Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 3

by DeLand, Cerise

  “True.”

  “Much of this marriage business is not just. Not for me or Giles or you and Willa.”

  The stillness in the little cottage was deafening.

  For them all, she was furious and bereft. “But I am a woman and we have few rights.”

  His silence told of his agreement.

  Her outrage filled the room. “I cannot fight it, is that what your reticence declares?”

  “Time can cure much of this. The man will die one day.”

  Or I will. Or Northington. “God forgive me, Charlie, if I say…” She stood, put down her wine glass and her fantasies. “Not soon enough.”

  * * *

  “Where have you been?” The second Esme’s foot touched her sitting room carpet, her mother shot up from her chair. Her lips trembled, her brown eyes misted. Her hands quivered.

  “Alice, please.” The viscount rose from his own post in the opposite chair and took his wife’s hand. “She’s here. Safe.”

  “She’s been gallivanting!” Her mother whipped her fan to proportions of a gale, her honey gold hair flying in the wind like a woman in Bedlam. “Where? Where? You should know we’d be wild to find you.”

  Esme inhaled. Oh, she’d known as she walked in the glade that her mother would lose tears over her disappearance. She didn’t need to look at her father’s expression to understand his feelings. He’d most likely guessed where she’d gone and hadn’t enlightened her mother. Best to keep Mama in the dark on so many things. This was one of them.

  “Do sit, Alice.” Her father could tame her mother like no other.

  The lady plunked her bottom into the fine upholstered chair and fished a handkerchief from her sleeve. Then she blew her nose. Loudly. Honked, actually. Twice.

  Esme was not surprised to see that her mother had not yet begun her toilette for tonight’s ball. But her Mama’s neglect was to be expected, of course, when that lady had learned that her daughter, the bride—the young woman of the hour, so to speak—was not at home.

  Not to be found less than an hour before the start of the ball.

  “Tell us where you’ve been,” Mama demanded.

  “I was walking in the woods.”

  “For hours?”

  “And getting my last words of instruction from Reverend Compton.”

  “Oh, piffle. What words of wisdom has the notorious Captain to commend him to a young bride?” Charlie had been her father’s favorite for the post of vicar to the village. Never her mother’s.

  “Alice. My dear. This is not like you.”

  “You should not be in another man’s company alone! The night before your wedding!” She shrugged him off and fluttered her fan in vast objection. “What if someone had seen you?”

  At the thought of the two women from the village, Esme couldn’t stop herself from wincing.

  “Ohhhhh, who was it?”

  “Not anyone who will tell, Mama. Really. I was careful. And Charlie is a man of God.”

  “Charlie has only lately returned to the Church. Before that he was known as the hell spawn of Wellington’s infantry.”

  “Alice!” Her father barked. “Contain yourself.”

  “I hope he was respectful.”

  Interpreted, that meant Charlie had not discussed the arts of making love. “He was.”

  “Alice, I think it best if you leave us.”

  “No.”

  “I insist.” He gave her the look which declared he would not be nay-sayed. Long ago, he’d not discussed business with his wife. She’d go into apoplectic fits if she knew he’d ever lost a penny. So, no. This discussion would not be appropriate, especially if the mother-of-the-bride was to appear her best self in the chapel tomorrow at nine o’clock sharp.

  “You be firm with her.”

  “I will.”

  “She must not disappear on Northington like this.”

  “No, my dear.”

  “A man does not take such shenanigans lightly.”

  “Certainly, my dear.”

  She sniffed. Then with one last scowl at Esme, she spun for the door. And if truth be known, she was happy to go and avoid the details of whatever this discussion was to be.

  Her father watched her mother go. “You must excuse her anxiety,” he said when she was gone. “She loves you so.”

  “I know that. She never wanted me to marry Northington.”

  “She always thought him too mysterious, so often abroad these past few years.”

  Also, because to many, he appeared aloof. “I do believe he worked for the government…elsewhere.”

  Her father’s blue eyes flared wide in surprise. “You knew?”

  “Guessed. But he did tell me—by accident I believe—that his tiger, Henry—Henri—comes from France. Toulouse, to be exact. Where would Northington find a boy like that in a town deep in the countryside if he were not involved in some sub rosa activity?”

  “You asked him?”

  “No. I did not think it appropriate to ask such a thing. If he wished me to know—if he was free to confide in me, at any point, he would have told me.”

  “Ah, so you trust the man.”

  She ruminated on the moments when her fiancé had revealed so many of his inner beliefs on life, love and his father’s character. In most things, she did trust him. But to give voice to that was difficult and so instead, she gave her father a small smile.

  Her father took to striding back and forth before Esme. Hands behind his back, he frowned. Stooped and sad, he seemed older by a decade. “Northington came to me and explained the problem he faces. He wished to find you. I assume he did, because afterward, I could not find you.”

  “All true. I know the issues. The question is what to do about them.”

  He made one of those faces she knew so well. Flexing every muscle in his face, he was thinking…and none of his thoughts were happy ones.

  “Oh, Papa, there is no need to puzzle this out. I’ve thought about it, too. It’s a hideous situation. If the Duke does not sign, I wed without his consent. Unrecognized by him.”

  “But still you’d be the legal wife of the Marquess of Northington.”

  She went to take her father’s hands. “I will not see you pay anyone to take me as wife. Nor will I see anyone degrade the value of what you have built.”

  “Dear girl, I have no one else to give my money to save you. I will do it for your betterment until hell freezes over.”

  She pulled away. “You told Northington you would agree to this? To see the equivalent of my bride price given to his father? To…to squander?”

  “No. I didn’t. I left it to him to hopefully fix the problem with his new offer to his father. He expects to hear this evening when his solicitor arrives here.”

  “And if the duke does not agree?”

  “Then you must ask yourself what will you give for love.”

  She stared at him, mouth open.

  “Sweet child of mine, to live with one you love is the finest joy in life. The commitment brings resilience and comfort when circumstances crush your heart and your hope—and when you rejoice at the riches the world can bestow, no greater delight comes when you celebrate with one you adore. I would have you live with one you love.”

  He kissed her forehead and walked away.

  He would have her marry, even if it meant his riches fell to possession of an undeserving man.

  How could she live with that?

  Chapter 7

  “Will that be all, my lady?”

  Jane had fidgeted and fussed over Esme with as much nit-picking as Esme could stand.

  “Of course, Jane. I look…” Terrified? Perplexed? “Wonderful for this ball. And you have made me so.”

  The girl stared at her with round wary eyes. “Yer certain there’s no more I can do for ye?”

  “Nothing, Jane. Do go. Enjoy yourself in the servants hall. Mama hired a flutist and a violinist for the servants to dance.”

  “Ring for me to unlace you, Miss.” Of
ten so tired after a night of dancing, Esme had sunk into her bed, laced up like a Christmas goose. She’d let Jane sleep through the night.

  “I will.”

  “Must get yer rest to look best for the morrow,” Jane said, fussy as Mama.

  “Right you are. Thank you.” Esme gave a small smile in dismissal.

  The girl bobbed and disappeared.

  Esme flapped her arms at her sides and sighed.

  What am I to do?

  Caught between the destruction of two men whom she respected and loved more than any others in this world, what was she to do? She would not permit her father’s hard earned money to flow to the greedy fingers of the Duke of Brentford. No matter if her father died tomorrow or the next day, next month, next year! Or Giles did. Or she did. Why should the duke profit from the careful investment of her father?

  The Viscount Courtland had inherited thousands of pounds from his mother estate when that lady died in seventeen-seventy-five. Placed in trust for him by his father because he was only eight, the funds had gained one-third more in value. At his majority, her father had taken advice from his friend, George Smith who was a banker familiar with trade issues and the East India Company. Breeding the finest sheep on his lands in the Cotswolds and investing in cotton mills, he had grown his wealth beyond his imaginings. With no son to give it to and loving his only child, a daughter, better than many men did, he’d fixed his wealth on Esme.

  He’d provided well for her, including an education in feminine arts at Miss Shipley’s. But he’d also showered her with his own instruction in the indelicate arts of fishing, hunting with bow and arrow and the precise skill of aiming her own tiny French pocket pistol.

  The result? Esme could sit for hours to wait for a fish. She could also draw back her bow and pierce a wild boar through the guts at thirty yards. Her finest art he’d taught her over the objections of her mother who declared that a lady of the ton need never know how to plug a hole through the belly of a crow.

  Yet Esme did do all of that with a glee. These skills made her mother seek her headache powders and her father chuckle that if only he could teach her how to drink like a man, that would be the making of her. Esme had never told him that she could hold her liquor…to the tune of three glasses of wine, and one of port. After that, her eyesight got a bit blurry…but more than that, she’d never had reason to imbibe.

  Until now.

  She gazed at herself in her full-length cheval mirror. She’d badgered her father to have one made for her and this one showed every detail of her body. From her large feet in her new pink slippers, to her new ball dress of India Sacarallie, trimmed round the skirt with six rows of white satin coquings with silver tassels. The over dress of silver lama sloped in front, trimmed with a full quilling of Vandyke muslin, edged with silver. She looked a princess, sparkling and serene.

  Other aspects of her appearance gave her pause, such as her shoulders (broad really), her breasts (healthy, she preferred to call them), her neck (long enough to make her look taller than she was), and her hair, a tawny shade of honey (not the pale blonde fluff that denoted a Diamond). She had a round face and plump cheeks, while her nose had grown much too long. Her eyes were her best feature, being wide-set with thick lashes and brows that made her appear haughty. To herself, she passed as ordinary. To some who counted her rich attire, she’d heard many declare her Incomparable. Though that term could never define her, she understood envy. Had tried to counter it in those young women she met.

  As a girl, she had desperately aspired to be included in all actions of her schoolmates. She’d acted poorly.

  But she had changed. Become less aggressive. Kinder.

  Over the years, her friends had forgiven her much of her childishness. Even without an apology from her. For they had been children, too, half-formed and searching for the fullness of themselves. If she excused their foibles, they had excused hers. So many of them had come here for the past few years to her parents’ May Day Frolic and proven that they were indeed her friends.

  She had grown. Matured. Prospered. Fallen in love. And now…

  Now she had to decide how to spend the rest of her life.

  Would she marry on the morrow?

  Allowing her father to see his wealth grasped by an unprincipled derelict.

  Allowing her husband-to-be to be manipulated to support his unworthy father.

  Or would she end it all?

  * * *

  “You look marvelous, my darling.”

  Esme gazed into Giles’s appreciative hazel eyes and wound her arm through his. They stood in a niche on the balcony overlooking the ballroom. In his elaborate cravat, silver silk waistcoat and black formal attire, her fiancé was an astonishingly handsome fellow. She ached to belong to him. Lust was certainly a powerful pull. She could marry him and live on the fires of that for years. What afterward, eh, if she were ashamed of how she’d allowed her father and her husband to be so abused by the duke of Brentford?

  What to do? What to do?

  With a smile she faked utterly, she shook back her curls and met Giles’s mesmerizing gaze. “You are quite dashing yourself, sir.”

  He patted her gloved hand, pain slashing the joy on his face as he turned to survey the assembled guests in all their finery. “What a crush this is,” he said and pressed her nearer to him. “I want to run away with you now.”

  She leaned her head on his shoulder. “As do I.” Then I could forget all this noise in my head.

  He groaned and drew her back to the wall, away from view. Two fingers to her chin, he drew up her face and pressed a ravenous kiss to her lips. “I adore you. Always remember. Promise me.”

  “I will,” she said, enthralled by his ardor.

  “Come quickly.” He laughed. “Before I abscond with you!”

  She laughed too as he arched brows that reproved her and made them both into respectable toffs.

  Then he led her from the balcony down the steps to the dais. There the musicians sat and struck up the music for the first set of the evening.

  Her mother and father conversed together near one corner. Esme could tell by the look on their faces that Papa was telling his wife what he and Esme had discussed. And her Mama was not happy with that. Not at all.

  “We’re to lead out the second selection,” she told Giles. “Have you word yet from your father?”

  Giles paused, his arm pressing her close. “None.”

  She gave him a sympathetic smile. “The good news is that the weather is cool, but no rain to delay your man.”

  “Samuel Chesters has never let me down before. I have confidence in him.”

  She had no confidence in his father, but she squeezed Giles’s hand. “Then so do I.”

  His gaze turned bright and gay in the copious candlelight. “In fact, if the man has refused this latest offer, I have another.”

  She clutched his arm. “Oh, my darling, you cannot continue to negotiate with him.”

  He clasped her hand to his heart. Beneath her fingertips the sinuous silk of his cravat heated with his strong pulse. A few others in the crush of the ballroom looked on at his affection, and yet he did not relent. “I will do anything to have you. And this last offer I have for him is one he cannot refuse.”

  She stared at him.

  “Trust me, please.”

  “Of course,” she said, but trusting him would not remedy what his father would do.

  Was her charming Northington dreaming? It might be the last time they stood together and shared the heat of a desire so unique tears sprang to her eyes.

  She feared that all she had hoped for was lost. That she would never be able to prove to her loving father that she prized his love and his gifts to her. That she would never be able to show the man she loved that she prized his ethical stance against the man who would destroy Giles’s good name with his own bad one.

  Fate, destiny, the tension of one’s character against the strains of another—all were cruel.

  �
�That’s the longest set I’ve ever heard.” He looked upon the floor, happy it seemed, even eager to take it with her.

  She took a turn to philosophic. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened to each of us had we not met that night at Lady Wimple’s Christmas Ball?”

  “I do.” He gazed at her with adoration in his expression. “I would have gone on looking for you for the rest of my days.”

  That stopped her breath. “Giles.”

  “I claimed you as quickly as I could,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Any later and you would have found some other man to value you.”

  “No.”

  “Oh, yes. And he would be standing here now.”

  She could hardly see him for the tears in her eyes. When had she taken up blubbering? “There will never be anyone for me but you.”

  “No more tears. Tomorrow, all will be well,” he said as he led her toward the dance floor. “Tomorrow, we begin anew.”

  She wanted to believe the fantasy in his words.

  * * *

  They’d finished a waltz when a footman appeared at Giles’s side and told him that Chesters was in the yellow drawing room. Giles made his excuses to her. “Not to worry, Esme. All will be well.”

  But after she saw his expression as he returned to her side in the ballroom, she saw his despair.

  “Tell me,” she urged him with a façade that she assumed many could see was not viable. Acting had never been her forte.

  “He refused.”

  Had her heart stopped? Her chin came up but she did not cry in crises. Had never. Would not begin now.

  Giles made a fist and his face grew red with anger. “I have sent my response. It’s not kind. Certainly not filial. I wish I’d thought of it sooner. But it is my last offer. A good one. The result is that you and I will marry on the morrow.”

  But more than ever before, she doubted it.

  Chapter 8

  Her preparations took her minutes. That was no surprise. How much did one need if one were running away for a few days?

  Once she’d rung for Jane and had the girl release her from the confines of her corset, she could breathe and think. The rest had been easy.