Heiress in Love (Ministry of Marriage Novels)

by Christina Brooke

“About to be boiled in oil?” said Luke with undisguised relish.

  She chuckled. “Ah, that’s right.” Jane slid her finger along the pages of the book she’d marked with a green ribbon. The spine crackled as she spread the novel open and began to read.

  Poor Sir Ninian, indeed! Cecily, the minx, had penned this thrilling tale of derring-do when still in the schoolroom. Sir Ninian Trinian was supposed to be the hero of the tale, yet he was always being rescued by the resourceful and redoubtable Henrietta Peddlethorpe, the tavernkeeper’s daughter. Delighting in Cecily’s talent, their cousin Andrew had ordered copies to be printed and bound for all of the cousins.

  Realizing that Luke was a little too old for fairy tales now, Jane had scoured the library for books that might interest a boy his age. They were few and far between. Her own collection of romances didn’t seem suitable, either.

  Then she’d remembered Cecily’s mad creations. If anything could interest a boy like Luke in reading for pleasure, those hilarious episodes would do the trick. Jane hadn’t read the tales for years, but she soon became as enthralled as Luke. Cecily’s gift for storytelling had been evident, even at fifteen.

  Glancing at Luke as she read, she saw his eyelids grow heavy. They fluttered a little as he fought sleep. She read on, lowering her voice a little, until at last, Luke’s eyelids drifted closed. Jane let her words trail away until Luke’s deep breathing told her he slept.

  She marked the place with her green ribbon and returned Cecily’s book to the shelf.

  Bending down to Luke, Jane kissed the delicious, petal-soft roundness of his cheek. His lips curved a little, as if he knew she was there. With a tiny sigh, he snuggled down into the pillow, secure in the instinctive knowledge that he was loved.

  Jane’s heart filled. Her eyes moistened. The ache in her throat seemed to form a hard, jagged lump.

  She would do anything for this child. Anything.

  Even if that meant marrying Constantine Black.

  * * *

  Constantine needed a drink. Another one. He strode down corridors, through connecting rooms, his breath streaming harshly through his nostrils.

  Bloody rabbit warren of a place! He’d been halfway to his bedchamber when he’d remembered the decanters sitting idle in the library. A pity he hadn’t also recalled that one needed a map and a compass to navigate the old pile.

  Westruthers! Damn them all to hell. So bloody self-righteous, so superior to the rest of the human race—at least in their own estimation. How dare Jane Westruther look down her nose at him?

  Tomorrow, he’d move into the master apartments and damn her sensibilities. The sooner she left Lazenby Hall, the happier he’d be.

  He hissed air through his teeth. More pressing than showing her who was master here was the need to closet himself with all of Frederick’s advisers and see if something might be salvaged from this mess.

  If he had to sell Broadmere … His stride slowed. He struck his fist against his thigh. No. No, his brother should have their father’s property. George had the right. There must be another way.

  One that didn’t involve taking a prudish, opinionated Westruther to wife.

  Oh, he’d given her a good scare, telling her he hadn’t decided whether he’d fall in with her demands. The look on her face would have given him tremendous satisfaction if it hadn’t been so damned insulting to his vanity.

  And here he’d thought no one had that kind of power anymore. His father, his mother, hell, even Frederick himself, had done their worst. But she … Why should he care what she thought of him? They’d only just met!

  Typical of such a high-and-mighty lady to believe she knew what was best for Luke. Well, Constantine had been appointed the boy’s guardian and it was for him alone to decide that. He’d scarcely be discharging his duty by handing the boy over to Lady Roxdale without thoroughly investigating her first.

  In any case, if Frederick had wished Luke to remain with Lady Roxdale, why not stipulate that in his will? He must have had his reasons for excluding her. And Constantine would find out what they were.

  He’d begin by talking with the boy himself. He’d summon him in the morning, after his ride.

  As he walked the length of the corridor, Constantine heard noises from the other side of the door leading into the gallery. Who could it be at this hour? Although he guessed the time not far past eleven, he’d the impression everyone kept sober hours at the Hall.

  He opened the door, to hear the scrape and clang of steel and a grunt of effort. His brows twitched together. He moved cautiously into the room, to see the Duke of Montford fencing with another man.

  They were well matched, both highly skilled, subtle in their swordplay. The duke’s opponent had the advantage in height and reach but still, he did not have the contest all his own way.

  In another lifetime, Constantine would have challenged each of them to a bout. Now, he cleared his throat.

  There was a fencer’s command to halt and the two combatants turned to stare at him, the tips of their foils pointing to the floor.

  “Ah, Roxdale,” The Duke of Montford said.

  Constantine had thought the other man a stranger, at first. Now, he realized who it must be. He hadn’t seen Adam Trent for many years. Trent’s lands bordered Lazenby to the west. In the old days, he’d been the golden-haired child who’d told tales on Frederick and Constantine and refused to join in their mischief. By his steely-eyed glare, the idiot still held a grudge.

  Over his shoulder, the duke murmured a polite dismissal to his opponent. “Will you excuse us, Mr. Trent? Lord Roxdale and I have important matters to discuss.”

  Never taking his eyes from Constantine’s, Trent handed the duke his foil. Then he gathered up his coat and boots, bowed, and left the gallery.

  Constantine quirked a brow. “Friendly fellow, ain’t he?” He glanced at the door. “I’d no intention of depriving you of a fencing partner. I was just passing through.”

  “No matter. It grows late. That is … would you care to cross swords with me, my lord?” The duke spoke casually, but there was a note in his voice as honed and lethal as a naked blade.

  “No, thanks. I don’t fence.”

  The duke sighed as he replaced the foils in their sconces on the wall. “Such a pity that you young men seek only to fight with the most barbarous of weapons. In my day, we showed more finesse.”

  In fact, Constantine had some skill with a rapier; tonight, he simply chose not to exercise it. There was a difference, but he didn’t feel called upon to explain that to the duke. “A very sad state of affairs, indeed. You like to keep your hand in, obviously.”

  “I do.” The duke smiled as he eased his surprisingly muscular frame into his coat. “When you get to my age, it behooves one to have a care for one’s health or simply rot away. Gout, heart troubles, more, er, intimate complaints…” He smiled and waved a vague hand. “The wages of sin.”

  “You sound like a deuced parson,” said Constantine, once more wishing for that drink. First penury, then insult added to injury from the Ice Maiden, and now a moralizing duke. Could this day get any worse?

  The duke slipped his feet into his evening pumps. “A little close to the bone, perhaps? My apologies. It was not my intention to preach.”

  Unhurriedly, he tweaked his cuffs into place, a large signet ring flashing on his right hand. “We should speak of the way things have been left.” He paused. “I believe I can help you.”

  Thanks to his nocturnal tryst with the Ice Maiden, Constantine knew exactly what form the duke’s assistance would take.

  “I wasn’t aware that I needed help.”

  “Then you’re a fool.” The dark eyes lost any trace of amusement. “You don’t have the slightest inkling how much it costs per annum to run this estate, do you?”

  Constantine felt his own gaze harden. “I think I could guess.”

  Montford named sums that would have staggered Constantine if he hadn’t braced for the shock. Where the hell was h
e going to get that kind of money on top of what he owed Bronson?

  “Come to the library,” said the duke. “We’ll have a brandy and discuss the matter.”

  It wasn’t a request. Constantine wanted more than anything to remind the duke that it was his damned house and his bloody brandy, but that would sound churlish. Besides, he wanted that drink.

  As they made their way downstairs, Constantine had to curb his usual purposeful walk to match the duke’s gentlemanly saunter. “The house is in excellent repair, at least,” murmured Montford. “You won’t find a better housekeeper in all of England than Lady Roxdale.”

  Constantine repressed a grimace. Did Montford truly believe that would win him over? “A most efficient young lady,” he agreed.

  “You could do worse than let her ladyship show you the ropes around here,” the duke observed as they entered the library. “Running such a large house requires planning, tact, and, of course—”

  “Money.” Constantine walked over to the fireplace and threw himself down on a comfortable sofa, laid his arms wide across the top of it. How unsubtle could Montford be? He knew exactly where the duke headed with this, would have known it even without the forewarning from the Ice Maiden.

  “Well, yes, there is that.” The duke flipped the tails of his black coat and seated himself across from Constantine. “What do you propose to do about it?”

  Propose was exactly what he was not going to do.

  “I’m considering my options,” Constantine said coolly.

  That was not blunt enough to head off the duke’s line of argument, but it was the best he could contrive at the moment. He still reeled from the news Frederick’s pernickety solicitor had imparted to him that day. At this juncture, he couldn’t find his footing, much less engage in a complicated contredanse with a wily, matchmaking duke.

  Montford’s hooded dark eyes opened to their widest. “My dear boy. What choice do you have besides marriage?”

  Duke be damned! He didn’t have to sit here meekly and listen to this. What was Montford still doing here, anyway?

  After a moment’s silent struggle, Constantine answered pleasantly, “Perhaps you haven’t heard. I’m not exactly the marrying kind.”

  The duke smiled and settled further into his chair. What was so bloody amusing?

  Clasping his hands, Montford steepled his index fingers together and pressed them to his lips. “Vulgar as it is to speak of such matters, you need a substantial injection of funds, and quickly. You will be fully occupied with the estate, but this house is large and rambling and difficult to run. It needs a chatelaine.”

  Constantine snorted.

  Spreading his hands, the duke said, “Marry an heiress and your troubles will be over. Roxdale is an old and respected title, even if the name of Constantine Black has been damaged beyond repair. Despite young Frederick’s depredations, your lands are in good heart. Believe me, no matchmaking mama will blink at your reputation with all you have to offer.”

  A bitter taste flooded Constantine’s mouth. “Mercenary.”

  “Necessary,” Montford corrected gently. He waved a blasé hand. “It is the way of our world. You ought to marry a lady who understands the way a marriage of convenience works, and then you will be comfortable. Your, er, habits need not change at all.”

  Why was everyone alluding to his habits tonight? Bloody Westruthers. Thought they could do and say whatever they damned well pleased.

  The duke leaned forward. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “No. No, I don’t think I would.” And it was the truth, for the seething mass of fury in Constantine’s belly rose like bile to his throat.

  He fixed the duke with a glare. “Let’s make this plain between us, Your Grace, since all your dancing around the subject makes me dizzy. Under no circumstances will I marry Lady Roxdale.”

  He hadn’t even made that decision yet, but he was too angry to retract it now.

  The duke’s eyes cooled to the freezing point; his mouth hardened to a flat line of disgust. Constantine actually felt himself flush at his own boorishness. He’d always prided himself on being impervious to criticism, turning off censorial comments with a smile. Why had he allowed the duke to goad him into uttering an unforgivable insult?

  Stiffly, he said, “My apologies.”

  “Is it possible?” the duke wondered. “Can I have heard correctly?” The dark, hooded eyes widened, as if in surprise. “Could you actually suppose I’d want you for Lady Roxdale?”

  The contempt dripping from that drawling voice burned like acid in Constantine’s chest.

  “Of course not.” Constantine tugged at the lapel of his dressing gown. “I think I will have that drink, after all.”

  He launched to his feet, but the duke rose also, blocking his path. Montford was no match for his own height, but Constantine was acutely aware of a powerful presence facing him, a cold fury and an implacable will.

  So, there it was. And even as Constantine’s hand balled into a tight fist out of anger and affront, he knew Montford’s scorn was justified.

  How could he have thought for one second that his new situation in life might wipe out past sins? How could he have hoped for a fresh start? He’d rather shave off his eyebrows than wed a contrary and malignant chit who clearly thought him the Devil incarnate. Yet, it was galling to realize Montford had never, not for one moment, contemplated him as a candidate for her hand.

  The duke said, “Once you comprehend the full catastrophe of your situation, it will be tempting to grasp at the closest straw. But be advised: that course would most definitely be bad for your health.”

  Constantine drew a deep breath through his nostrils. “Speak plainly, Your Grace. I am done with your riddles.”

  In a voice soft with concealed venom, the duke said, “All right, then. Allow me to translate: lay one finger on Lady Roxdale and I’ll kill you.”

  Constantine held Montford’s gaze for a long, searching moment. Then he said, “If you don’t want me to lay more than my fingers on her, tell her to get the hell out of my house.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Your Grace,

  It has come to the notice of several members of the Ministry of Marriage that a significant prize has suddenly fluttered onto the market. Further, that this plump little pigeon resides in your particular dovecote.

  The wolves are already circling, as you might imagine, and I have been unable to locate a certain mutual acquaintance who doubtless wishes to pluck your little pigeon without further ado.

  Therefore, I must beg your presence at a meeting, soonest. The usual time and place.

  Yours, etc.

  deVere

  Jane walked into the breakfast parlor, where Rosamund and Cecily sat drinking chocolate.

  Ordinarily, Jane would have breakfasted long ago, but she was waiting for Constantine Black to return from his ride. She’d risen betimes and sent a message to his chamber to be handed to him when he woke, but he’d somehow given her the slip. In fact, he’d left his bed far earlier than any Town-idling rake could be expected to do.

  She still could not fathom how he’d managed to overset her so completely last night. There should have been no heat at all in their discussion. She’d planned a calm, detached business negotiation. Surely any reasonable man must see the advantages of the match.

  Instead, he’d made her dizzy and breathless, toppled her off balance with his ridiculously sensual presence and his suggestive taunts. She was horrified whenever she recalled her own rudeness in return. Only later did it occur to her she ought to have enacted the role of feminine compliance, sought to ingratiate herself, as most ladies in her situation would have done. Other ladies would have cooed and simpered and played the helpless damsel in distress.

  Granted, she could never lower herself that far. But why, oh why, couldn’t she learn to bite her tongue?

  Determined to repair the damage, she’d sought him out this morning. So far he’d proven elusive. But the rogue had to eat,
didn’t he? So she’d lie in wait for him here.

  “Well?” demanded Cecily. “What happened?”

  Jane threw up her hands. “The man is impossible.”

  “He won’t marry you?” said Rosamund.

  “He hasn’t decided yet.” Jane made a face. “Can you believe it?”

  “Hasn’t decided?” Cecily curled her lip. “He sounds like a wet fish to me.”

  “Wet fish” was possibly the last term Jane would use to describe Constantine Black. She shook her head. “No, I’m sure he is merely stringing out the suspense to provoke me.”

  Too late, Jane heard the pettish note in her voice. Deliberately ignoring Rosamund’s raised eyebrows, she glanced out the window. Another dismal morning outside. She’d converted this room into a breakfast parlor because of its pleasant aspect, but today there was no sun to be had. Only pewter-gray clouds and a steady patter of rain and the prospect of her interview with the duke looming before her.

  In fact, the sole bright spots on her particular horizon were Rosamund and Cecily. They looked elegant this morning in carriage dresses of the very latest mode. Jane thought of her own dark and dismal wardrobe and sighed.

  The significance of her cousins’ attire suddenly occurred to her. “Oh, no! Are you leaving us?” She’d not realized they’d be gone so soon.

  Rosamund touched her lips with a napkin. “Yes, it appears so. His Grace has urgent business in London and insists on escorting us there at once. Beckenham travels with us as far as Oxford.” She stretched her hand out across the table as if to reach for Jane’s. “I’m so sorry we couldn’t stay longer.”

  “But you just arrived!” said Jane. “Why won’t he let you stay?”

  “I’ll wager he doesn’t trust Lord Roxdale around Rosamund,” said Cecily, her dark eyes dancing over the brim of her teacup. “I wish I may at least see the bad baron before we go. Tell me, Jane. Did you find him handsome?”

  Constantine Black was easily the most splendid piece of manhood she’d seen in her life, but she’d rather die than say so. “Moderately handsome,” she allowed. “But immoderately obnoxious. I can’t deal with him at all.”