Papa barked with laughter. “I take that as a promise you’ll give me grandchildren! You’re my only hope, Lilibeth; I’d like a pair of boys to dandle on my knee, and a little girl to spoil outrageously.”
Eliza rolled her eyes. “No one can promise to have children, let alone how many boys and how many girls.”
“Nevertheless I want some of each, and I’m counting on you.” He winked at her.
Willy brought the ball back, his tongue flopping out of his mouth in joy at the game, and Eliza threw it once more, as hard as she could. Willy liked to run, and the grounds were expansive. “It would be easier to get some dogs. Then you can choose what breed, what sex, even what color.”
“We have enough dogs already—more than enough.” Papa ignored her scowl at the slight to Willy.
Eliza was used to her father’s persistent talk of her marrying, but this talk of grandchildren was new—and depressing. It was one thing to accept that she would be an eccentric old lady with a pack of dogs for company, and another to remember that meant she would never be a mother. Eliza loved children. Belinda Reeve, the vicar’s wife, had two small daughters, who delighted and charmed Eliza every time they met. No matter how much she told herself she could spoil Georgiana’s future children, or Sophie’s, they wouldn’t be her children. They wouldn’t crawl onto her lap and put their little arms around her neck; they wouldn’t call her Mama and tell her they loved her with sweet childish lisps.
Like her friends, Eliza was an only child—Georgiana’s brother was twenty years her elder and didn’t count. The three of them had promised they would be godmothers to each other’s children, but Eliza was sure she was the only one of the three who would never have to make that request. Georgiana would be Lady Sterling soon, and Sophie was far too beautiful to remain unwed, even though she had no money and had been disowned by her grandfather. Where Eliza would have been devastated to be on her own, though, Sophie had a plan. Sophie was a survivor, and since she’d been able to take care of herself so far—rather well—Eliza was sure Sophie would find a husband once she decided she wanted one.
That would leave Eliza, alone and unwed, knitting lace caps for her friends’ babies and never for her own.
“What did you think of Lord Hastings?” Papa asked, scattering her morose thoughts.
Eliza flushed. “Very charming.” Willy dropped the ball at her feet, and she stooped to retrieve it, grateful to hide her face. “Has he decided to do business with you?” Papa never would have invited him if he hadn’t wanted to partner with the earl.
“I believe so,” said Papa thoughtfully. “He’s no fool, that one.”
She smiled. “Then he must have decided! Who would pass on a chance to learn from the great Edward Cross?”
Papa did not, as expected, laugh at her teasing or scoff at it. He stared off across the grass as Willy raced after the ball yet again. “Well, we shall see. I suppose if he comes back, I’ll have my answer.”
She started. “He’s coming back?” While it wasn’t uncommon for Papa to have business partners over for dinner, he usually went into London to see them. Even his friends like Mr. Grenville rarely came all the way to Greenwich.
“Perhaps.” Papa slanted a curious look at her. “Does that bother you?”
“Why would it?” She waved one hand in front of her burning face. “Of course not. My, it’s warm out.”
“He seemed very taken by your singing last night,” Papa went on.
Stricken by a sudden suspicion, Eliza shot a wary look at him. But Papa was watching Willy, whose eye had been caught by some robins. The birds were scratching for worms, but flew away in a chorus of squawks when Willy bounded toward them. “I like a man who has a good ear,” added Papa absently, squinting at the robins fluttering above her dog’s frantic leaping.
Thank goodness. For a moment she’d had the terrible thought Papa was hinting that she try to flirt with Lord Hastings. All that talk of grandchildren . . .
“What sort of business are you planning with him?” she asked instead. Her father was involved in a variety of things, and if Lord Hastings would be expected again at their home, Eliza needed something intelligent to say to him.
“What?” Papa frowned, then waved one hand. “Nothing exciting—don’t trouble your head about it, my dear. It may well come to nothing. But I should be on my way. Grenville wants to persuade me to invest in his latest scheme.”
“Oh no. Not again.”
“Something about balloon travel,” Papa went on with a nod. “Some chap he knows thinks he’s sorted out how to pilot the silly things from Norwich to Amsterdam without crashing into the sea. Grenville envisions turning it into a courier service to the Continent.”
Eliza laughed. “I can see you’re taken by the prospect. Mr. Grenville has a way of talking you into the worst ideas.”
“He’s a bloody charlatan,” said Papa fondly, of one of his dearest friends. “I’ll be back for dinner.”
“I’m taking tea with Sophie and Georgiana today,” she reminded him.
“An excellent diversion. Remember me to both of them.” Papa kissed her cheek and left, probably not to return until the small hours of the morning. Thank goodness he hadn’t noticed her expression when she’d thought he was implying Lord Hastings might admire her. That was too ridiculous even for Papa to suggest.
Hugh tried to push Edward Cross’s mad proposal from his mind for several days, until one of his worst fears came to pass. Reginald Benwick, eldest son and heir of Lord Livingston, called on him and asked for Edith’s hand.
The moment Mr. Benwick was announced, Hugh’s mind began to race. Damn it. He’d made a little progress since the disastrous evening when twelve thousand pounds slipped through his fingers, but not enough. He could give Edith at most five thousand, and that would leave him scraping for pennies to feed his mother and sister.
“My lord,” said Mr. Benwick when he had been shown in, “I have come to treasure your sister Lady Edith very dearly. She is a wonderful, sweet-natured, beautiful lady, and I would like to make her my wife.”
“Have you spoken to her?” Perhaps Edith would save him and string the boy along for a few more days . . .
But no. Benwick nodded, fairly glowing with satisfaction. “I have, and she has consented. I would like your blessing.”
Hugh smiled. “If she’s given you her blessing, mine counts but little! I am happy to give it. May you share a long life together in contentment and joy.”
“Thank you, sir.” The young man jumped out of his seat. “May I go to her now? She’s been waiting very anxiously for the results of our interview.”
He raised one brow. “Has she? Ought I put you through some sort of test of valor? I’ve never done this before, you know.”
Benwick grinned. “Neither have I! And I am vastly relieved to have it out of the way.” He paused. “My father said I should tell you his solicitors will call upon yours, when it is agreeable.”
To write the marriage contract. To spell out the transfer of Edith’s dowry, which she did not have. Hugh waved one hand carelessly. “There’s plenty of time for the lawyers. If I know my mother and sister, they’ll need to begin shopping at once if they’re to assemble a grand enough trousseau by the end of the year.”
“The end of the year?” Benwick blinked. “I had hoped to marry her sooner, my lord—certainly before the end of the year.”
Hugh laughed even as his small hope that he could put this off for a few more months capsized and sank. “I never interfere between a woman and her modiste. It’s up to you to urge them on, my good man. But I suspect Edith will be an eager bride.”
His visitor laughed, too, relief coloring his face. “Oh I do hope so! Even a month will seem an eternity.” He stopped, looking abashed. “But I should go to Lady Edith—my Edith,” he repeated more tenderly. “I want to tell her right away. Thank you, my lord.” He bowed and hurried out the door.
Hugh let out a shuddering breath and hung his head. He w
as out of time. And he couldn’t bear to see his sister disappointed now. Somehow he had to scrape together a reasonable dowry. For a moment Edward Cross’s voice echoed in his mind: my daughter has a dowry of fifty thousand pounds . . . she’ll inherit half a million more . . .
A tap at the door made him jump. His mother, Rose, peeked in, her face wreathed in joy. “I saw young Mr. Benwick leave,” she began, then stopped. The pleased smile slid from her face. “Darling, what’s wrong?”
He heaved a sigh and made his expression even more tragic. If he told her the truth, she would be inconsolable, and incapable of keeping it from his sisters. He had lied to her for a year and a half, and now it was impossible to stop. “He’s going to take her away, Mother. Who shall tease me about my waistcoats from now on?”
She smiled again and closed the door. “Henrietta might try, if you ask her.”
“No, no.” He propped his chin in one hand. “I shall have to suffer the agony of not knowing if a blue silk embroidered with red elephants suits me.”
“Edith tells me they wish to be married soon. She will need a trousseau.”
Hugh thought of all that she’d spent at the modiste already. What else could Edith possibly need? “Oh? Of course,” he said, pretending ignorance. “I thought we could let her take her pillow, and her hairbrush . . . perhaps that chair she favors in the drawing room . . .”
“Darling,” said his mother in reproach.
“I’m teasing, of course.” He came around his desk to take her hand. “I hope she truly cares for him.”
She gripped his hand in both of hers. “She does. Your father would be so pleased. He used to say he looked forward to giving her to a man who could love her as much as he loved me—” She choked off, but waved it aside when he offered a handkerchief. “He’d be so pleased,” she repeated in a steadier voice. “A future viscountess. Do you think you can arrange the settlements quickly?”
“Er.” Hugh busied himself with replacing the handkerchief, buying a moment. “We’ll see how miserly Livingston plans to be.”
“Oh no!” His mother blinked in dismay. “If he is, then you must be doubly generous with her. Edith deserves her happiness.”
Somehow he managed to smile. “She does.”
He had been standing at the crossroads for a week, waiting, hoping, praying something would happen to spare him the choice he had to make. Now he saw there was nothing and no one coming to help him. One way lay telling the truth, tearing the veil from his mother’s and sisters’ eyes and letting them see how penniless they were. He would have to explain the depth of his father’s mismanagement and deception. He would have to tell Edith that he had no dowry to give her, and that he must tell Lord Livingston even if it caused the viscount to withdraw his consent for the marriage.
The other way lay in sacrificing himself. It would be easier at first, though there was a chance he could end up regretting it for the rest of his life. Still, he’d known, deep down, that it would probably come to this; the only surprising part was the girl. He thought of Eliza Cross’s pink-cheeked smile as she spoke of her dog, and the gratitude in her eyes when he turned the pages of her music. She wasn’t scheming to manipulate him. She seemed to be a perfectly lovely girl. She had a fortune he desperately needed.
He took a deep breath. “Edith might not be the only one reciting vows soon.”
“But Henrietta isn’t even out—” His mother’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t mean . . . ?” she whispered in amazement.
He managed a rueful smile as he held up his hands. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ve met a young lady, is what I ought to have said.”
“Who?”
“No, no, I’ll not say a word until I know if she returns my regard.” He wasn’t sure if he wanted Miss Cross to fall for him or not. If she didn’t, he’d still get a dowry for his sister. But either way, he intended to court her.
There really wasn’t much of a choice.
Chapter 7
Eliza had just dug up another pernicious weed from her garden, clearing a space for the young rosebushes that were finally ready to be planted, when the butler came to find her. “Lord Hastings has come to call, ma’am.”
“What?”
Roberts blinked at her dismayed exclamation. “I informed him that Mr. Cross is not at home, and His Lordship then inquired if you were.”
Eliza looked around, her heart sinking. Once again, she was wearing an old dress, dirty and crumpled from gardening. Her hair was tied up in a severe knot and flattened beneath her ancient straw hat, and her arms were streaked with grime and little bits of the weed she’d been hacking out of the rose bed. Lord Hastings had a terrible knack for catching her at her worst.
The butler’s question was waiting. Slowly she climbed to her feet. Papa liked the earl; he hoped their business venture came to fruition. He would be disappointed if Eliza hid in the potting shed and sent Lord Hastings back to London instead of receiving him in her father’s stead like a proper lady. She would have to do this.
“Beg His Lordship’s pardon,” she told Roberts, “and tell him I will be with him soon. Offer him something to drink. Tell Martha to prepare tea—a full tea, not just a few cakes—and send for Mary to attend me at once.” She pulled off her gardening gloves and swiped the hat from her head. “And put Willy in the kitchen garden,” she added, catching sight of the dog. He was sleeping under the bench by the fountain now, but he’d spring to life the moment she started toward the house.
Roberts nodded, and Eliza picked up her skirts and ran.
It took over a quarter of an hour to reach her room, frantically scrub the dirt from her face and arms, change her dress, locate proper slippers, and have her maid, Mary, brush out her hair. Eliza closed her eyes in despair as Mary fussed over it, and finally told the girl to wind it up into a simple chignon. She flew back down the stairs, slowing to a walk outside the drawing room even as her pulse still raced. She told herself it was the exertion and not the prospect of facing a handsome man, but when the footman opened the door and she walked in to see Lord Hastings rising to greet her, her heart gave a leap that had nothing to do with her mad dash down the stairs.
“I’m so sorry, my lord, for keeping you waiting,” she said breathlessly, making her curtsy. “My father is not at home and I did not expect visitors.”
He smiled. Today his dark hair was tousled into loose curls, and his dimple appeared with devastating effect. “It’s my own fault, Miss Cross, for not sending word to your father first. You’re very kind to receive me.”
“Nonsense.” She caught herself before the nervous giggle could break free. “It’s quiet out here in Greenwich. Visitors are always welcome.”
Bless the heavens, Roberts tapped at the door and brought in the tray she had ordered. Eliza busied herself serving. Lord Hastings accepted a small plate of sandwiches and a cup of tea with just a splash of milk and a tiny bit of sugar, which made her heart take another silly leap. She took her tea exactly the same way. Which means exactly nothing, she told herself.
“Do you like Greenwich?” he asked politely.
Eliza’s eyes went wide. “Greenwich? Yes. Oh.” She bit her lip, remembering. “I said it’s quiet. It is very quiet, much more so than London. My good friend Georgiana Lucas lives right in Cavendish Square, and she tells me it’s noisy at all hours.”
“It is,” he agreed with a faint smile. “Is she the sister of the Earl of Wakefield?”
“Yes.” Too late Eliza realized she ought to have called her friend Lady Georgiana. “Are you acquainted with her?”
“No, but I hear of her. My sisters think she is one of the most elegant ladies in London, and more than once they have come home from a walk in the park near fainting with rapture over the dress Lady Georgiana wore.”
Eliza laughed. “They are correct! Lady Georgiana has exquisite taste.”
Again his eyes crinkled in that almost-smile. “I must say the same of you, Miss Cross, if you’ve had the decorating of this hous
e.”
This time she blushed with pleasure. House decorating was, she felt, one of her few talents. Papa had thrown up his hands and said she could do whatever she liked to any room but his study, and so Eliza had indulged her every fancy. The drawing room was her favorite, in soft yellow with crisp draperies of ivory silk. The furniture was light but comfortable, upholstered in striped damask, and all the lamps and ornaments were crystal. The tall windows looked out over the lawn spreading down to the river, and on sunny days the entire room glowed.
“I have,” she acknowledged, trying to smother the bubbling delight inside her. “My mother died when I was a child, and my father would cover the walls with oak paneling and hang velvet draperies everywhere, if it were left to him.” She wrinkled her nose. “Very manly, but also very dark.”
“He was wise to give it into your hands.”
“Thank you, my lord.” She could feel herself blushing hotter under his approval, and took a quick sip of tea to hide it. “Are your sisters both out?”
“No. Henrietta won’t be out until next Season, but our mother has allowed her to attend some events. She said it’s unfair for one sister to go to balls and soirees and expect the other sister to sit quietly at home.” He gave a rueful grin. “But I must say, Henrietta is avidly anticipating her own debut.”
Eliza smiled wistfully. “Your mother sounds very wise. Your sisters are fortunate to have her.”
He regarded her with compassion. “We all are. She’s a loving mother.”
She swallowed a burst of envy. “I never had a sister, either, though I often wished for one.”
Lord Hastings’s mouth quirked. “I cannot say I am sorry I have sisters, though they can be vexing at times. They may not be as pleased to have a brother.”
“Oh no, I’m sure they are!”
He laughed and she blushed.
Eliza had dreaded her Season, and only had one because Papa insisted. He took a house in the middle of London, hired a very proper companion, and wrangled a list of invitations. Eliza soon realized that the companion had only accepted the post because Papa offered her an indecent amount of money, and the invitations were to second tier events or hosted by people who owed Papa a favor. Despite her father’s best efforts, nothing could pry her way into the most elite parties, and Eliza was vastly relieved when it ended.
An Earl Like You Page 6