After enduring years of family brangling, his frustration at his father’s unwillingness to cede to his heir any meaningful control over the estate he’d one day inherit—and the Earl’s constant criticism and interference in the few areas he had allowed Crispin to participate—had finally propelled him to quit Montwell Glen and strike out on his own after leaving university.
‘He should at least be pleased that you made good investments. If you invested with the Stockton and Darlington, you should have had an excellent return.’
Crispin hesitated, needing to choose his words with care. He couldn’t tell her that instead of being pleased and proud when his son doubled or tripled his initial investments, the Earl had declared himself embarrassed. Because, the Earl proclaimed, regarding his son disapprovingly, a gentleman earned his living from the land—not from trading with ‘a handful of vulgar, nouveau riche commoners’.
He suspected his father would be not so secretly pleased if this next venture failed. Every time he pressed Crispin for details about his proposed investments, the Earl confidently predicted that this time, his disgrace of a son would lose his capital and be forced to come back, cap in hand, to beg for the support of his long-suffering family.
He also suspected much of his father’s ire derived from his inability to keep his wayward son firmly under his control. The Earl resented that Crispin had been able, not just to escape the family, but to remain financially independent, disproving his father’s predictions of his failure.
‘So he doesn’t approve,’ Miss Cranmore said when Crispin remained silent. ‘That’s foolish as well as unfortunate. But at least you are independent and able to do what you wish, regardless of your father’s views. Not hampered on every side by the restrictions of gender that prevent you from doing anything useful.’
‘Truly? I thought most women believed having a home, a husband and a family to raise was the best use of their time.’
‘I’d rather have mathematics,’ she said bluntly.
Surprised and rather amused by her answer, he said, ‘I expect your mother, if not your father, has a different view of the matter.’
Miss Cranmore sighed. ‘I shall stave off marriage as long as I possibly can, despite Mama’s urging and her lofty expectations.’
He could certainly relate to that desire, Crispin thought, repressing a grimace. He, too, intended to delay as long as possible setting up a household. Duty required him to marry a woman society considered suitable to become the next countess, the same requirement that had led his father into the disaster of his parents’ union. Having only recently escaped the tension, tears, and continual upheaval of his familial home, he hoped for a good many years of calm and quiet before he was forced to give up the independence and serenity he so valued and become saddled with a wife.
‘I can’t blame you there,’ he said wryly. ‘Being pushed into marriage to gratify a family’s desire for wealth and prestige is detestable. Are you certain that’s what your mother wants?’
‘I’m afraid so. Whereas I have no interest in attaining an “elevated” status. Or in wedding at all, really, unless...’ Her voice trailed off, her eyes taking on a faraway look.
Crispin remembered her longing gaze following Mr Gilling.
‘Unless it’s to the right gentleman?’
Her face flushed again, letting him know he’d hit his mark. When she looked up, lips parted to reply, her gaze met his and something potent and physically charged flashed between them.
It startled her as much as it did him, for she continued silently staring at him. For a long moment, the air between them almost shimmered.
Ah, what a treasure she would be...for the right man, he thought, mesmerised.
Before he could think what to say next, a shuttered look replaced her earlier delightfully candid expression.
Setting down her cup, she said, ‘Thank you for taking the time to chat, my lord. Technology is the way of the future, and railways are the future of transportation. You are wise to have recognised that, and you won’t be sorry you invested in it. Especially not this project. Father would not have undertaken it if he hadn’t believed wholeheartedly in Mr Brunel’s vision. If you speak to the solicitor at Papa’s London office, he’ll be happy to assist you in buying shares. Now, I’m sure you have many demands on your time, and I won’t hold you any longer.’
Standing, she put her cup back on the tray, which meant he had to rise as well. He tried to think of another angle of discussion that might prolong the conversation, but she was already walking towards the office’s back door. ‘We’ve finished, Timmons,’ she called into the back room. ‘You may collect the tray.’
Turning back to him—and remaining by the doorway, a safe distance away—she said, ‘I hope you will invest in the venture, my lord. Papa’s company will not disappoint you.’
With no excuse to linger, he had to give her a bow. ‘Thank you for your time, Miss Cranmore. You’ve provided me with a wealth of interesting detail. It was a pleasure to meet you.’
‘And you, my lord. Good day.’ She made him a curtsy.
Then, as he resigned himself to leaving, she unexpectedly gifted him with a mischievous grin. ‘You’re not nearly as useless as I thought when I first saw you.’
Before he could reply, she slipped out the back door. Chuckling, Crispin walked out.
* * *
Still not sure what had happened between them—that sudden flash of physical intensity that had startled them both—but disappointed to quit her presence, Crispin headed back to his hotel.
She was definitely unusual. Not only more candid and forthcoming with a stranger than he’d have expected, but absolutely unimpressed by his title and position. An indifference that in his experience was exceptional.
He’d certainly never encountered such obvious disdain from any gently born female on the few occasions when he’d been dragged to some ton entertainment. Instead, he recalled with distaste, the active pursuit by maidens or their mothers eager to capture the favour of a future earl had driven him to escape as quickly as possible.
That fact alone had been enough to pique him into trying to learn more about Miss Cranmore. Her obvious delight—and unexpected competence—in matters of geometry and mathematics only deepened her appeal.
And if he were nakedly honest, he’d been absurdly gratified that what had, in the end, raised her opinion of him hadn’t been his title or pedigree, but the knowledge about railway engineering for which his own father so often denigrated him. Something, unlike the status he’d been born to, that he’d accomplished solely through his own efforts.
Unfortunately, as lovely, unusual and intriguing as she was, there was no possibility of any relationship between them going forward, even if he were interested in wedlock, the only association her family would permit. Though her father’s income probably exceeded the yearly amount earned by his father’s agricultural properties, a Miss Cranmore and a Viscount Dellamont did not travel in the same social circles.
For a virtuous young maiden, friendship with an unrelated male was as impossible as the more intimate but less formal liaison her beauty and uniqueness inspired him to desire.
He would just have to count his meeting Miss Cranmore as an unexpected delight of this investment trip and put her out of mind.
* * *
Once back at his lodgings, he packed his belongings, intending on an early departure the following morning. Fortunately, his mother’s birthday was still a month away, so he could put off stopping by Montwell Glen and inviting another tirade from his father. He’d return directly to London instead and check on the progress of the bill approving the Great Western.
And catch up with his best friends from Oxford, Gregory Lattimar and Alex Cheverton—if the former weren’t in Northumberland tending to the family estate he would one day inherit and the latter at Edge Hall, the vast pile in Sussex
he managed for his distant cousin, the Duke of Farisdeen.
When he himself inherited, thanks to his father, he might not have as great a command of the essentials of managing a large estate as an heir should. But, he’d promised himself, he would have amassed a reserve of ready cash to buttress the continuing declines in agricultural revenue.
That fact in itself should make his father furious.
If only he wouldn’t also inherit the Earl’s duty to provide heirs to the title—which meant acquiring a wife to go along with the estate, he thought with a sigh.
Thrusting away the unhappy memories the very idea of matrimony always invoked, he turned his thoughts back to the more pleasant matters he would need to attend to once back in London. First among them would be a stop at Cranmore’s London office so he might speak to the solicitor about investing in the Great Western.
If he put off that task for a bit, might he catch another glimpse of Miss Cranmore at her father’s office?
The instant flare of interest that possibility generated should warn him such a meeting wouldn’t be a good idea. Miss Cranmore, he reminded himself, could become neither his friend nor his mistress, the only two roles he would be interested in having her fill. No matter how fascinating she might be, he had no desire to pursue the sole permissible option—making her that obligatory wife.
Despite those facts, he found himself strangely reluctant to forget her. But, he reassured himself, since it was highly unlikely that he’d ever see her again, as time passed and the strong impression she’d made faded, following that prudent course of action would become easier.
CHAPTER THREE
A week later, in the sumptuous family town house on Tavistock Square in London, Marcella Cranmore stood stoically while her maid fussed with adjusting the final details of her dinner dress. It would please Mama to have her wear the fashionable new gown that had just been delivered, she told herself, trying to curb her impatience. She might as well look her best, since there was always the chance her father might bring someone interesting home to dine with them.
Not, sadly, Austin Gilling, whom she knew was still slowly making his way back from Bristol, rechecking measurements for the most challenging aspects of the Great Western project, the tunnel at Box Hill and the bridge over the Avon.
The image of another ‘interesting’ gentleman popped into her mind before she could prevent it. Drat, why could she not banish for good the memory of the most unusual investor she’d ever met?
Of course, it didn’t help that Viscount Dellamont was also perhaps the handsomest man she’d ever met, with his wavy dark hair, deep brown eyes sparkling with intelligence, and tall, wiry frame that exuded energy. She’d been astounded at the depth of his understanding of the engineering challenges of the Great Western project. And later, when she had time to review their exchange, she’d become guiltily aware of how forbearing he’d been of her initially treating him exactly as he’d described—as ‘a useless fribble with more money than comprehension’.
The few other aristocratic investors she’d met by chance at her father’s London office either ignored the young woman who served them tea as a servant far beneath their notice, or gave her a considering glance that sized up her feminine charms before realising the engineer’s daughter was unavailable, upon which they, too, ignored her. Investors from her father’s own merchant or business class treated her with avuncular indulgence, as a pretty little thing who brightened her father’s office.
Not one of them—and if she were truly honest, not even Austin—had ever expressed a particle of curiosity about her fascination with mathematics.
When she recalled the singular conversation she’d had with Dellamont—in which she’d imparted more information about what mattered to her than to anyone but her father—she had to laugh at the absurdity of it.
Perhaps it was the absurdity of Miss Marcella Cranmore exchanging personal information with someone she’d only just met—and a high-ranking aristocratic someone to boot—that had made the whole exchange possible. She’d probably not have been as candid with someone from her own world, someone she might encounter again.
An odd little wave of disappointment went through her at acknowledging that fact, as it had each time she recalled their meeting—which she did far too often. The disappointment, probably, of knowing she’d not be able to further an acquaintance with the one gentleman who seemed to find her odd and unfeminine interest in mathematics intriguing and her ability to figure geometric problems admirable, rather than simply strange.
And then there’d been that...flash of attraction between them at the end, warning her it was past time to terminate their discussion.
Before she could mull over the implications of those unexpected feelings, a knock at the door, followed by her mother’s entrance, put an end to her recollections.
‘How lovely you look!’ Mrs Cranmore exclaimed. ‘Didn’t I tell you that deep bronze satin would be a wonderful foil for your eyes and hair? And your hair so cleverly arranged, with the curls on top and to the sides.’
‘The gown is very pretty, Mama. I’m glad you are pleased.’
‘Especially pleased to have you looking so fine when we are having an important guest tonight!’
A shock of excitement zinged through her, quickly suppressed. It wouldn’t be him. It could never be him. ‘Who, Mama?’
‘Your papa had to work late again, unfortunately, but your grandda just arrived in town and will be able to join us.’
‘Grandda?’ Marcella repeated, delighted. ‘How wonderful! I haven’t seen him in ever so long.’
‘Well, you know he doesn’t like London. Give him the good country air at Tynemouth.’
Marcella laughed. ‘Since he spent most of his youth down in the smoke and ash of the mines, I don’t see how he could complain about the air in London!’
‘That’s why he prizes fresh air so highly,’ her mother responded. ‘I’m glad you are eager to see him. You do love him, don’t you?’
‘Of course! Oh, I know he can be all brusque and blustery on the outside, but he’s a darling underneath. As you very well know, Mama.’
Her mother sighed. ‘Indeed I do. He worked hard so Ma, God rest her soul, and I could have all the luxuries he never did. You do want to make him happy, don’t you?’
A vague apprehension tempered Marcella’s enthusiasm. ‘Of course I do. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, no reason. I’m just...making sure. You get so involved in your figures and daydreams sometimes, I worry that you lose sight of anything else.’
Marcella felt a pang of guilt. Her mother was a sweet darling, too, entirely content to immerse herself in furnishing and running her household, purchasing fashionable clothing, and visiting and gossiping with her friends. She’d never understood her odd duck of a daughter who preferred learning about mathematics and geometry and natural sciences rather than being schooled by her mother in household management, stitchery, and fashion.
She knew it hurt her mother when she escaped from those endeavours to join her father in his office, fascinated by his drawings and eager to discuss engines and mechanics.
Father had been so encouraging, she’d once hoped he’d allow her to take her elder brother’s place. But though he’d consoled his grief by permitting her presence and indulged her eager interest in his profession, by now she’d realised that, though he would let her peek in on the periphery of his work, he would eventually turn over the operations of his firm to one of his apprentices, many of whom he’d tutored and then assisted on to distinguished engineering careers of their own.
Turn the business over not to her, but to someone like Austin Gilling.
Trapped into the traditional female role, one day she’d have to marry. Were she to marry a businessman or tradesman, she’d swiftly find herself relegated to caring for the household and the eventual children.
The thought was unendurable.
To have any chance of hanging on to some involvement in the mechanical world that fascinated her, she would have to marry an engineer.
Someone like Austin Gilling.
Despite, she thought with a sigh, the fact that though he treated with avuncular affection, he hadn’t yet seemed to notice that she was no longer a child.
Having been father’s apprentice, then assistant, for many years, he seemed to still see her as the little girl in braids who’d sat at her father’s knee to console him after the death of his son.
He’d consoled her then, too—igniting a gratitude and appreciation that had turned from a child’s hero worship into a deep affection that convinced her, once she gave in to the necessity of marriage, she would prefer him over all others.
She just needed to make him see she was now a woman grown. A woman whose familiarity with her father’s business would be a considerable advantage, were he eventually to take it over. She’d need to work harder at opening his eyes, because time was running out. In another year or two at most, both her mother and her father would expect her to marry.
‘Have you heard a word I’ve said?’ her mother’s exasperated tones recalled her.
‘Sorry, Mama. But honestly, when I’m dressed in such a gorgeous gown, as if I truly were a princess, I have trouble stringing two thoughts together!’
Fortunately, that response mollified her mother. ‘I can well imagine! Come along then, Princess! My da is waiting.’
Putting worries about matrimony from her mind, determined for this evening just to enjoy this rare visit from her grandfather, Marcella took her mother’s hand and followed her out of the room.
* * *
Although her father didn’t return in time to join them, dinner with her grandfather was still a merry affair, with him teasing both his daughter and his granddaughter. But after the meal had been cleared away and Marcella escorted him to his favourite chair in the parlour to enjoy his after-dinner cigar, he clasped her hand, halting her beside him.
Harlequin Historical July 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 Page 26