The Bargain Bride

by Metzger, Barbara

  The Indian raised a thick red-striped eyebrow. “We are early?”

  “We . . . that is, I, have come to call on Miss Persephone Goldwaite. Please tell me I have the wrong address.”

  The Indian bowed with all the pomp and punctilio of a London upper servant. “This is the home of Monsieur Cornelius Littleton and his granddaughter.”

  West’s spirits, already low, plummeted to his feet, where at least he wore boots, unlike the barefoot butler. “Please tell them that Viscount Westfield has called.” He reached into his pocket for a calling card. At least he had pockets, unlike the red-skinned retainer.

  The Indian took the card and bowed again. “Monsieur may wait in the library.” His expression said it might be a long wait.

  Before the man turned to lead him farther into the house, West asked, “Are you a French-Canadian Indian, then?”

  The butler straightened to his considerable height. “I am sitting.”

  The viscount smiled. “Odd—I’ve never heard of that tribe.”

  West could swear he heard a muttered French imprecation that had more to do with his own parentage than the Indian’s. “Je suis Marcel. Monsieur Littleton is an artiste of great note.”

  West took one last look at the paintings on the wall before following Marcel. That great note must be a sour one, indeed. Then he realized that the back side of a beefy man in a breechclout was even less attractive than the paintings. To exacerbate the matter, Marcel flounced down the corridor to the library. There was no other word for it. The model-cum-majordomo swung his hips and jiggled a jig right down the hall.

  Good grief, this was no bucolic bride’s abode. This was Bedlam!

  Chapter Two

  Lord and Lady G. lived happily ever after, after their arranged wedding. He lived in London; she lived in Leeds.

  —By Arrangement, a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber

  The view from the library was a lot better than the one from behind Marcel’s behind. The windows overlooked a terraced garden, with an orchard in the distance. Inside, the decor was far more pleasing than the hall’s. Here, at least the few paintings carefully placed against the dark wood paneling were truly works of art, skill, and composition. West particularly admired a landscape that hung over the table where Marcel had directed him to liquid refreshments. The artist had captured a storm in the woods so well that West could almost see the branches of the trees moving. The painting was signed C. Littleton, so the man actually did have some degree of talent. He had excellent taste in brandy, too. West poured himself another measure. Lord knew he needed it.

  With the library door left partially open, he could hear shouts and footsteps, curses, and slamming doors. From the feminine tones of some of the imprecations, he gathered he would need a bit more fortification.

  He made a more thorough survey of his surroundings while he waited and sipped his brandy—or brandies. For the first time since coming on this benighted journey, he was pleased with what he saw. A man could be comfortable here. The walls were high, with bookshelves to the ceiling, the windows letting in light to read in the inviting leather armchairs. A wide cherrywood desk was placed in a corner, with what appeared to be the estate ledgers neatly arranged on the shelves behind it. As he examined the other walls of books, West noticed classic literature, plays, and philosophy mixed in with the latest volumes of poetry, fiction, and scientific speculation. One glass-fronted cabinet held a few valuable editions that any collector would prize. The volumes appeared well read and carefully handled, not merely arranged for show, so the household was not entirely filled with barbarians. Here was a gentleman’s library, West decided with relief, not a madman’s. And the brandy was excellent. He eyed the crystal decanter with longing, but set his glass down. He needed all his wits about him if he was to leave Yorkshire alive and a bachelor.

  Eventually Marcel returned. This time he was dressed in proper butlerish attire, from spotless white gloves to dark tailcoat to powdered wig, all of which made the war paint on his face look even more bizarre. He made a formal bow at the door, then announced his master in tones sonorous enough for a bishop. “Monsieur Cornelius Littleton, my lord.” He stepped aside, then led a slender old man into the room by his arm.

  West stepped forward, bowed, and put his hand out. It was Marcel who placed Littleton’s hand in West’s for a shake, before guiding the impeccably dressed gentleman—except for a streak of crimson in his white hair—to one of the leather chairs. That explained the splashed paintings in the hall, West supposed.

  Marcel started to place a blanket over Littleton’s knees, but the old man patted the butler’s hand and said, “Do not fuss, mon ami.” That explained Marcel, West supposed.

  The smell of turpentine and linseed oil replaced the comfortable aroma of the old books and brandy as Littleton sat back against the cushions after Marcel left to fetch refreshments. West hoped his host couldn’t see him take out his handkerchief to rub at a spot of yellow ochre on his thumb.

  Littleton appeared to be waiting for West to begin the conversation, but the viscount’s mission was with Miss Goldwaite, not her grandfather, which left idle chitchat, the weather and such. “A lovely day, sir.”

  “I have not been out.”

  A comment on the local scenery was obviously impolite, as was praise for the paintings in the library. The artist could not produce such again. Neither could West compliment the books when Mr. Littleton had not read those latest novels on the shelves. He settled on, “Excellent brandy.”

  “Helped yourself, did you?”

  Now West felt like a thief, besides a tongue-tied trespasser. “Marcel directed me. May I pour you a glass?” He got up and refilled his own.

  “What, in the morning? Some of us have better things to do than addle our insides and benumb our brains.”

  “Uh, quite.”

  “And some of us do not need courage from a bottle.”

  West pushed aside his glass untouched. He resumed his seat, noting that Littleton’s head followed his movements. The awkward silence fell again, as thick as the smell of paint. For all his thirty-two years and experience as an officer, West felt as if he’d been called before the headmaster in school, waiting to find out which of his many infractions had been discovered this time. There was no doubt he was already judged guilty.

  He would not be accused of ill manners. “Your home is lovely, sir. And I appreciate your kindness in seeing me so unexpectedly and interrupting your, ah, work.”

  “It is love, of course.”

  For the painting? West prayed they were not discussing Marcel. “I can tell you are devoted to your art.”

  Littleton waved his hand around, narrowly missing the decanter West had unknowingly moved. “I paint for love, yes, but for the money also now.”

  People paid for the monstrosities in the hall? West made a noncommittal sound of assent.

  Littleton cleared his throat. “I am speaking of my granddaughter. I love her.”

  “I, ah, see.” West was as in the dark as the old man.

  “I care only for her happiness.”

  Ah, he was being lectured, or warned. “Quite. I am sure we all wish Miss Goldwaite the best life has to offer.”

  “Some of us more than others. Some of us even consider what it is that would make her happy. I don’t suppose my son-in-law is hiding in the drapery?” Littleton peered into the corners of the room. “Marcel did not mention Greedy Gaspar.”

  “No, Mr., ah, Sir Gaspar was still asleep at the inn when I rode out this morning. He made a late night of it last evening.”

  “Most likely with the help of the barmaid.”

  Actually it was the innkeeper’s wife, but West chose not to report on his prospective father-in-law. Goldwaite’s affairs were his own business, the same as Mr. Littleton’s . . . and Marcel’s. “He will be arriving later.”

  “Hmm. Best that way, I suppose.You and Penny can get the thing settled between you without his interference.”
/>   “That was what I thought.”

  Littleton leaned forward to stare at West, making him wonder just how much the artist could see. Finally the old man nodded and said, “So you are not as foolish as your father.”

  “I hope not.”

  A slight smile flitted across Littleton’s face, replaced by a fierce scowl that would have matched Marcel’s war paint. “If you hurt her, you’ll be sorry.”

  “That is not my intent, sir, I swear.”

  “It better not be. I might not be handy with my sword anymore, but Marcel can use a carving knife to good purpose, and his fists when he needs to. Or I can paint your portrait with warts and fangs and horns and get it hung in a London gallery and printed on broadsheets. You wouldn’t like being a laughingstock, would you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Don’t think I cannot do it. I have great influence in the art world.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Then I can get back to my work while the light is still good.”

  What did the light matter? West wondered, but the old man brushed his help aside and made his own way out of the room. West sat back to wait some more.

  Marcel brought in a tray with a plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. West noticed two cups on the tray, but no one came to join him. Since breakfast had been hours ago, West decided to eat without waiting for his hostess. He supposed such insubstantial fare was enough for the frail old man or his scrawny spinster granddaughter, while he would have preferred eggs and steak and ale, but beggars could not be choosers.

  When the last crumb was gone, West stared out the window, walked around the library, picked up a book, then put it down and wandered back to the hall to look at Littleton’s current works. He might not be any connoisseur, but dash it if he could imagine anyone buying the garish, sloppy pieces. He could not even tell whether they were landscapes or portraits.

  Just then he heard a loud noise from the end of the corridor, as if poor Mr. Littleton was falling down the stairs. West rushed through the hall to help, but no one was tumbling to the bottom. Slight Mr. Littleton would not have made that much noise, either. Instead, a woman was clomping down step by furious step in heavy wood-soled boots that were half unlaced. So was her gown, which gaped at the neck. Her hair was wet, with half of it crammed under a beribboned lace cap and half trailing down her shoulders. Her gown was green, her ribbons were yellow and purple, her eyes were blue, and her face was as red as a cooked lobster’s. Jupiter, the female had been dressed by the blind artist!

  She paused when she saw him, ceasing her teeth-jarring descent. She straightened her shoulders and started to step down as gracefully as one could in unfastened boots.

  Ah, West thought, here comes the bride.

  When she reached the bottom, he bowed. Miss Goldwaite bobbed her head in the merest expression of civility and manners. West held his hand out to assist her. She pretended to be as blind as her grandfather, stepping past him back down the corridor.

  West took a deep breath—at least she smelled of rose water, not turpentine—and said, “Miss Goldwaite, I sincerely apologize for arriving so early.”

  She spun on her awkward heels to face him, coming nearly to his chin. Her own jutted out. “Early? Early? Why, you, sir, are late. Thirteen years late, to be exact!”

  It seemed that Miss Goldwaite had used up her po liteness by bobbing her head, nor did she believe in sparring with gloves on.

  West bowed, acknowledging his sins. “I apologize for that also, although I do not believe you wished to wed at the age of thirteen.”

  “I do not wish to wed now, either.”

  Which was the best news he’d heard in ages. “I think we should discuss this further, perhaps over a cup of coffee.” Or another brandy.

  Instead of stopping at the library, the woman marched on toward the front entry. “There is nothing to discuss.” She opened the door and nodded in the direction of outside. “Good day.”

  West did not take the unsubtle hint. “I am afraid things are not that easy. Your father—”

  Her face lost the red flush so suddenly West was afraid she was going to faint. He took a step closer, but she squared her shoulders and said, “I will deal with him when he gets here. I am no longer a child. And I will be no man’s chattel, no matter how you men write your foolish laws.”

  “If I might say that I regret what has happened—”

  “You might have said it any time these past years. You have not been a child for ages, either.”

  “No, and I should have come, or written. I know. But you were too young to discuss such matters, and then I was in the army.”

  “You resigned your commission four years ago.”

  “Yes, but I spent—”

  “You spent your money on fast horses and loose women. Gambling and wenching and drinking. Do you think we do not get the London gazettes here in the north? Do you think I cannot read, sirrah?”

  Not if she was the one who maintained that fine library. He was not going to discuss wine, women, or wasting money. “No, I spent my funds trying to restore Westfield Manor by establishing a farm for horse breeding and training.”

  “So you have thrown away the fortune my father paid, and that is why you are here today? I suppose your plans failed when you frittered the money away, the same as your father did. Do you think my father will pay more to see the deed done while I can still provide grandchildren? Well, you are wrong. My father is as clutch-fisted as they come. How do you think he became so wealthy? He won’t pay you more. And my money—yes, I have funds of my own, now that I have reached my majority—is tied into trusts so firmly that you will never get your hands on a shilling of it to support you or your high-strung racers.”

  Now West was growing angry, that she thought he would take money from his wife, that he was here to wrest more gold from Goldwaite, that his stud farm had failed. He was making a tidy profit selling his horses to the army, not gambling on them to win races. “You mistake my intent. I spent my time trying to recoup the loan—”

  “That was my dowry, not a loan.”

  He nodded, not arguing semantics. A dowry was not paid until a ceremony took place. A loan was a loan. “I wished to repay the sum to cancel the contract our fathers entered into.”

  “Fine. If you do not have enough funds, I will add to that. It will be a worthwhile expenditure.”

  The entire time they had been speaking, or shouting, Miss Goldwaite had been edging West closer to the door, almost pushing him out.

  West hated to leave her so pale and rigid with rage. “Your father still wants us to wed.”

  “If he wants your title in the family so badly, then he can marry you off to one of my stepmother’s daughters.”

  West had seen the stepdaughters. Oh, Lord. “You are certain?”

  “Certain? Lord Westfield, I would jump off Little Falls before I married you. No, I would jump off Big Falls before I joined my future to yours. The past thirteen years have been more than enough.”

  She was certain, all right. “Then thank you.” He meant for speaking with him, for the biscuits and coffee, for letting him escape so easily.

  “Thank you?” she yelled. “Thank you? For offering to kill myself? For not wanting to marry you?” Now her face grew red again and her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “You insufferable, self-important, swellheaded swine!” Then she hauled her arm back and slammed her fist into his jaw.

  West staggered back, half falling out the door, which slammed behind him.

  Well, at least she wasn’t scrawny anymore.

  Chapter Three

  The farmer needed a mule, not another daughter.

  The blacksmith needed a wife to cook and clean

  and tend his children and his vegetable garden.

  They traded. The daughter considered all three of

  them jackasses: her father, her new husband, and

  the mule.

  —By Arrangement, a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E.
Felber

  Penny leaned back against the door. She’d fall down without its wooden support, for there was not a muscle in her body not gone limp. She was gasping for breath, her cap was listing over one eyebrow, and one of her shoes had flown across the hall with the force of her blow, but she’d done it. She’d tossed out the rubbish. She’d told him how she felt, and then she’d tossed him. She did it, Penny Goldwaite, the disposable daughter, the forgotten fiancée, the woman without a choice.

  Well, she’d chosen now, she thought with pride. And she’d chosen before Westfield, which was even more satisfying. Whether the fortune-hunting scum was here to claim her or jilt her made no difference. She’d struck the first blow.

  Then it hit her: She’d struck the first blow. She had actually hit a man. Her own betrothed. She’d never raised her hand to a creature larger than an insect, and now she’d punched a peer. How uncivilized, how unladylike, how good it felt, except for her stinging knuckles. The dastard’s skull was so thick she might have broken her hand!

  She checked. Her fingers moved, even if she could not yet. She was whole and she was free! Penny kicked off her other shoe, tossed her cap onto the floor, and filled her lungs with clean, fresh air only slightly tainted with the scent of brandy, horse, her own rose water, Grandpapa’s paints, and . . . ? Penny wrinkled her nose. And some spicy scent that was manly and exotic and exciting. No, she was merely basking in her victory, not inhaling the devil’s own cologne.

  She was free, and free to forget all about the slug, his smell and his smile. So what if he was tall and broad-shouldered and even more handsome than she recalled? So what if his dark hair curled onto his forehead in boyish innocence, and his brown eyes gleamed with gold flecks? His smile when he first saw her, despite her appearance, still held remembered sweetness, but his voice was deeper and richer. Mellow tones did not make his words—or him—one bit more trustworthy. Penny had no idea if anything he said was true or sincere, and she refused to ponder over it. Perhaps he had tried to raise the funds to end the betrothal honorably before coming to speak to her, as he had said. Perhaps his horse-raising enterprise was successful. Or perhaps he was here to steal Grandpapa’s silverware. No matter, she had now seen the last of Kendall Westmoreland, Viscount Westfield, former fiancé.