by Lauren Smith
“And you have men agreeing to purchase a bride?” Lachlan never thought to meet a man willing to give a fortune to a wife when the law allowed husbands to claim their wives’ property. Lachlan wasn’t one to marry for monetary gain, but he knew many men did.
“You’d be surprised. Not every man is as jaded as you about love, old friend. Some are quite happy to find a sweet young woman to marry so that they might make a good life together. Now…” Stirling paused as the boy returned with their brandy on a tray. Once he departed, Stirling said, “Now, would you consider coming and bidding on the woman?”
“Bid on a bride? You want me to buy a woman? God’s teeth, Stirling, I have no wish to marry yet. Besides, I have no need to buy a wife, you know that.” Mere weeks after William’s death, women were seeking invitations to visit him in Scotland. Half of the English ton wanted to traipse across his threshold, invade his life and disturb his grief, all for the chance of leg-shackling the newest Earl of Huntley.
Stirling sipped his brandy, eyeing Lachlan thoughtfully. “I remember all too well your wilder days, but with William gone, a wife might ease some of your burden.”
Lachlan frowned and swirled the contents of his glass.
His friend’s eyes narrowed. “You know I didn’t mean it that way.”
They drank in silence for a moment before Stirling shrugged off the tension and smiled. “I thought you might be interested in knowing that the young lady is Daphne Westfall. She’s very beautiful and quite sweet. I was hoping you would at least consider meeting her.”
Westfall...
The name hit him like a blow to the gut...a name carved in blood upon his heart. On the study table near his brother’s body had been a letter that explained the shame and responsibility William felt over his dealings with the notorious counterfeiter Sir Richard Westfall. The Huntley title and lands had survived the fallout from Westfall’s forgeries, but William had never been one to withstand the loss of honor.
“Westfall?” Lachlan’s mouth ran dry at the name. “She wouldn’t happen to be Sir Richard’s daughter, would she? The man convicted of counterfeiting bank notes?”
Stirling gave a slow nod. “Indeed, she is. Do you know her?”
Lachlan had never shared the contents of the letter with anyone, not even his mother.
“No, but I hear she is a nice lass, despite her father’s crimes.”
He’d heard no such thing. Hadn’t even known the old bastard had a child. But the revenge he never thought he’d get for William might now wait within reach.
“So, you’ll come? I promised Miss Westfall I would bring good, decent men to bid on her. She’s fallen on hard times, and a good match would secure her future.”
Lachlan composed his features into a polite show of interest. “Of course. I’d be happy to meet the lass and bid on her.”
James grinned. “Marriage will suit you well. I had a feeling it would take only a nudge.”
With a grim smile, Lachlan agreed. Sir Richard was in prison for his crimes, and so would his daughter endure a prison of another sort.
She was going to marry him, and spend the rest of her life paying for her father’s crimes by forgoing the rich trappings that her father’s forgeries had given her. She would learn to live with no frivolity, no joy, no love…nothing.
Just as he was condemned to live without his brother.
We can suffer together.
***
Daphne felt like an imposter in the blue gown that Stirling had given her. He’d insisted she keep it, but she’d promised she would find a way to return it once she had new clothes of her own. Fear turned her mouth bitter as she tried not to think about her future after tonight, and she reached instinctively for the pearls in the pocket of her new gown.
As she entered the drawing room of Stirling James’s townhouse, she reminded herself that this was the safest option remaining. If she secured a husband tonight, she would avoid the brothel and not go hungry again.
A group of seven men stood by the fire, all talking quietly to one another. When she cleared her throat, they turned as one, each instantly assessing her. She folded her hands in front of her to control their shaking as she endured their speculative perusals.
She’d never thought much of how brood mares felt when being sold at Tattersals, but now she felt quite sorry for the creatures.
“Gentlemen, may I present Miss Daphne Westfall?” Stirling approached, lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed her gloved fingers. “Are you all right, my dear?” he whispered.
“Yes, I just feel a little…” Her trembling hand said what she could not. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
“They are good men and will treat you fairly.”
“Thank you,” she said. She meant it. Stirling had saved her from the streets and she would never be able to repay his kindness.
“Good. I will introduce you to each man. They will place their bids in their envelopes. The highest bidder will return and we will sign the contracts. This will secure your monetary assets.”
Daphne’s throat constricted. She still couldn’t believe she was really doing this, meeting with men in hopes that they would want to marry her. How was this different from prostituting herself? At least, she shared her body with only one man, and she didn’t live with the shame of a brothel address.
“Gentlemen, please form a line so I may make your introductions to Miss Westfall.”
The men formed a queue, and one by one she was presented to each. They were all charming, friendly, and genuine. With each introduction, she grew more relieved. She had a minute or two to speak with them and found she liked each one. Stirling had kept his promise.
The last man who approached her was different. She had to tilt her head back to see his face. He was incredibly tall, with broad shoulders. She felt tiny in his presence. He was a little more muscular than the others and a bit intimidating. She almost retreated a step, if only to see his face better.
“Miss Westfall, this is Lachlan Grant, the Earl of Huntley.”
“It is a pleasure,” Lachlan’s deep voice was heavy with a Scottish brogue.
“My Lord,” she replied, staring into his dark blue eyes. They were a lovely deep sapphire, yet a strange gleam flashed in their depths and then vanished behind a polite smile. Had she merely imagined that? Perhaps so. She had heard more than once that Scotsmen tended to be brooding and intense, and it seemed Huntley was no different.
“You’re from Scotland? Whereabouts, if I may ask?”
“The town of Huntley is a half day’s ride north of Edinburgh.” His eyes remained locked on her with an almost predatory gaze. She shivered, trying to think of how to continue their conversation and draw out more of his personality.
“I’ve never been north of Edinburgh. I imagine it must be lovely.”
There it was, a momentary softening of his eyes and mouth. “Aye, ’tis stunning, especially in the spring when the heather blooms.”
“Would we live there most of the year, if your bid is successful?” It was something she asked of each gentleman. She needed a home, a place she could feel safe, a place to escape the judgment of the ton for her father’s crimes.
“We would. I only visit London once or twice a year. Would that suit you?” he asked.
“Yes, whatever you do will be fine for me, I’m quite sure.” A home in the Highlands…she loved the idea, but she wasn’t sure she was ready to marry someone as serious and brooding as the man who stood before her.
“Now,” Stirling smiled at the men. “Place your bids, and then please wait outside.” Several of the men offered Daphne warm, hopeful smiles before writing down their bids and sealing their envelopes.
Daphne’s gaze was drawn to Lachlan as he scratched his numbers on the bit of paper he held. His eyes met hers and a bolt of shock ran through her as if she were owned by him in that instant. The sensation frightened her and yet she couldn’t look away from him even as he placed his envelope on Stirling’s palm and
strode from the room.
The final men handed their envelopes to Stirling before leaving the room. After the last man left, Stirling and his manservant, Finchley, opened the bids. Daphne watched them rearrange the pieces of paper in order as the higher bids moved to the top. Her heart pounded so hard against her ribs that she had trouble breathing. Which of the strangers was to be her husband?
“Ahh, here we are.” Stirling glanced her way. “We have our winner. I shall thank the others and send them home.” Stirling exited the room. The click of the door sounded far too loud in the awkward silence. Daphne clutched the edge of a chair for support, her nails digging into the floral pattern of the fabric as she struggled to calm herself.
The door opened and Daphne sucked in a breath. Sir Stirling entered, followed by the Earl of Huntley. Once again, she became the focus of that brooding gaze. Wasn’t he pleased to have been the highest bidder? The tight purse of his lips suggested otherwise. A pit formed in her stomach and she struggled to breathe. She was to marry him…the man who spoke of Highland heather in the spring, but who looked like a wolf about to devour her. Which was his true nature? Perhaps he was a man torn between his duality of nature. Perhaps she might never know the real Lachlan Grant.
Stirling approached her while Huntley waited inside the door, hands folded behind his back like a military general.
Oh dear…
“Miss Westfall, Lord Huntley was by far the highest bidder at fifteen thousand pounds, which he has agreed to place into an account where the trustee of your choice will oversee the funds for you.”
Daphne barely listened. Instead, she stared at Huntley and he at her. A slow smile curved his lips. It was not a cruel smile, no, but it warned her that she was pledging herself to a wolf. She was tempted to look away, to yield to that dominating stare, but she held her ground and lifted her chin.
Yet her instincts warned her to run far and fast from Lord Huntley.
“Sir… Stirling, may I have a minute to speak with you?” she asked, her voice wavering. Huntley shared a look with Stirling before he nodded and left the room.
Stirling approached, concern in his eyes. “You’re trembling. Are you all right?”
“Lord Huntley, is he a good man? You promise that I’m safe with him?”
“I promise,” Stirling vowed. “Huntley is a long-time friend. I would trust him with my life. He’s rich and has excellent lands—”
“I don’t care about that. I care about him. Is he the sort of man to care for his wife? Not…harm her?” She bravely forced the question out, even knowing it was not polite to speak of such matters.
“He’s never harmed a woman. If he seems a bit cold, it’s because his older brother, William, died only two months ago. He was close to William. His brother’s death changed him, hardened him in some ways. But I promise you, he is a good man.”
She saw only honesty in Stirling’s eyes and she trusted that more than anything else. “Very well then, I agree to marry him.”
“Good.” Stirling then called for Huntley, who reentered the room. They assembled about the card table, where Finchley laid out several documents.
“Here’s the trust agreement, Huntley. I filled out the forms with the amount you bid. All you need do is sign, as will Miss Westfall. Finchley and I will witness the contracts to assure they are binding.”
Daphne watched Huntley bend over the table and scrawl his name before he straightened and held the quill out to her. She accepted it, her gloved fingers brushing his. A spark of heat flared between them, and just as quickly vanished. Huntley’s eyes darted away as he stepped back. She leaned over the table and penned her own name.
“Excellent. Huntley, you can collect Miss Westfall tomorrow after you have procured a special license.”
“Actually, I would like to marry in Scotland, unless the lady objects.” Huntley looked to Daphne.
“Marry in Scotland?” Daphne had to force strength into her voice. She hadn’t expected to leave so soon.
There’s nothing to tie you here, not anymore.
“Aye, there’s a little church not far from Huntley Castle. It’s tradition for the men of the Grant family to marry there.”
“Oh… I suppose that would be all right.” She had no friends left in London, none that would be seen with her. She had no real reason to stay here. In fact, it was quite possible that if word got out about her wedding, the victims of her father would come to the church and make trouble on her wedding day.
“We are agreed then?” Huntley asked. His blue eyes seemed to swallow her whole.
“Yes.” With that single word, she felt she sealed a bargain with the devil. A most handsome, intimidating devil...
“The paperwork is all in order,” Stirling said. “Anyone care for a glass of sherry to celebrate?”
Huntley shook his head. “Not tonight, old friend. I have a wedding to prepare for.”
Stirling turned to Daphne. “What about you? Sherry, my dear?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered. She needed a drink.
Huntley approached, grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met and held once again.
“Tomorrow,” he promised softly.
“Tomorrow,” she echoed. Then with a kiss to her knuckles that left her body burning with a strange sensation, he left the room.
Daphne watched him go, wondering if what she had agreed to would save her or damn her.
Chapter Three
Lachlan climbed out of his coach the following morning, stretched his legs, and climbed the steps of Stirling’s townhouse. He paused at the door, holding his breath for a moment. The moment he went inside, his life would change forever. He knew that he could turn and run from this, change his mind about his plans, yet he didn’t. Every emotion that had raged the night before was now locked away in a dark corner of his mind. Instead of focusing on his brother’s death and the man responsible, he focused instead on the woman, Daphne, the bastard’s daughter.
When he stood there in the drawing room the night before, as nervous as the other men, he had hated himself for showing such weakness. And then she had entered, a tiny creature with soft curves, dark hair and warm brown eyes. She had been as timid as a dormouse, her eyes as round as saucers as she’d gone through the introductions. Missing was the spoiled hellion he had expected from a man like Sir Richard Westfall.
He wanted to despise her on sight and rally his vengeance, but it hadn’t been easy to hate her. He had managed it, but only just.
Lachlan growled in frustration as he rapped the knocker of the door. A moment later, a butler answered.
“I’m here for Miss Westfall,” he announced. The butler nodded and opened the door wider, allowing him to step into the vestibule.
“Ahh. There you are, Huntley!” Stirling descended the stairs, Miss Westfall at his side. She wore a soft green carriage gown with a blue satin sash around her waist. The colors emphasized her dark hair and alabaster skin. Lachlan clenched his teeth as his body responded to her subtle beauty. He did not want to desire this woman, but perhaps he could allow himself that one weakness. She would be his wife, after all, and he did plan to beget heirs upon her. It was his duty now, and hers as his wife.
“Stirling,” Lachlan greeted his friend with more warmth than he felt for Miss Westfall.
Her eyes were downcast, her lips parted, and for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a woman beaten down, her spirit already broken. That was what he had wished for, wasn’t it? A broken woman? Yet he’d wanted to break her himself, not collect the pieces with pity.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked her. “I suppose you have quite a few clothes and other possessions to take with you.”
At this, she raised her eyes and he saw sorrow in their honey brown depths.
“I have none. Even this gown is borrowed.” She plucked at the skirts, revealing two dainty black boots.
“Borrowed?” he echoed with shock. How was it she had no clothes, no possessions? Surel
y that damned criminal of a father had left her plenty to live on.
“Yes. I… I thought you understood the circumstances I was in, my lord. I would not have agreed to the auction otherwise.”
Lachlan was left speechless, until his friend gave a short cough.
“Er… Huntley, might I have a word with you?” Stirling jerked his head toward the door and released Miss Westfall’s arm so he and Lachlan could talk in private.
“What is the meaning of this? Where are her clothes?” Lachlan growled. He had no desire to buy anything for the woman. His entire plan of revenge called for doing the exact opposite, allowing her barely enough to survive.
“Huntley, I didn’t want to mention this, since it seems to be a delicate matter, but the reason I held the auction was to get the poor woman off the streets.”
“The streets?” Miss Westfall had been selling her body to survive? “You promised me a bride, not a trollop.”
Stirling’s eyes flashed dangerously. “She isn’t one. She was, I suspect, considering the possibility when I came across her. She was standing in an alley, scrambling for coins tossed her way. Do you have any idea what she must have gone through? A gentle born lady left begging for scraps?”
The pain in Stirling’s eyes was genuine, and Lachlan wondered how bad off Miss Westfall really was. He glanced over his shoulder at his future bride, who stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes once more downcast, one hand tucked in the pocket of her gown.
“You must take care of her. I know that William’s death has been hard on you, but perhaps this marriage will heal you--heal you both.”
Heal him? Nothing could mend the bleeding bits of his tattered heart. William’s loss had left a gaping hole inside him, and nothing and no one could ever fill that.
Lachlan turned and walked past Miss Westfall toward the door. “We should be going. We have a long journey ahead of us.”
She looked up at his approach, and for a second he saw hope in her eyes, calling to him, but he smashed down the urge to respond in kind.