealt you was worse than death? You think me ridiculous, don’t you? You acquired me like a-a piece of livestock, along with all that land my father didn’t even care for. All you know about me is the gossip you heard in London and whatever my father chose to tell you. Very well, sir, I can count your silver and your linen, and converse prettily with your guests, but you do not own my heart and my soul, even though the Church just blessed your ownership of my person.”
“I have not married you for your heart or your soul, ma’am.” His face had changed as she spoke. Raw pain distorted his features, and anger crept into his voice. He turned away sharply before adding in an icy tone, “And I do not ask for them either. They are yours to keep.”
Letitia fell silent, stunned by his revealing reaction, stung by the blatant acknowledgment of his indifference. Deep inside offended by the implied unimportance of her person, now that he had whatever he had wanted from her father.
Her father’s malicious chuckle echoed in her ears, together with the question he’d thrown in her mother’s face so many times: “And what are you going to do about this, Lady Stanville, huh?” Her mother had never done anything beyond trying to hide the tears of humiliation caused by his nonchalant disrespect for her as his countess. For years, Letitia could only watch in helpless fury.
Now, she sucked in a deep breath and swerved away from Sir Percival. She could not let him see how much his words cut her to the quick. He’d just confirmed what she had known ever since that afternoon Walter had boasted to his brother about their understanding. She was not a person in her own right, but the means of access to her father’s wealth.