The Baron's Heiress Bride

by Lauren Royal

  Heading toward the grassy paths where he’d walked with Lily last night, he sighed. He wouldn’t lose her. That was unthinkable. But for now, he had to concentrate on Margery. She needed him, too.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” he began carefully.

  “Alban?” To his shock, she all but snorted. “I’d never wish death on a man, but I cannot pretend to miss him.” She dashed the wetness from her eyes.

  “Then…you’re not crying because of him?”

  “Heavens, no.” She took a deep breath, looking better already. Some color was returning to her cheeks. “Alban was cruel. Surely you remember how he was as a boy.” She shuddered, perhaps remembering things that Rand would rather not know. “I never wanted to marry him.”

  “Then why did you agree?”

  “It was my father’s last wish. Not that that stopped me from begging to get out of it. But Uncle William would hear none of it.”

  The marquess wasn’t really her uncle, but she’d called him that since her girlhood. To Rand, it had always sounded too friendly a name for the old goat.

  In a sheltered area between two rows of trees, she stopped. “Randy…”

  When she hesitated, he turned to her and smiled. “No one calls me that anymore, you know.”

  Her own smile was wan, but there. “Shall I call you Professor? Or, oh, how could I have forgotten? My lord baron.” She executed an absurd, formal curtsy.

  “Rand will do,” he told her, glad to see the old Margery peeking through all the misery.

  “Rand, then,” she repeated, growing serious again. “I shall try to remember, but you’ll have to remind me if I forget. Rand…I…are you aware that Uncle William expects me to marry you now?”

  “He’s told me as much,” he answered, suddenly apprehensive.

  She resumed walking, absently trailing one hand along a hedge as she went by. “Who was that girl with you?”

  “Lady Lily Ashcroft, the Earl of Trentingham’s daughter.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “I think so.” He watched her elegant fingers skim the leaves. Margery was beautiful, too, but in a fragile sort of way. She was taller than Lily and not as fine-boned, but Margery would never allow dogs to slobber all over her. She wouldn’t climb fences or laugh at bawdy songs, either. Margery could be a saucebox, but beneath it all, she was a very proper young woman.

  Well, she’d been stuck at the Marquess of Hawkridge’s household all this time, Rand reminded himself. It was a wonder she had any spunk left in her at all.

  She stopped again. “Why is Lady Lily here?”

  “She…ah…well, when I received the summons from the marquess, it said only that—”

  “Are you in love with her?”

  He met her gaze. There was no sense in lying—the truth would surely be obvious anyway. “Yes,” he said. “I am.”

  “Thank goodness.”

  He blinked, nonplussed. “Pardon?”

  “I don’t want to marry you, Randy. I mean, Rand.” A small smile curved her lips, then faded. “I didn’t want to marry your brother, and I don’t want to marry you. I love you like a sister. Not a wife.”

  “You have no idea how relieved I am to hear that.”

  “Oh, I imagine you’re just as relieved as I am to hear it from you.” Turning to walk back toward the house, she slanted him a sidelong glance. “Did you truly believe I love you that way?”

  “I didn’t think so,” he said. “But I wasn’t sure, and many wed for alliance, not love, and the marquess wanted—and Lily worried—”

  He stopped, humiliated to find himself babbling.

  When a student babbled, he accused the ninnyhammer of being unprepared. Which Rand was, at the moment. Woefully unprepared to deal with this—love, pressure from his family, responsibilities he’d never wanted nor thought would be his…all of it.

  They reentered the formal gardens, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes. “Well,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood for both of their sakes, “you cannot blame me for wondering if you might, after all, be besotted. I did, if you’ll remember, grace you with your first kiss.”

  That earned a good-natured smirk. “I don’t remember ‘grace’ being an applicable description. And if I recall correctly, it was your first kiss as well. You seemed to be concerned about going off into the world an inexperienced man.” Her green eyes perhaps a bit more lively than before, she glanced over at him. “Have you gained any experience, Randal Nesbitt?”

  “Oh, in the past ten years I’ve kissed a lady or two. And you?”

  “Besides your loathsome brother at his insistence?” She looked as though the memory made her gag. But then her features softened. “I’m in love with Bennett Armstrong.”

  “Bennett Armstrong?” He frowned, trying to remember. “Is he not a scrawny boy of twelve?”

  In spite of her despondency, a little chuckle bubbled up. “He was when you left at thirteen. He’s twenty-two now. And not scrawny, I can assure you.”

  The warmth in her voice told Rand she had the same feelings for Bennett that he had for Lily. Or a likeness of them, anyway. He had a hard time believing most people lived with these strong emotions.

  He attempted to picture a grown-up Bennett Armstrong. “His father is a baron, yes?”

  “Bennett is the baron now. His father died when the smallpox swept through the county. Three years ago, that was.”

  That explained Etta’s new scars, and the ones he’d seen on other old family retainers. “You never wrote me about the smallpox.”

  Margery shrugged. “I didn’t think you’d care.”

  He hadn’t cared, not then. Guilt ate at his insides.

  “Bennett is a wealthy baron,” she continued. “His father left him gold and estates. I’m certain my own rich but untitled father would have been pleased to see me happily wed to such a gentleman, no matter that Bennett won’t be a marquess like Alban. Like you,” she corrected herself. “Yet I argued with Uncle William until I was blue in the face, and he refused to let us marry.” As they drew closer to the house, Margery’s feet dragged. “And now there’s the complication…”

  She seemed reticent to continue. He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “The money? He told me about that. The way the marquess sees it, this is a matter of honor and finances. Love doesn’t figure into the equation.”

  “Money doesn’t figure into it, either.” She frowned. “I told you, Bennett is a wealthy man. With land, and—”

  “It’s not your wealth the marquess is concerned with, but his own.”

  They’d reached the edge of the garden, and Margery plopped down on a bench. “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t he discuss this with you?”

  “No. You think he’d deign to explain himself to a woman? He prefers to be dictatorial. It’s how he gets his jollies.”

  With a sour laugh, he sat beside her. “You’re not wrong about that,” he said and explained about Hawkridge’s dependence on her property and the repercussions of losing that income.

  “No wonder he didn’t want to admit it!” Margery burst out when he was finished. “He kept mumbling about honor and the promise to my father. And now, of course, since it happened, he has the perfect excuse to refuse Bennett—”

  “Lily,” Rand interrupted her, “has a solution for Hawkridge’s finances.”

  “Does she?” Margery blinked. “But that doesn’t solve—”

  “She has an inheritance. Ten thousand pounds. Plus another three thousand from her marriage portion. That ought to be enough to set the marquess on the road to solvency, and then everyone can wed whomever they want.”

  Margery toyed with her black skirts. “No, Randy,” she started.

  A booming bark drew their attention to the river. In the distance Rand saw Lily toss a stick, and a big, wet mastiff jump into the water to retrieve it. Beatrix sat nearby, placidly watching. Apparently the monsters didn’t eat cats, after all.

  “What are y
ou looking at?” Margery asked.

  “Lily.” The hound scrambled up the bank and shook violently, spraying her with water that left big dark splotches on her light blue gown. He laughed aloud. “She’s playing fetch in the river with one of the marquess’s dogs!”

  The sight of her, being so very Lily, lightened his heart. She caught him watching and waved. Waving back, he turned to Margery. “I must go tell her you want Bennett, not me. She’ll be so happy.”

  “Rand—”

  “Don’t worry, Margery.” She looked so distressed. “We’ll make it right.” Sudden impulse made him lean and give her a quick, chaste kiss on the lips. “For old times’ sake,” he said lightly, rising from the bench. “Was it better than last time?”

  He was gratified to see the ghost of a smile return. “Perhaps. But not as good as Bennett’s.”

  “No? I’m not sure whether I’m happy to hear that or gravely insulted.” He grinned. “I need to talk to Lily; then we’ll speak with the marquess.”

  He started off.

  “Wait, Rand, there’s more—”

  But he was already walking away, and Lily had spotted him. Whatever else Margery wanted to talk about could wait.

  FORTY-FIVE

  THE SMILE FROZE on Lily’s face.

  He’d kissed Margery. On the lips.

  He’d walked with his arm around her, too. Lily knew that, because although she’d been playing with the dog, she’d kept half an eye on Rand and Margery the entire time.

  Or at least while they were visible. For a while they’d disappeared into the hedge- and tree-lined gardens. Had he kissed Margery there, too? In the little round gazebo where she and Rand had kissed last night?

  He was going to marry Margery.

  As Lily watched him come closer, she decided she wouldn’t make a fuss. Because she was nice. Because his father wanted it this way, and if all the parties agreed, there was no point in fighting fate. Because Margery had known Rand nearly all her life, while Lily had known him just a few weeks.

  Then suddenly she was in his arms, and she wondered how she could have thought any of that. His mouth was on hers, fervent and possessive, and she slipped her hands inside his open surcoat, pressing herself close. Her heart raced; the blood rushed through her veins. And it was the same for him, she was certain.

  Nothing had changed between them.

  By the time he pulled away, her senses were spinning, her knees wobbly and weak. And although he was smiling, he looked as shaky as she felt. His heart was in his extraordinary gray eyes, there for her to see.

  Perhaps fate would tear them apart, but it was clear as the cloudless sky that it wouldn’t be because Rand’s feelings for her had changed. And although she wanted an explanation for why he’d kissed Margery, she wouldn’t ask, because she didn’t want him to know she’d doubted him.

  Still smiling, he brushed at his dripping coat and plucked his damp shirt away from his body.

  The sight of that shirt molded to his chest made her swallow hard. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid Rex has soaked me through.” The dog was panting at her feet. She bent to grab the stick and tossed it arcing over the water, watching the mastiff gleefully splash in to fetch it.

  Looking every bit as gleeful, Rand swung her back to face him. “It’s all right. I’ll happily risk more wet to kiss you again.” And she was happy to oblige, but this kiss was short and light. “Margery doesn’t want to marry me,” he said with an even wider grin.

  She felt like singing—though she wouldn’t subject him to that, of course, not for all the gold in England. “Oh, Rand—”

  “What do you think you’re doing with my dog?”

  They whirled to see the marquess storming down the path to the river. Beatrix scampered up a nearby tree to join Lady and Jasper where they sat on a branch, chattering nervously. Lily’s heart pounded.

  “Don’t worry,” said a whispered voice; Margery had sidled up behind them. “He might bellow like a bear and insist on his own way, but he’s not a man to do physical violence.”

  “I beg to differ,” Rand said tightly, making Lily wince to think what he must have endured.

  As his father drew near, he looped an arm over her shoulders, a clear message of possession. The tall, formidable marquess stood before them and glared down into Lily’s face. “Well?”

  Although Lily had always been nice, she’d never been shy. “I was only playing with Rex, my lord. He seems to enjoy it.”

  “Rex?”

  She shrugged. “He needed a name. I assure you, I’ve done him no harm.”

  He whistled to the dog, which obediently ran over. “His name is Attila,” he said, grabbing the chain around the animal’s neck. “And like the rest of my mastiffs, he’s a valuable fighter. He’ll sell for a top price once he’s fully trained—that is, if he doesn’t die of a chill first.” His fist was white-knuckled on the links. “My dogs do not play.”

  Lily drew herself up to her full height of five-foot-two. “Perhaps they should. As they don’t seem to get a lot of human attention, some toys would be a welcome addition to their enclosure. Knotted rope, as I told Rand.” Rand’s hand tightened on her shoulder in warning, but she ignored it. She refused to be intimidated by the man she hoped would be her father-in-law. “And you’d do well to uproot the apple tree in there—the fruit is of a size to be a choking hazard.”

  Surprisingly, Lord Hawkridge looked thoughtful if still fierce. “These dogs are meant to accompany soldiers at war. They get plenty of human attention when I train them—to kill. But perhaps some toys might not be amiss. Knotted rope could well promote fighting amongst themselves, which would help keep them in shape.”

  It wasn’t exactly what Lily had in mind, but it was something. And he was no longer ignoring her.

  He turned his attention to Margery. “When did you arrive?”

  She exchanged a look with Rand. “Moments ago, Uncle William.”

  “Good. We’ll talk over dinner. It’s long past time we settled your betrothal and marriage. Come along and make yourself presentable.”

  He swung on a heel, taking Margery’s arm to pull her along with him, the dog trotting on his other side. Lily stared at Lord Hawkridge’s stiff, retreating back. Margery needed to make herself presentable? Lily had rarely seen someone so pristine. She glanced down at her own water-and-mud-stained skirts with dismay.

  Rand came around to face her and lifted her chin with a hand. “You did well,” he said admiringly.

  She fluffed at her filthy blue gown. “If he believed Margery needed grooming, he must think I’m a veritable fustilug.”

  He pressed a kiss to her lips. “He wasn’t looking at you; he was listening. Miraculously. And he only said that to Margery as an excuse to drag her off. He doesn’t want us talking and figuring a way around his plans.” Another kiss. “Little does he know that we already have.”

  Lily was cautious of celebrating too soon, but she drew hope from his words. “How long until dinner?”

  Rand glanced at his pocket watch. “An hour.” Tucking it away, he shrugged out of his surcoat.

  She nodded. “I’ll just have time to bathe and change.”

  “And I’ll just have time for a run.” He handed her the coat. “Take this inside for me, will you?”

  “You’re going for a run? Now?”

  His fingers, working the knot in his cravat, stilled as he met her gaze. “It’s just a run, Lily. I like to do that. To—“

  “To think. I know.”

  Then why did she feel shut out?

  Not understanding, he smiled as he handed her the lace-trimmed linen. “Thank you. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  All through her bath Lily told herself that Rand’s running didn’t equate to running away—at least not from her. By the time Etta laced her into a fresh peach gown, she almost believed it.

  FORTY-SIX

  “JEROME, YOU may leave us now. And inform the others they are not to enter the dining room unless
I ring.”

  The aging footman bowed and backed away, his face betraying relief. Rand watched the marquess pick up his fork and stab a piece of buttered and sugared turnip. The staff was still wary of his father’s moods, he thought with an internal sigh. If employment were easier to come by, he imagined most of the old-timers would have left long ago.

  “Now,” the marquess said, looking pointedly at Rand and then Margery. “You’re both here. It’s time to seal this betrothal and get on with our lives.”

  “My lord,” Lily started.

  “No.” The man waved his fork. “You’re not part of this family, my lady, and there is nothing you can add to this discussion.”

  She shared a look with Rand, then set to silently picking at her food.

  Seething, Rand lifted his goblet. “You’re wrong,” he said tightly. “Lily does have something to contribute—an inheritance that she’s prepared to put at your disposal in exchange for your blessing on our marriage. Ten thousand pounds, plus her dowry, which brings the total to thirteen. I believe that adds quite a bit to this discussion.”

  Regardless of the fact that it was an enormous sum of money, the marquess barely blinked. “And where do you suppose that leaves Margery? Your foster sister, promised to my heir on her father’s deathbed?”

  “Free to marry Bennett Armstrong.” Rand sipped smugly.

  The marquess’s fork clattered to his plate. “Bennett Armstrong!” he bellowed, his face turning red. “How dare you utter that name in my house?“

  Feeling Lily shudder beside him, Rand reached to squeeze her hand.

  What color was left in Margery’s cheeks had vanished. “Uncle William—“

  “Am I to understand,” he interrupted her in a low, dangerous voice, “that you still wish to marry that boy?”

  Her lower lip quivered. “Uncle, you don’t know him. He’s a good man—“

  “He’s a murderer!”

  Rand’s jaw dropped open. “Murderer?”

  Margery turned glistening, sorrowful eyes on him. “I tried to tell you earlier.”

  “Bennett Armstrong is a murderer?”