by Zoey Oliver
I pat the bed and Abi lies back on the pillow. I rest my arm over her, my hand between her bare breasts.
I lift my head and call out toward the door. “We’re fine for now, Pierre. Thank you.”
“Very well, Your Grace,” comes the muffled reply.
She interlaces her fingers with mine, a mischievous smile gracing her beautiful lips. “You really want to know about Africa?”
I pull the blankets over top of us and bring her in closer. “Yes. Tell me everything.”
“Well, it’s big, and hot... and so was the elephant shit, by the way…”
Chapter 11
ABIGAIL
I’ve been seated in the small conference room in the business center annex of the palace for twenty minutes now, waiting for this dreadful meeting to get started, but everyone is still chattering on like a flock of starlings. I know Henry is waiting for me to sneak up to his suite the moment I’m free, and all I can think about is his handsome face and strong, muscular body, laying across his huge bed, naked and warm, just begging to be touched and kissed and…
I wipe the back of my hand against my mouth because I’m literally drooling at the thought.
The senior advisor, Sir Eldridge, clears his throat. “Let’s get to the matter at hand, shall we?”
The chatter of the small council advising my family quiets down, and all eyes turn to Sir Eldridge. I fidget in my seat, already eager to leave since I hadn’t wanted to come in the first place. But I’d rather be here than have them all talk about me behind closed doors. Sure, they’d say they’re talking about the future of the House of Beauregard, but right now, I’m responsible for the future.
My mother places a hand on my lap, pressing gently against my leg, her signal for me to be still. I wasn’t even aware my foot had been tapping madly. On the other side of me sits my father, Lord Strathmore, Baron of Beauregard. The remaining six seats are taken up by four of my parent’s most-trusted advisors, including Sir Eldridge, and two gentlemen from the Historical Council.
Sir Eldridge stands, always one for dramatic tradition, and puts a hand across his chest, grasping onto the lapel of his suit as if he is about to launch into a long speech. Please God, no.
“As we all know, the Historical Council discreetly brought a matter to our attention earlier this year. Since that time, the information they exhibited has been thoroughly researched and examined. From all accounts, it appears to be valid, which presents quite a quandary. According to the paperwork discovered by the Historical Council, the entire estate of the House of Beauregard is held in trust, stemming from an agreement drawn up over three centuries ago.”
I’m back to fidgeting. I’ve heard this before. In fact, we’ve all heard this before. The unnecessary repetition of these meetings are going to be the death of me, I know it.
Studiously keeping his eyes averted from my general direction, he continues, “It requires that all female children born to the reigning nobles of the House of Beauregard must marry before reaching the age of twenty-three. Otherwise, all holdings of the House of Beauregard, including the principal home of the Baron and Baroness, and all other assets that have been passed down through inheritance, such as properties, goods, and monies, shall transfer in ownership to the eldest son of legal age of the most recent generation in Master Goutley’s direct lineage.”
Finally, Sir Eldridge concludes his long-winded summary and sits down. He gestures at the men from the Historical Council. “Please proceed with your report now, Mr. Howell.”
All eyes shift to the end of the table, where an elderly white-haired man blinks slowly before pointing at the much younger man to his left. “If it please the council, I will let Mr. Crofts provide the update.”
“Of course.” Sir Eldridge nods, dismissing the weary older noble from his duties and waves a hand for the younger man to stand.
Mr. Crofts pushes his chair back and stands nervously, the papers in his hand shaking slightly. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to share. We’ve been working diligently to trace the lineage of the original signer, Master Goutley, but we have yet been unable to complete the task. To date, the only official records we have of his name are on various legal documents like the one in question today. We can’t find him in any marriage or christening records.”
My father leans forward. “So, you have still not identified the gentleman who would serve as the current representative of Master Goutley’s agreement?”
“That is correct.” Mr. Crofts licks his lips and swallows. “We aren’t even sure there is a legitimate heir, but unofficial records of the time seem to point to his having eventually married and produced male heirs, yes.”
“Do you have an estimate on how soon this task will be completed?”
The gentleman looks down at his elderly colleague, but he remains silent, staring straight ahead. Mr. Crofts looks back up at my father, who is waiting expectantly.
“Um, no, my Lord, I don’t have an anticipated timeline on that. We — we’re trying to create a family tree. We have scholars combing the church records for marriages and births, and the name Goutley does, indeed appear, but as there have been at least eleven generations that we’re aware of since the agreement was ratified by the eighteenth-century court, it’s… it’s quite an undertaking.”
My father sighs and leans back in his chair, frowning. On my left, my mother raises a finger and speaks up.
“Have you been successful in learning more about the history of this agreement?”
“Yes,” the gentleman says, a look of relief washing across his face at the change of topic. “We found two letters and an old journal — undated — of Master Goutley’s in the Doremont University Library that bring some clarification to the issue. Apparently, in the early 1700s, the Strathmore family fell on hard times and required a sizeable loan to maintain Beauregard and the other properties. Master Goutley offered his hand in marriage to Catherine, the middle daughter of the Baron and Baroness, in exchange for a large donation. One of the letters indicates that it was a very generous sum, but the daughter refused. He then offered his hand to the eldest daughter, who also refused.”
The young man pauses and pulls at his collar, sweat running across his brow. “The youngest child was still a mere infant, so there were no further options. Fortunately, the Baron was still able to negotiate an agreement to borrow the funds from Master Goutley, which according to the ledger, were eventually repaid in full within ten years.”
“Then what is this ridiculous clause about?” my mother asks. “Why insist that the women of Beauregard be married in order for the family to continue as rightful owners of the estate?”
Mr. Crofts clears his throat and motions to the elderly Mr. Howell. “Perhaps my colleague is better prepared to explain.”
I steal a glance at my mother, who looks quite impatient, perhaps as much as I do. Why on earth this needs to drag on so long with silly formalities, I have no idea.
I’ve already decided I’m going to get married for the sake of the agreement and my family’s estate. I silently pray for the meeting to speed up. Just tell us the news and let us get on with our day, for goodness sake — I have a very sexy, very naked Prince waiting to do all sorts of naughty, delicious things to me. But it’s not like I can blurt that out and excuse myself, so I just sigh quietly and go back to fidgeting, which at least gives my mother something to fuss about instead of feeling sad for me.
Mr. Howell doesn’t rise. He shifts in his seat to look at mother and gives her a deadpan expression. “It wasn’t unusual for marriage clauses to be in the last will and testament of influential families of the time. Fathers didn’t want their daughters turning into spinsters, they wanted them properly married to someone of good standing, to continue the status and influence of the family.”
My mother purses her lips disapprovingly. “But this wasn’t a will.”
“Right. I was just explaining that these clauses weren’t terribly unusual for the times. However, you are cor
rect, this was not the watchful eye of a father wanting to ensure his children were well married. No, what we have here is a simple case of temperament.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply put, Master Goutley put the clause into the agreement because he could. After being turned down by the middle daughter, Goutley was sure the elder would accept, since for the times, she was becoming rather old to find a match amongst her peers. She was twenty-four, you see. He had rather ripe language for her in his diary, if you’ll excuse my bluntness, Baroness. It’s no wonder no one wanted to marry him, even for money, because he was a mean old bastard, and that’s putting it nicely. According to every mention of him that we’ve come across, he was a very unpleasant man who enjoyed the misery of others, especially if he was the cause.”
“Oh my.” My mother looks visibly shaken.
“Which is exactly why he forced the hand of your ancestors. After being jilted by the Strathmore women, he could have refused to loan the money at all. Instead, he decided to punish all future generations.”
“I see.” My mother purses her lips unhappily but says nothing more.
My father turns to his senior advisor. “Sir Eldridge, have you spoken to anyone on the high court yet?”
“Quite. And it is rather unfortunate news. The Honorable Dr. Malder examined the document and said that it would most likely hold up in court.”
My father scowls. “I was hoping for much better news.”
“Well, there is one good turn — after exhaustive research, we’ve been able to determine that all the preceding generations of Beauregard have, in fact, complied with the agreement, intentionally or by happenstance, so the agreement has not been in default at any point.”
My father’s entire body sags with relief at this news. “Well, thank goodness for small miracles.”
“This is a very lucky occurrence, indeed,” Sir Eldridge continues, “as I gather many, if not most, were unaware of this document’s existence. Some did not have daughters, but of those who did, they were all married rather young, including your own mother, my Lord.”
“Yes, I am aware. She was married to my father at nineteen, but for love, not because of this ancient covenant. There has not been an arranged marriage in the Strathmore family for ages. As I’ve said before, it’s very unfair to Abigail, this situation. I’d much prefer she find her own choice of companion, whenever it suits her, rather than have to acquiesce to these ridiculous demands.”
Sir Eldridge nods. “Yes, I understand. My greatest sympathies to Lady Abigail for being at the epicenter of this predicament.” He shifts his gaze to me. “It is, indeed, very unfair to you, my Lady.”
I nod once to acknowledge his words, but otherwise I keep a neutral expression on my face. Unfair doesn’t begin to describe this turn of events, but I’ll do whatever is needed of me to ensure my family isn’t rendered penniless and homeless because of some eighteenth-century jerk’s hurt feelings.
Another adviser, sitting to the right of Sir Eldridge, leans forward. “If I may interject?”
My mother nods. “Of course, what is it Mr. Kingston?”
“Not to be insensitive or indelicate, but it is paramount that this process concludes quickly, and an engagement announced as soon as possible.”
“Yes, Mr. Kingston. We’re quite aware that time is of the essence.”
“I’m wondering how the young Lady Strathmore is finding her suitors? They have been selected to hedge our bets, so to speak. As requested, we’ve given particular attention to include any possible heirs of Master Goutley, based on the church records we’ve been able to access so far. But that is only half the battle, you understand. You will want enough time to plan a proper wedding and yet, the calendar hasn’t stopped marching forward. Her birthday is just—”
My mother interrupts, her face drawn tight, her words clipped. “Thank you for vetting the suitors, but it is important to both her father and me that Abigail has a chance to meet and spend time with these men before reaching a decision.”
“Certainly, Baroness. It’s just that…” Mr. Kingston trails off as my mother stares him down, her eyes flashing with anger. He takes a breath and tries again, his tone cautious and respectful. “The council and I are wondering if there has been any progress on that matter?”
Clearing my throat to remind the advisors that I’m still in the room — Helllllooo, I’m right here, why not just ask me directly, you fools? — I speak up. “I’ve met with all of them, I think. I’m working on narrowing the list.”
“And I believe she’s going on an outing with Finley Prescott later this week, right dear?” my mother adds, turning to me.
I give my mother a weak smile and nod. My parents and several of the advisors are smitten with Finley, because he comes from a highly-regarded family with important political connections and enough money to ensure I’ll be afforded the life of a fairytale princess. Their thinking is, if I can’t marry for love, then marry for money.
I am not nearly as enthusiastic about Finley, but to be fair, I haven’t connected with any of the suitors yet. Not due to lack of effort. I’ve given each of them far more time that they respectably deserve — early morning strolls in the gardens, light luncheons on the veranda, sunset cruises on the lake. Yet, I can’t find even a flicker of interest in any of them. I can’t get around the fact that none of them hold a candle to Prince Henry. But, if it makes my mother happy, then sure, why not — I’ll let Finley take me out to dinner.
“Mr. Prescott is a fine, young gentleman,” Sir Eldridge says, puckering his lips with delighted satisfaction.
I manage not to roll my eyes, but just barely.
“Now, wait, let’s get back to this agreement. I’m not certain we should be rushing into this,” my father says, holding up a hand. “Surely, she can’t be forced to marry because of a daft piece of paper?”
Sir Eldridge responds. “No, of course not, my Lord. In the seventeen-hundreds, women married whomever their father ordered them to, but that is far from how the world operates today. She does have the option of not marrying at all, or marrying next year, or when she’s twenty-eight, or forty, or ninety-three, should the good graces see to let her live to a ripe old age — although all those options do come with a set of rather unfortunate consequences for the Strathmore’s at large. You would lose the entire estate of the House of Beauregard.”
“It just seems like there is something we could do,” my mother says, reaching for my hand under the table. Her voice is cracking, and I know that if I show the briefest hesitation at getting married, she’ll spend the afternoon crying in her room. So, I keep a pleasant smile plastered on my face, as if none of this bothers me in the slightest and we’re just discussing the menu for an afternoon luncheon.
“As you know, our country has a long history of preposterous conditions being placed upon trusts and into covenants. Very few are ever invalidated,” Sir Eldridge replies.
Kneading his brow with long fingers, his gaze fixed on the table, my father asks, “How did this contract even come to light after nearly four hundred years?”
“We’re not sure by whom,” Sir Eldridge responds. “Perhaps a student studying old records. A member of the Historical Society, maybe, or a scholar researching for a written history.”
“And an anonymous envelope just happened to appear on the Council’s desk?” My father glares into the distance. “Someone out there knows more about this. With the timing, I don’t believe it’s coincidence, gentlemen.”
My father is silent for a long time, his head bowed, eyes fixed on the table again. Finally, he looks up and glances slowly at each man in the room. Some of them avert their gaze from my father, others stare back blankly. None of them have the answers he — that we all — want to hear. Finally, he speaks. “Are you absolutely sure we can’t challenge this?”
“We could, my Lordship,” Sir Eldridge says, speaking in a sympathetic tone. “If you choose to proceed, we’ll gather the best legal couns
el the world has to offer. But, it must be noted that it cannot be brought before the court until there is an opposing defendant, which means we must first identify Master Goutley’s living representative. And that might take months or longer, by which time Lady Abigail will have reached her twenty-third birthday and—”
“And if the court doesn’t find in our favor,” my father interrupts, his voice booming with frustration, “we’ll have lost everything.”
Chapter 12
HENRY
“You don’t want to?” Abi asks, her bottom lip quivering.
She’s snuggled up beside me, her head on my shoulder, with my arm wrapped around her back, holding her close. Her fingers are tracing slow, teasing circles across my chest and mine are playing with her hair. We actually made it to my oversized four-poster bed tonight instead of the bearskin rug, and we’re lying on my bed after a very passionate round of orgasms — two for her and one for me, just the way I like it.
“Hell yes, I want to.” It’s an honest answer. Even the very question coming from her sweet lips has caused a stir of excitement inside me. But I’m not going to act on my desire.
“Then what is it?” she asks, tilting her head up to look me in the eyes.
We’ve just caught our breath, and I’m enjoying holding her, which I rarely get to do. Usually, one of us must leave by this point, but not today. The festival activity schedule has this afternoon designated as a stroll-about, and Abigail doesn’t have any scheduled suitors to play yard tennis or croquet. The weather is cooperating perfectly for a fall day outdoors — sunny and warm, with a nice cooling breeze. Everyone is scattered across the grounds, making it much easier for us to slip away without anyone noticing that we’re both missing.
Our afternoon sessions are usually brief — too brief for my liking — as we never know how much time we’ll have together without creating suspicion. Today is one of many such stolen moments we’ve managed to find over the past week. But no matter how many times we sneak away to a secluded area or slip into one another’s room at night, it’s never enough for me.