by Merry Farmer
There was a chance that if he simply stayed in his and Flossie’s suite in the hotel, the whole mad thing would go away.
“What was I thinking?” he hissed to himself as he paced around the suite’s front room, circling the sofa.
He hadn’t been thinking anything. That was his problem. He’d let an adolescent obsession turn into a nightmare that he couldn’t get out of. In less than twenty-four hours, he was marrying Lady Elizabeth Dyson.
He paused, rubbed a hand over his face, then flopped onto the sofa, trying and failing to steady his breathing. What man in his right mind would marry a woman he didn’t love, had nothing in common with, and often distrusted when the woman he adored with every fiber of his being, the woman who was on the verge of giving birth to his child, was available and devoted to him?
He sat forward, glancing across the architectural sketches that he’d laid out on the floor earlier. He’d attempted to calm his increasingly anxious nerves in the past few days by sketching out plans for another hotel. But instead of a commercial paradise, the building that had taken form in his drawings was a detached house, a home. It was the home he wanted to build for Flossie, for their family. He’d forgotten how much he enjoyed the planning phase of buildings, not just the running of a hotel empire. He wanted to plan now, to build something bigger than he’d ever built. Not in size, of course, but in importance.
He pushed himself to stand, stepping carefully around the sketches and resuming his restless pacing. What he wanted and what he’d boxed himself into were two different things. The life he wanted spread out across the floor around his feet while the life he was doomed to hovered in the air, like a swarm of bees about to attack.
His thoughts swam in circles, causing his breath to come in smaller and shallower gasps. His hands began to tingle, and the idea of fleeing to his bedroom and crawling under the covers, never to come out again, seemed like a fabulous idea.
When the door to the suite opened, Jason nearly jumped out of his skin, even though it was only Flossie who entered the room.
“What are you doing?” she asked, walking to intercept the path of his pacing, a hand clutched to her back.
“I’m dying,” he answered in an unmanly wail. He marched to her, grasping her arms. “What was I thinking, Flossie? I can’t marry E. I don’t even like her.”
Flossie pursed her lips and stared up at him, a flat, almost scolding look in her eyes. “You do like her,” she said. “The two of you chatter like old hens every time you get together.”
“We do not,” Jason said, knowing it was true. He stepped back, pushing a hand through his hair. “I can’t go through with this. It’s madness.”
Flossie winced, rubbing her back. In the back of Jason’s mind, it dawned on him that his concern should be for her and for their baby, not for his own vanity and stupidity. He’d caused his own problems, and he’d caused Flossie’s too.
Flossie glanced to his trousers, her expression hardening to a frown. “Not a tent in sight,” she murmured.
“I know,” Jason said with a note of foreboding. “Which means you know it’s bad.” His ages-old affliction generally subjected him to erections when he was under stress, but if the stress became bad enough, he was as limp as a dead worm. He paced a few steps in one direction, squirmed, then stepped back to Flossie.
“Be still, Jason,” she said in a weary voice. “You’re making me anxious. And I have enough to be anxious about already.”
“Do you?” His brow flew up, and concern for her attempted to push away the maelstrom of his own emotions.
Flossie sighed. “I’ve had no fewer than five summons to E’s side already this morning, three telling me to go to Huntingdon Hall and two saying to go to the church. Apparently, I’m needed desperately to ensure that the church looks perfect and the wedding goes off without a hitch.”
There was a note of irony in Flossie’s tone that made Jason love her all the more. As fraught as the whole wedding made him, really, it was Flossie who would suffer the most because of it.
“Let’s run away,” he said, grasping her arms once more. “No one needs to know. We can pack our bags and be on the next train to anywhere. We can travel to the continent, to Italy, to Australia. We can go as far away from here as possible and start over.”
Flossie laughed ironically. “I’m not going anywhere in this condition, Jason.” She rested her hands on her belly. “I don’t think it’s going to be much longer.”
“After, then,” Jason argued. “We’ll go. No one can stop us.”
Flossie sighed and shook her head, glancing up at him. “You do remember all the reasons you decided to go through with this mad plan, don’t you?”
Jason winced. “To salvage my reputation,” he said, like a schoolboy repeating his lessons. “Because marriage to the daughter of an earl will be a sign of stability and rationality to my business contacts, who may or may not believe the rumors of my madness that circulated in London this past winter.”
“Precisely.” Flossie managed a weak smile.
“Though I’m half convinced they were the ones who started the rumors so that they could cheat me in business deals and renegotiate their investments with terms that are unfavorable to me.”
Flossie’s smile turned into a grin, and the spark of mischief returned to her eyes. She raised a hand to cradle his face. “Now you’re sounding like a titan of business again.”
“A titan of business who doesn’t want to be married tomorrow,” Jason said.
“What?” Flossie asked with mock surprise. “I thought Lady E was your ideal woman. I thought she was the paragon of beauty and virtue, the very thing you’ve been working your whole life to be worthy of.”
Jason let out a breath, his shoulders sagging. She was teasing him, and he deserved it. “I was a fool. I didn’t know what love or desire were until you came into my life.” He cradled her cheek with one hand, brushing his thumb across her lips.
Flossie blushed, gazing up at him with far more love than he deserved. “You’ll be fine, Jason. Lady E is harmless, when all is said and done. You deserve the status this marriage will give you. It will do wonders for your business. And who knows?” She stepped away, crossing to a table on one side of the room and retrieving a ledger, which must have been her reason for coming to their suite in the first place. “In a few years, you can petition for divorce on the grounds of adultery and abandonment.”
Jason tugged at his waistcoat and crossed to the bedroom to fetch his coat. “I doubt E will run off with another man.”
When he returned to the main room of the suite, Flossie was laughing at him. “Jason,” she said, “you will be the guilty party. You will be the adulterer. And everyone in town will know it.”
A sick feeling swirled through Jason’s stomach. He hadn’t thought about it that way. His immortal soul was already in danger for so many reasons, but he hadn’t realized that going through with the marriage plan would end with him breaking a commandment. Probably more than one, if he stopped to think about it. Probably them all. He was certainly guilty of idolatry. He worshiped Flossie far more than any mighty god sitting on a throne in heaven.
“Marshall is waiting for you downstairs, by the way,” Flossie told him as they headed for the door. “And he doesn’t look happy.”
“Is Marshall even capable of happiness?” Jason asked, feeling marginally better just being near Flossie. It helped to know that his pseudo-brother was there for him as well.
Flossie laughed, but didn’t have time to answer. She winced a bit as she made her way impossibly slowly down the stairs to the lobby. Sure enough, Marshall was waiting there, pacing as though a thundercloud was stalking him.
“Are you quite certain you’re all right?” Jason asked Flossie, doing what he could to help her descend the stairs.
“I’m fine.” She waved off his comment, but there was a tight quality to her voice, as though she were in pain.
“It’s not time for the baby, is it?�
� he asked, lowering his voice so that only she could hear. “Marshall is right here, after all. If you want to go back upstairs so that you can deliver….”
Flossie laughed. “As I understand, it doesn’t happen like that. You cannot schedule the delivery of a baby. They come when they’re ready.”
He would have pursued the matter more, but they reached the lobby and Flossie stepped away to hand the ledger to Daniel at the desk, Marshall strode over to greet Jason.
“God save me from mothers,” Marshall grumbled. “We’re lucky to be orphans.”
The comment was so incongruous that Jason’s brow went up and his thoughts pulled away from his own misery. Flossie waved to him as she crossed the lobby and left the hotel, probably on her way to the church to answer E’s summons. Jason had to let her go in favor of asking Marshall, “What brought that on?”
Marshall huffed and rubbed his face. “How much do you know about Lady Charlotte’s involvement in getting my girls back?”
Heat infused Jason’s face. “Flossie told me a while ago. I’m sorry I didn’t discuss it with you sooner.”
“So you knew?” Marshall gaped at him.
More heat spilled through Jason. “You didn’t?”
Instead of answering, Marshall went on with, “And did you know that Mother Grace is the woman who gave birth to me? Gave birth to me, then dropped me at the door of the orphanage.”
Jason’s mouth dropped open. “I didn’t know,” he said, amazed. A smile flickered at the corners of his lips. “But this is wonderful.”
Marshall stared at him as though he’d said a shipwreck was wonderful. “That woman cast me aside, then inserted herself back into my life as though she had a right to be there.”
The vehemence of Marshall’s anger was so strong that all Jason could do was stand there, his mouth flapping, no idea what to say. He would have been overjoyed to discover Mother Grace was his actual mother. Then again, he had a much smoother relationship with the woman than Marshall ever had.
“And now,” Marshall raged on, “she’s parading around the church, telling everyone who will listen that she is my mother. As if she has the right to do that. As if I accept the whole thing.”
Jason blinked. “Mother Grace is at the church? When was the last time she ventured into a Christian house of worship?”
“The whole thing is probably on the verge of collapse,” Marshall grumbled.
Jason couldn’t help but think that would be the best thing that could possibly happen. If the church suddenly exploded due to a conflict of faiths, he wouldn’t have to go through with the wedding.
“And now it turns out that Alex’s mother sent us that blasted piano,” Marshall rushed on. “That instrument of torture that hasn’t allowed me to have a moment’s peace in my own house for months.”
“Molly isn’t getting any better?” Jason asked, one brow raised.
“Actually, she’s progressing quite nicely,” Marshall said in a sudden fit of calm and reason. “I think she has an innate talent for music.” He switched back into rage a moment later. “But the whole gift now appears to be Lady Charlotte’s ham-fisted attempt to win Alex back to her side. The wretched woman only cares what her daughter is up to because she’s miserable with the choices she’s made. Well, I’ll be damned if I let her play a role in the life of my children. All of my children.”
Jason still didn’t know what to say by the time Marshall finished his rant, panting. Marshall ran a hand through his hair, his shoulders dropping.
The only words of comfort that came to Jason’s lips were, “At least you don’t have to marry Lady E.”
A look of contrition pinched Marshall’s face. “Sorry, my friend. I know you have troubles too.”
Marshall looked as though he would say more, but the conversation—and everything else in the lobby—came to a complete stop as Colin Armstrong blew through the door, a man Jason didn’t recognize with him.
“Ah! There he is, the man of the hour,” Armstrong said with an abundance of enthusiasm.
“Oh, God,” Jason muttered, rolling his eyes. He did his best to put on a welcoming face as Armstrong brought his friend over.
“This is Mr. Jason Throckmorton,” Armstrong told his friend in an awed voice. “He owns at least a dozen hotels across England. He’s a self-made man. His story is the stuff of legend.” Armstrong stood there, beaming at Jason and glancing to his friend as though he should be doing the same.
“Please to meet you,” Armstrong’s friend said, extending his hand. Jason’s brow shot up. The man was American. “Piers Johnson.”
“Oh, right,” Armstrong said, flinching. “I was so excited to introduce you that I forgot to return the favor. Jason, this is Mr. Piers Johnson from New York City. He’s an investor in search of opportunities here in England.”
Jason’s brow shot up, and he shook Johnson’s hand with more enthusiasm before letting it go. “What kind of investments are you in the market for, Mr. Johnson?”
“Piers, please,” Johnson said. “And I invest in hotels.”
Jason’s blood pumped harder. “I know something about that,” he said, slipping into his persona of suave, savvy businessman that it almost made him laugh. Considering how panicked he had been just moments before, he almost felt as though he should thank Armstrong, hug him even. He only barely remembered Marshall. “Forgive my manners, Mr. Johnson. This is my close friend, Dr. Marshall Pycroft.”
“Dr. Pycroft,” Johnson shook Marshall’s hand. Marshall sent a sideways look to Jason, his unspoken statement that he would stand by in case he was needed reassuring.
“I’ve been corresponding with Piers about your hotel empire for months now,” Armstrong said. “He’s been fascinated with the progress you’ve made.”
“And with the profitability of your business,” Johnson added. “There aren’t many men of my acquaintance who can start with nothing, build so much, and enjoy the fruits of your labor. It’s downright American of you.”
Jason fought the urge to grimace at the man’s arrogant assumption. As far as he was concerned, his efforts had been entirely British. “Would you care to join me for tea, Mr. Johnson?”
“Absolutely,” Johnson answered. “I would say it’s my treat, but seeing as this is your hotel.”
Jason smiled, gesturing for Armstrong and Johnson to follow him into the dining room. Marshall came with them. The room was set for luncheon. As soon as Jason led his guests to one of the tables by the window that looked out into the back garden—which was in full, verdant bloom—one of the maids rushed forward to bring them a pot of tea.
“Your garden is splendid,” Johnson said with genuine enthusiasm as he looked out the window.
“And it’s electrified at night,” Armstrong said before Jason could thank the man. “I plan to install similar features in the garden of my hotel. But Jason here is the innovator. He designed the garden himself.”
“Is that so?” Johnson asked.
“It is,” Marshal confirmed. “We’ve been pestering Jason to offer his design services to others for years now.
“I’ve had a hand in the designs of all of my hotels,” Jason said, glowing more than he thought he should under Marshall’s compliment. It was always nice to be complimented by the people who meant the most. “Design has always been a hobby of mine.”
“You have a talent for it,” Johnson said. He leaned heavily on the table, eyeing Jason with a confident grin that only an American—and a wealthy American at that—could manage. “Which is why I find your hotels to be such an appealing asset.”
Jason blinked. “An asset?”
“Yes,” Johnson said. “I would like to buy them.”
The floor could have opened up and swallowed him, and Jason didn’t think he’d have noticed. He blinked and shook his head. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
Johnson leaned back in his chair as the maid returned, bringing a three-tiered stand of sandwiches, scones, and tarts. Armstrong hummed in apprecia
tion and helped himself to sandwiches. Marshall seemed too bowled over by what Johnson had just said to eat. He glanced to Jason with an approving grin. Johnson continued to stare at Jason as though assessing his character.
As soon as the maid was gone and Armstrong was munching away happily, Johnson said, “I have made inquiries. I’ve followed your enterprise in the papers. I’ve looked at as many details as I’ve been able to. I believe your hotels would be a profitable addition to the portfolio of investments I and my company are compiling in Britain.”
“You…do?” Jason was beyond dumbfounded.
“Yes,” Johnson answered. “I have a lot more research to do, which I hope you will consent to help me with. I would love to see more detailed financial reports, profit and loss statements, overhead costs, and such. But I am prepared to make quite a generous offer.”
“Tell him how generous,” Armstrong said with a giddy smile.
Johnson fixed Jason with a slightly pompous look and said, “I may be willing to offer something in the ballpark of a million dollars, or whatever the equivalent is over here.”
Jason was exceedingly grateful he wasn’t in the middle of eating or drinking anything that had been set out for them. It was all he could do to keep his mouth from dropping open in shock. Dollars or pounds, a million was an immense number. It was an unfathomable fortune. It was almost more money than he could conceptualize, and he’d spent the last fifteen years of his life dealing with wealth in all forms.
He reached for his tea with a shaking hand, taking a swallow to wet this dry throat. “The Dragon’s Head is not for sale,” he managed to wheeze at last.
“But the other hotels?” Johnson asked. “The London hotels? Manchester? Birmingham? The rest?”
Jason took another swallow of tea. “What would you like to know about them?”
Flossie
Her back hurt. Her feet felt as though they were on fire. Aches and agonies rippled over her from head to toe. The baby had shifted and now felt as though it were pressing low inside of her. And to top it all off, she was expected to smile and be competent in the next twenty-four hours when all she really wanted to do was march into the hotel’s kitchen storeroom and throw all the plates against the wall.