"Yes, lovey, believe it. My old father, he had the same spasms of chest pain I've been having. One day a terrible bad spasm left him paralyzed on his left side, and next day, he was gone. Dr. Lyall says 111 go the same way."
"Papa, just because Grandfer died that way . . . You've been working too hard, that's your problem. You need to rest more. You should take a nap after lunch every day and leave the mill early, instead of staying there until all hours."
Ordinarily a very reserved man, Phineas reached over to clasp Charlotte's hand, blinking his eyes against a sudden film of moisture. "My dear, ye mustn't fight this. What will be, will be. What we must do now is plan for the future. Now, then, it's long been worriting me that I'd be leaving ye all alone when I die. I've decided ye should have a husband. And I've found ye one."
Charlotte gaped at her father, forgetting for the moment the
dreadful news he'd just given her about his health. "Papa! You're funning. You must be funning."
"Nay, that I'm not. I'm dead serious. I've found ye a lord o' the realm. Ye'U be a grand lady, a marchioness, no less!"
Charlotte had a sinking feeling. Never much inclined to jokes or humorous small talk, her father did, indeed, look dead serious.
"It was this way," Phineas continued. "I had my banker in London, Mr. Cotton, looking out for a swell, someone from an aristocratic family, a lord, if possible, mayhap even a duke! I wasn't about to give my only daughter to a nobody, that I'll tell ye! Well, Mr. Cotton couldn't find any dukes. I reckon they're in short supply. However, he did come up with this here Marquess of Sherborne, who seemed just right. According to Mr. Cotton, his lordship's a widower, young and presentable. Not a wastrel, I was pertickler about that. No, he served in the Blues and later sat for his home borough in Parliament. Mr. Cotton says his title is an old one, and he has a large estate in Oxfordshire. It will be a fine match for ye, the best that ever was or ever could be."
By this time Charlotte had begun to recover her composure. She said tartly, "The marquess sounds like a paragon, Papa, a real Go among the Goers. I daresay he'll be a fine match for someone but not for me. Just to name one objection, why would he be interested in marrying a mill owner's daughter from Lancashire, when he could have the pick of the young ladies of the Ton?"
"Because his lordship's pockets are to let, that's why, and ye're a great heiress, my girl, or so ye'll be one day. A few months ago, y'see, when he inherited the title, the marquess discovered that his father had nigh sunk the estate in a sea of debts. The old gentleman was a gambler, both on 'Change and at the tracks. But worst of all — " Here Phineas, a shrewd businessman to the core, allowed himself a smug smile. "Worst of all, the marquess's father had the bad judgment to sell off his holdings in the Funds at a huge loss only hours before the news o' Wellington's victory at Waterloo reached London. So now, to make a recover, Lord Sherborne needs a rich wife."
"I wish him luck," said Charlotte dryly.
"Now, now, lovey." Phineas shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "The fact is, with Mr. Cotton's help, I've already made the match between ye and the marquess. Provided, that is, that the pair o' ye suit. I wouldn't wish ye to marry a man ye couldn't abide. I've arranged for Lord Sherborne to pay us a visit, so's the pair o' ye can get acquainted, ye might say."
Aghast, Charlotte exclaimed, "Then you can just unarrange the visit! Papa, I know you think you're doing this for my own good. I know you don't like the thought of my being alone in the world, except for Great-uncle Jeremiah, and he, poor old thing, is getting touched in his upper works. But you must consider that Dr. Lyall may simply be wrong in his diagnosis. You'll probably live to be a hundred."
"Nay, my love, that's wishful thinking."
Charlotte swallowed hard. "Well, then, be as it may, I don't wish to marry this man. I don't wish to marry anybody, not for a long time, anyway. As for Lord Sherborne, he and I are complete strangers. We have nothing in common. Why, except for attending school in Tunbridge Wells, I've never been farther away from Bury than Manchester or Liverpool! I've never even been to London. I wouldn't know how to talk to Lord Sherborne's fashionable friends."
"Now, wait one moment, my girl," said Phineas curtly. "Ye're as much a lady as this here marquess is likely to meet, I've seen to that with yer fine schooling and all."
"You're prejudiced, Papa. Think about who you and I really are. Your father was a yeoman farmer. You've become a wealthy mill owner, true enough, but to the county gentry you're still a farmer. They're so prejudiced that they won't even consider you for the post of justice of the peace. Why should Lord Sherborne look on you and me any differently? What kind of a marriage could he and I have, coming from such unequal stations? No, Papa, it won't do. Write to Lord Sherborne and tell him not to come."
"I fancy it's too late for that, my girl," said Phineas, looking past her to their housekeeper, Mrs. Graves, who stood in the doorway of the parlor.
"Sir, ma'am," said the housekeeper in a flustered voice. "It's Lord Sherborne."
"I invited his lordship to have supper with us, and he's dead on time," murmured Phineas approvingly.
Charlotte rose slowly to her feet as Lord Sherborne strolled into the room. He was everything her father had described, and more. Tall, handsome, dark haired and dark eyed, with a well-shapedf sensual mouth and a cleft in his chin. He looked to be in his late twenties or early thirties. The superb tailoring of his black evening coat and breeches would have sent any aspiring dandy in Bury into a fit of teeth-gnashing envy. But it was the polished perfection of his address, the confident, unconsciously arrogant air of the aristocrat who has always known his place in the world, that would have set him apart in any Lancashire gathering.
If he had any qualms, however, about either his company or his surroundings, he showed no signs of them. He bowed with an easy grace, saying, "Mr. Kinley? Miss Kinley? I'm very pleased to meet you."
The dark eyes met Charlotte's, and he smiled, and her defenses crumbled in the face of that cool, faintly aloof charm. Reason, logic, and common sense alike disintegrated. In the first few seconds of her meeting with Jeffrey Weston, Marquess of Sherborne, Charlotte Kinley fell madly and irretrievably in love.
She spent the rest of the evening fighting the attraction. This proved difficult, because the marquess was the perfect guest. There was no indication that he felt out of place. He sent his ! compliments to the cook on her excellent dinner. He said politely to Charlotte, "I understand you attended Miss Porter's female academy in Tunbridge Wells. A very fine school, I be-I lieve."
Charlotte caught the glimmer of a smug smile on Phineas's lips. What other revelations had her father made about her in order to display her qualifications to be a marchioness? "Yes," she replied, concealing her irritation, "I think Miss Porter's academy is an excellent school." Before she quite realized how it came about, she and Jeffrey were deep into a discussion of
Lord Byron's poems. She reflected later that it was quite the most literary conversation she could remember having at her father's dinner table.
Then it was Phineas's turn. Jeffrey asked him a polite question about the cotton spinning industry, which sent her flattered father off on a long and involved description of the processes of carding, drawing, and roving, ending with an account of throttle spinning effected by the use of a flyer revolving around the bobbin. Jeffrey listened with what appeared to be absorbed interest.
Throughout the evening, Charlotte was conscious of Jeffrey's close, guarded gaze, but she couldn't read the expression in those dark eyes. Had he arrived in Bury without having definitely decided on the marriage? And was he now carefully studying her in an effort to make up his mind whether she would suit? Whatever his thoughts, he didn't bring up the matter of their betrothal, to her vast relief.
"Well?" Phineas demanded, when the marquess had departed for his lodgings at a nearby inn. "D'ye like the man?"
Charlotte glared at her father. "You're a conniving wretch, Papa, but you'll not connive me to the altar. In the
event, like as not, now that the marquess has met me"—she looked down with a disparaging glance at the very plain muslin dress she'd donned for a quiet meal with her father—"now that he's met me, I daresay he won't come back to the house, let alone make me an offer!"
But the marquess proved her wrong the very next afternoon, when Phineas, with his characteristic bluntness and efficiency, had contrived to get Charlotte and the marquess alone on a drive about the town and its surroundings.
She dressed very carefully for the excursion, in a becoming walking dress and a brand-new pelisse and bonnet. She greeted him with what she hoped was a cool, poised friendliness, only to have the afternoon turn into the most excruciatingly uncomfortable experience of her life. Because she was so intensely conscious of the marquess's physical presence m the narrow confines of the carriage, she found it impossible to concentrate on what he was saying. She had to keep repressing
an unruly urge to move closer to him, to slide her fingers through the crisp black curls of his fashionable coiffure, to place the tip of her finger into the deep cleft in his chin. . . . "No!" she exclaimed aloud.
"I beg your pardon?" The marquess was staring at her in well-bred surprise.
Charlotte flushed a deep red. What was the matter with her? She was twenty years old, she'd met scores—well, a good many, anyway—of young men, both in the mill-owning circles of Bury and at assemblies in Manchester, and none of them had ever affected her in this way. In fact, the thought of marriage hadn't seriously occurred to her before. An only child and motherless since the age of six, she'd been happy in her close companionship with her father.
"I was thinking how different this part of Lancashire must be from your home in Oxfordshire," she said, inventing hastily. "We're on the edge of the Black Country here, you know."
The marquess glanced out the window of the carriage at the blackened buildings of the town. "It does seem a little—er— grimy."
"It's the smoke from literally hundreds of furnaces in the area," Charlotte explained. "Sometimes at night, when I look out over the valley, I think the whole area must be on fire, with flames belching from all those furnaces and every window of every factory blazing with light. The soot clings to everything, you know, even the trees and shrubbery and the grass. It creeps inside the houses. Our housekeeper complains bitterly about having to dust several times a day."
She knew she was babbling and wondered what he could possibly be thinking of her. Well, what did it matter? she thought grimly. After today, she'd probably never see him again. Even if he made an offer, which she considered unlikely, she was going to reject it. She said aloud, "Papa thought you might like to see the mill. Shall we go there now?"
'Tow7/show me the premises?" The marquess sounded surprised.
"Why, yes. I know all about the mill. Papa's seen to that." Did Lord Sherborne think it ill-bred for a lady to know about
the workings of a business from which her family derived its livelihood? She mentally tossed her head, taking a perverse enjoyment in showing Jeffrey every detail of the mill, a vast structure, nine stories high, containing, she pointed out with relish, 90,000 spindles. She also showed him the neat rows of workmen's cottages and the new school her father had recently constructed for the child apprentices in the mill.
"Your father's employees look contented and hard-working," the marquess observed as they were riding back to Bury.
"Yes, I think they are. For instance, Papa doesn't believe children should work more than ten hours a day, though most mills require them to work as many as fifteen hours a day. Papa also insists that the children and their families have clean, decent places in which to live. You see, Papa feels very close to his workers; he was one of them not so long ago, so what hurts them, hurts him." She gave him a level look. For some reason she didn't wholly understand, it was important for her to make the marquess realize that she and her father were proud, rather than ashamed, of their origins.
Lord Sherborne gazed at her thoughtfully. "You seem to know a great deal about your father's business."
"Well, I'll inherit the mill one day. Papa thinks I should know how to manage it."
"I see." The marquess was very quiet for the remainder of their drive. Charlotte wondered what he was thinking about. Was he making up his mind about the marriage? At the house, after the housekeeper had served them tea and cakes in the parlor, she quickly found out. He went straight to the point, saying, "I believe you know why I'm here, Miss Kinley."
"Yes." Charlotte turned her head to hide the quick flush that suffused her cheeks.
"Your father, quite wisely, I think, wanted us to meet before we made a final decision about marrying. After spending time in your company last night and today, I must tell you that I'm quite willing to go forward in this matter, if you are equally agreeable." He smiled faintly. "We're both too sensible, I think, to speak in terms of undying devotion. The mutual advantages of the match are obvious without the need for false
romantic declarations." He paused, waiting politely for Charlotte's reply.
She wanted to scream, "No, I'm not willing to go forward! I don't wish to get married for mutual advantages!" From the first moment she'd heard of her father's scheme to marry her into the nobility, she'd had every intention of refusing the marquess's offer, supposing he were to make one. Now she looked down the years and saw herself growing old in a civil, bloodless relationship with a man who'd married her only for her money and who would probably go to his grave regretting it, and her resolve hardened. So when she heard herself saying, "I'm quite agreeable to the match, Lord Sherborne," she was convinced for one hideous, confused second that someone had stolen her voice.
"That's settled, then." The marquess sounded relieved. He rose and came over to her chair, putting but his hand to draw her to her feet. Smiling, he said, "Come, now. I think it's time to be a little less formal, don't you? Won't you call me Jeffrey?" Bending his head, he kissed her lightly on her brow.
In that moment, Charlotte made up her mind that she would never, under any circumstances, allow Lord Sherborne to realize what her feelings for him were. That much she owed to her pride, in a marriage of unequal affections. She moved pointedly away from him, saying, "Papa will be delighted. He's always wanted to see me creditably established, and now I'll be a marchioness." Out of the corner of her eye, she was pleased to observe a faint expression of disapproval settling over the marquess's handsome mouth.
As the carriage paused to allow the gatehouse keeper to throw open the great wrought-iron gates of Cortona, Charlotte began to shiver again with nervous tension. In minutes at most, she'd be face to face with her stranger-betrothed.
She'd seen Jeffrey only once since their engagement, and that was on the day of her father's funeral when he'd come to Bury on a brief visit of condolence. Phineas had died a short month after his daughter's betrothal, quickly and quietly, as
he would have wished. Charlotte knew that Jeffrey's presence at the funeral was no more than a gesture of propriety. She was very conscious of the wall of constraint between them. However, during his few hours in Bury, they had come to an important agreement, the setting of their wedding date. In Phineas's will, he'd left instructions for Charlotte that she was not to delay her wedding in order to observe a formal mourning period. So here she was, six weeks later, about to visit Jeffrey and his family for the Christmas holidays. One week from today, on Christmas Eve, her engagement would be formally announced. Two months after that, at the beginning of March, she would be married. Sitting in the carriage as it entered the driveway of Cortona, Charlotte again had to fight back the impulse to rap on the glass and order the coachman to turn around.
"Great heavens, ma'am, this here park must be nigh as big as a whole county," murmured Charlotte's impressed abigail, looking round-eyed out the window of the carriage at the seemingly endless winding drive through a well-wooded park. Off in the distance a herd of fallow deer was grazing, and away to the right an alley led up a gentle slope to a smal
l domed structure that looked vaguely like a temple.
After what seemed like miles, the driveway finally terminated in a sweeping curve in front of an enormous building, the central block of which, to Charlotte's stunned gaze, appeared to be modeled on a gigantic Roman triumphal arch. Curving colonnaded curtain walls led off on either side to twin pavilions. She later learned there were two matching pavilions in the rear. As the carriage slowed and came to a halt, a swarm of liveried servants swept out of the great central door to let down the steps of the carriage, take charge of Charlotte's baggage, give her coachman directions to the stables, and escort her up the steps and into an immense hallway, where Jeffrey was waiting to greet her.
"Welcome to Cortona," he said, smiling, as he walked toward her to take her hand. "You've had a pleasant journey?"
"Oh, yes. Quite. Thank you." She knew she must sound like a nervous schoolgirl. She resisted the urge to snatch her hand
away, although the touch of his long, strong fingers had caused a peculiar tingling sensation to run through her body. He looked fully as handsome as she remembered. It wasn't fair, she thought resentfully. If only he'd developed a squint or a wart, it would be so much easier to make her galloping heartbeat settle down.
She jerked her gaze away from him, glancing around the great hallway paved in black and white marble; tall alabaster pillars marched down the sides of the room, interspersed with niches containing statuary. Her eyes widened.
Jeffrey laughed. "Ridiculous, isn't it? This hallway is modeled after the atrium in the Baths of Titus in Rome. My grandfather returned from his Grand Tour of the Continent bound and determined to build a Palladian villa. This house is as close as he could come to a villa he visited in Northern Italy. But come," he added, motioning to a doorway on the left of the hallway. "My mother is eager to welcome you."
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