Falling for Chloe

by Farr, Diane

  Now Chloe blushed. She tried to duck her head into Gil’s waistcoat to hide her embarrassment, but he took her face in his hands and held it, his eyes studying her features in bemused wonder. "Chloe, I love you. How did that happen?"

  A tremulous smile wavered across her face. "I don’t know. But I love you, too."

  He took a deep breath and hugged her to him, expelling it in a blissful sigh. Chloe listened happily to his heartbeat. His voice rumbled in her ear when he spoke. "You will marry me, won’t you?"

  She nodded shyly against his chest. "I rather think I will."

  Gil spent the next several minutes expressing his delight, and by the time Chloe was able to speak again, she was curled on his lap on the sofa. But there was something in the back of her mind, something bothering her that needed explanation. She sat up and pointed an accusing finger at him. "Why did you ask Jack Crawley to court me?"

  Gil looked mildly surprised. "I didn’t."

  "He said you did! At least —" she stopped, blinking in momentary doubt. "That’s what I understood him to say."

  "Well, what a whisker! It was entirely his own idea. I told him you’d have none of it, but he would do it. Seemed vastly taken with you. Can’t say I blame him." He chuckled. "You and Crawley! What an idea!"

  "It was a dreadful idea. And I thought it was yours! Which made me think—well, never mind."

  Gil cocked a knowing eyebrow. "Made you think I had a low opinion of your—er—personal attributes?"

  When Chloe nodded, blushing, Gil shouted with laughter. She pounded his chest in mock fury. "It was not funny to me!"

  Gil speedily convinced her that his appreciation of her was all that it should be, but the methods he employed, though most enjoyable, soon made her think it might be prudent for them to join the others in the drawing room. He agreed, albeit reluctantly.

  "Marry me soon, Clo," he whispered, and she, giddily throwing caution to the winds, rather breathlessly promised that she would.

  The drawing room was deliciously warm, well-lit, and crowded with inhabitants. Bobby and his grandmother’s terriers were romping on the hearthrug, their combined squeals and yelps rendering conversation impossible. Lady Gilliland looked on fondly, occasionally offering deft interference when either her grandson or her dogs ran the risk of serious injury or mutual misunderstanding. Robert and Tish were seated side-by-side on a settee, tenderly holding hands. When the door opened to admit Gil and Chloe, both looking a trifle rumpled and sheepish, Lady Gilliland beamed triumphantly. "Ah!" was all she said, but she said it in a tone of great satisfaction.

  Tish rose from the settee and flew to hug Chloe, her own joy so great it blinded her to the new glow of happiness surrounding her friend and her brother. "Oh, Chloe, I am the happiest creature on earth!" she exclaimed.

  "I am so glad," said Chloe warmly, smiling first at Tish and then at Robert. "You are—both—staying in London, then?"

  "For the present," said Robert. He held out his hand and Tish fluttered back to him like a tamed bird. He smiled at her. "When we do go to visit my mother, I believe Tish and Bobby and I will go together."

  "Excellent!" exclaimed Gil, crossing to shake Robert’s hand.

  Chloe reflected that, the entire time she had been in London, she had never before seen Robert grin. But now he turned his grin toward her, saying, "I take it you will stay with us awhile yet?"

  Chloe blushed and nodded.

  "Not too long," said Gil, in a voice that intensified Chloe’s blush. "I fancy she’ll be leaving you before the end of the Season."Lady Gilliland had watched these exchanges with a tolerant eye. She rose gracefully from her seat by the hearth, and began gathering her evening wrap, her spectacles, and her dogs. "It has been an interesting day," she commented. "Interesting, and most satisfactory."

  Gil grinned. "And busy! Mother, you are a marvel."

  Her eyes twinkled. "Pooh! I do not begrudge a little exertion on my children’s behalf. I am glad to have been of assistance, of course, but I always depended upon Tish’s affectionate heart, and Robert’s good sense. And, of course, on the strength of the bond between you and Chloe." On her way to the door, she reached out and patted Chloe’s cheek. "Dear girl," she murmured. "You have made us all very happy."

  Chloe smiled mistily. "You were right all along, ma’am. Gil and I were meant for each other."

  "Yes," said Lady Gilliland simply. "But do not allow him to rush you to the altar, my dear. There is really no reason why you shouldn’t finish out the Season here, and marry at home."

  Gil opened his mouth, and then shut it again. He looked as if he had a reason, and a very good one, for marrying Chloe as soon as possible. He seemed to feel disinclined, however, to tell his mother what it was.

  Chloe’s eyes searched Lady Gilliland’s anxiously. "But—the entire Season! I don’t know if I ought to stay away from Brookhollow for such a period."

  "Nonsense, child. You will find when you arrive home that Fanshaw has matters well in hand. You will be able to take up the reins again at whatever moment you choose." Lady Gilliland smiled faintly. "Your father, my dear, has not been allowed to meddle. In fact, he is no longer on the premises."

  A ripple of surprise ran through the room. Chloe stared. "Not on the premises! Why, how is this?"

  "He has purchased a home of his own," said Lady Gilliland calmly. "Near Welwyn, I believe. I rather thought Gil would not care to live with his father-in-law. And—forgive me, Chloe, if I speak a trifle too frankly—but you never seemed quite comfortable with him yourself."

  "But—but how—?" Chloe’s voice failed her. Gil crossed swiftly to her side and put a sustaining arm round her. She clung to him gratefully.

  "Mother, you are frightening Chloe," said Gil severely. "Has that blighter been embezzling from her estate?"

  Lady Gilliland opened her eyes at this. "Heavens, no! Gil, I am grieved to hear you express yourself so unbecomingly. I hope you will refrain, in future, from apostrophizing your papa-in-law as a blighter. But do not put yourself in a taking, Chloe! Your father has come into some funds. He has naturally taken the opportunity to set himself up on his own."

  "F-father? Came into funds? Forgive me, but I—I don’t quite see—"

  Lady Gilliland looked a little vague. She waved a languid hand. "Well, it does not matter, does it? The important thing is, he has removed himself from the neighborhood. Good night, my dears."

  She would have gone, but Gil put out a hand to stop her. He had turned a little pale. "Mother, I hope you did not—" he swallowed, then smiled weakly. "But of course you did not. The idea’s absurd! You and Father did not—" he stopped, as if unable to go on.

  Lady Gilliland attempted a frosty stare. "If we did, it is none of your concern."

  "Good God!"

  Chloe, bewildered, glanced first at Gil and then at Lady Gilliland. "What? What are you speaking of?"

  "Marriage settlements!" uttered Gil in a strangled voice.

  Chloe and Tish both cried out at this. Even Robert looked a little startled.

  "But—dear ma’am—what would you have done, had Gil and I broken our engagement? Father would never, never have paid it back to you!" uttered Chloe, horrified.

  Lady Gilliland appeared in no way discomposed. Her expression was perfectly serene. "Oh, there was never any fear of that. I would not have placed the notices of your betrothal, my dears, had I not been quite certain."

  An audible gasp arose from Chloe, Gil and Tish. "You placed the notices?" three voices exclaimed in unison. Robert gave a crack of laughter.

  Lady Gilliland had moved to the door, and opened it. But she turned and gazed mildly back at the astonishment and chagrin on the faces staring at her. A gentle smile lifted the corners of her mouth. "Officious of me, wasn’t it? I daresay you all assumed Horace Littlefield did it."

  She waited briefly for a response, but the children had apparently been struck dumb. Her smile widened. "Perhaps I ought to have told you," she mused. "Had you known it was I who pl
aced the notices, Gil, at least, might have realized that his union with Chloe was inevitable. You might all have relied upon my judgment, thus sparing yourselves several weeks of anxiety. But, on the whole, I must say I am pleased with the way events transpired. They do say suffering is good for the soul. Well! You have all managed to suffer a little, and yet have inflicted no actual damage. A very happy outcome! Good night."

  …

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  We hope you have enjoyed FALLING FOR CHLOE. For more books by this author, please visit dianefarrbooks.com. Keep reading for a bonus preview of Lord Rival’s story, THE FORTUNE HUNTER:

  …

  Chapter 1

  Bloody hell. It hadn’t worked.

  George Carstairs, Baron Rival, crumpled the letter with one fierce, spasmodic movement of his fist. He was tempted to toss the politely-worded packet of bad news in the fire. He restrained himself from that irrevocable act, however, and pitched it instead onto the battered desk half-hidden in the corner of his London flat. He would reread it later. After he had had time to think.

  He prowled from the fireplace to the window. From the window to the sofa. From the sofa to the desk. From the desk to the fireplace. The room was small and Lord Rival was not, so his pacing did little to vent his frustration. What now? What now? hammered in his brain like a tune he could not banish.

  What now, indeed? Everything took money, and he had none. He could not hire a staff and reopen the house. He could offer no relief to his struggling tenants. He could institute no reforms, purchase no advice, repair nothing, build nothing. Rye Vale had been ruined—not by him, but the responsibility was his to mend matters if he could.

  Well, he couldn’t.

  He had stayed in this damnably cramped flat long after the Season ended, trying to scramble together a loan. The rest of the aristocracy had deserted London and trotted down to Brighton or back to their own estates. He’d declined every invitation to accompany his friends and stayed on, sweltering in the summer heat, trying to accomplish what he dared not attempt while the gossiping ton was there to observe him.

  He’d approached every rich, social-climbing Cit in London.

  You’d think that one of them, at least, would be eager to put a nobleman under obligation. But he soon discovered that a rake’s title is worthless to a social-climber. His scandalous reputation had devalued the only real collateral he had to offer—since all unentailed portions of Rye Vale had been mortgaged long ago. His efforts, therefore, had borne no fruit whatsoever.

  George dropped into a wing chair before his tiny fireplace and rubbed his forehead tiredly. He had racked his brain for months and could think of nothing that he hadn’t already tried. So little, so little could be done without funds. Land management—faugh! The sweet, green grass of Sussex was tailor-made for sheep, but his father and grandfather had brought in too many sheep, too quickly. He supposed the tenants, turned out of their homes to make way for livestock, must have cursed his family. If so, the curse had come home to roost. Rye Vale was a wasteland now, and Lord Rival a pauper.

  George’s hands clenched impotently on the arms of his chair. All that cash, all that lovely, lovely cash his greedy forefathers had so callously raised—and for what? Just to squander at the gaming tables. Why, if he could have a tenth of it back, he would pour it into the land and change everything.

  It was useless to care deeply about something over which one had no control. He had lived by that precept for the past twelve blissful, shallow, completely unmemorable years—ever since he’d inherited the title at the carefree age of twenty-two. He had drifted and smiled and sinned, hardening his heart against the inevitable day when responsibility would rear its ugly head. Sure enough, once the unwelcome specter had intruded, it gave him no peace. He longed for home now, chafed at his helplessness, and brooded incessantly about restoring Rye Vale’s prosperity. He had invented a dozen plans and improvements—any of which would work; none of which he could implement. What a joke.

  A mirthless smile twisted his features. A conscience was an inconvenient thing to acquire at the ripe old age of four-and-thirty. He wished he didn’t feel the weight of his title suddenly pressing on him. He wished he didn’t care so bloody much. He wished he didn’t care at all, as a matter of fact. It was a damned nuisance.

  What was a man’s conscience for? It did no good to recognize the path to perdition if you had to take the path regardless. What choice did he have? He must have funds. There was no honorable way to acquire a fortune. He could draw the line at theft, embezzlement, and murder, but he was still left with the filthy path that lay before him: Fraud.

  Disgust propelled him from his chair and set him to his restless pacing again. The notion of tricking an heiress into marriage turned his stomach, although he’d be hard-pressed to explain why. After all, his London existence had been a sham since the day he took up residence.

  He was the only man of his circle who had no servants. He polished his own boots and pressed his own linen, dusted his own furniture, made up his own fire every morning—on the days when he could afford coal. He despised his life, but anything was better than letting the Beau Monde suspect his shameful poverty.

  He’d spent many an evening dancing and smiling in some glittering ballroom or other, praying that the music and conversation would cover the sound of his stomach growling. He had always maintained his languid air of indifference as everyone went in to supper, and managed to nibble rather than gulp the hostess’s lobster patties and watercress sandwiches. So far as he knew, everyone believed that his jokes about a hand-to-mouth existence were no more serious than the jokes of every other man about town.

  He’d been a fraud all along. Why cavil at the prospect of this final deception?

  It was time to swallow his pride and face the obvious. It would take a fortune to replenish his estate. He could neither borrow it nor earn it. Very well, he must marry it.

  Lord Rival, still pacing, halted by his desk. He looked sightlessly at the neat stacks of bills and correspondence. The letter he had just crumpled perched incongruously atop his pencil box, the only item out of place. George Carstairs was a methodical man. He reached for it and smoothed it open, setting it with the rest of his correspondence. His brow creased in a bitter frown.

  The path lay before him. He would harden his heart, bid farewell to regret, and start down it immediately. All he needed was a plan.

  He sat and sharpened a pen. After thinking for a few moments, he dipped his pen in the inkwell, pulled a sheet of foolscap toward him, and began jotting down a list.

  For more, please click here: The Fortune Hunter