"Try to think about the wonderful adventure that awaits you, Breanna. First, of course, you will travel to London, where you will meet the Marquess and be fitted for your trousseau. Then you will be going to Weatherford Hall in Cornwall. It is one of the largest and most impressive estates in Great Britain. I am told that the house is extraordinary, as are the farms and villages that surround it."
Breanna remembered the time last winter when she had come upon a rabbit that had been caught in a trap. The snow surrounding the trap had been bloody because the poor creature was tugging and pulling, trying to extricate itself from the trap. Breanna had quickly released the poor animal, but shortly thereafter it had died. She now knew how that rabbit must have felt, because she was in a trap and there was no escape. Her fate was sealed. How could she think of being a wife to a man she had never met — a man who in all probability could not even speak her language. Was this some nightmare that she would awaken from? She felt the trap closing around her tighter and tighter.
"Is there anything more that you haven't told me, Sophie? I prefer to hear everything here and now. I don't want any more surprises."
"There is one other th—thing." Sophie stuttered. "You are to be married by proxy once you reach London."
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"The Marquess has insisted that you and his grandson be married with all haste. I believe his grandson will be married to you as soon as the ship bringing him to England clears American waters."
"Then the wedding will not be valid?"
"I can assure you it will be. The Marquess will have someone to stand in for his grandson. The marriage will be lawful; however, there will be a more formal ceremony after you and the Marquess's grandson arrive at Weatherford Hall. Apparently the Marquess wants no doubt in anyone's mind that the marriage is legal and binding."
"I do not understand why the Marquess has chosen me for his grandson."
"The way the solicitor explained it, the Marquess wanted a woman from a good family, who had not been to Court and corrupted by frivolous ways."
Now an angry sparkle shone in Breanna's eyes. "What he meant was he could not find a woman of good breeding whose family would sell her to a savage." Breanna shook her head, unable to understand the web that was closing in around her. With a sob building up from deep inside, she ran from the room and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she could be alone.
Sophie wished she had the words to comfort Breanna. With a steady gaze, she left the morning room in search of her husband. She would try one more time to dissuade Fielding from this folly, but she knew she would have no effect on his decision. He had convinced himself that he was doing what was best for his sister. In reality Breanna had been sold the Marquess, and there was nothing Sophie could do to stop the marriage. Breanna had been right in her assessment of her predicament—she was being used as a chattel by her brother as well as by the Marquess.
Breanna's heart was shattered, and she was feeling very alone and frightened. There was no one to turn to, no one who would sympathize with her plight. Her life had taken an unexpected twist, and there was nothing she could do to free herself. When she entered her bedroom, she threw herself onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. She may have been sold to some savage, but the man would never crush her spirit. She shivered, feeling the hopelessness of her situation.
5
The coach jostled over the rough roads as Breanna stared out the window at the passing scenery. Her brother, uncomfortable and ill-at-ease, sat beside her, avoiding eye contact. She was still too hurt and angry to make it easy for Fielding, and she hoped his conscience was bothering him for his blatant disregard for her welfare. How could her own brother have sacrificed her for money?
"Breanna," Fielding said at last. "We are but an hour from London. I need to explain some things to you."
She turned to meet his eyes, which were golden in color, like her own. Breanna had once thought Fielding had all the charm in the family, but she had not found him charming for a very long time. His eyes were dull and red-rimmed from indulging in too much rum. His complexion was blotchy. Now his hand shook as he held it out to her.
She ignored his hand, so he stuffed it in his pocket. "You have nothing to say that I want to hear, Fielding."
Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. "Right now, I do hot even want to be in this coach with you."
He cleared his throat nervously. "Now, Breanna, you are taking entirely the wrong attitude. Deciding about your future has weighed heavily on me for several years. It was a tremendous responsibility to me. Whether you believe it or not, I have set your future on a firm foundation."
"No, what you have done is to cast me aside, and in doing so, have made your own future more assured. But rest easy in your mind, for I am no longer your responsibility."
Fielding's eyes shifted away from her steady gaze. "You are an ungrateful chit, Breanna. I don't know why you are acting this way. I hope that with the passing of time, you will be thanking me for making this advantageous match on your behalf. You cannot possibly conceive the power" you will wield once the old Marquess dies and you become the Marchioness of Weatherford."
She ran her gloved hand down the frayed seam of her gray velvet traveling gown, hating this rift between her and Fielding. 'You will pardon me if I don't show my appreciation, but you see, I am fresh out of gratitude. Perhaps with the passing of time, your conscience will bother you less, and you will be able to forgive yourself for what you have done to me—but I shan't."
Fielding's jaw tightened. He was angry because she was making him feel guilty. "Well, missy, whether or not you approve of the plans I have made for your future, you will never have to worry about money. You will never have creditors knocking at your front door.
With my agreeing to this marriage, I have assured you of wealth beyond your wildest dreams."
"Yes, and you have managed to profit also, have you not?" she asked accusingly, her words laced with sarcasm.
He reached forward and gripped her hand. "Breanna, you are my sister. Let us put these bitter feelings aside."
Tender feelings tugged at her heart, and she could see some of his old charm shining through his smile. "Yes, I am your sister, and that is why you have wounded me so deeply. Did you think this arrangement would bring me everlasting happiness?"
His eyes cleared. "Wealth can go a long way toward taking the edge off your unhappiness. I have been both poor and well off, and I can assure you I prefer the latter. I really do believe that this marriage will be best for you in the end, or I never would have given my consent."
She shook her head. "How can you believe that? I am to be married to a... words escape me... I don't know what I will be married to!"
His hold on her hand tightened. "Listen to me, Breanna. You only have to stay with this man until you beget a son. After that, you can go your own way, and he can go his, and you will never have to worry about finances."
"Has it occurred to you that I might not be driven by the same obsession with money that you have? I always thought the man I married . . . I always hoped . . ." She tried to steady her voice. "I cannot bear to think of . . . of this stranger . . . this savage touching me."
Fielding seemed completely indifferent to her apprehension and dismissed it with a shrug. "As I see it, you will only have to endure this man's presence for a few weeks, several months at the most. Then you are free to do as you choose." He looked uncomfortable again. "I hope Sophie talked to you about your marital duties. You will be expected to produce an heir."
Her golden eyes flashed. "Will you receive any money if I produce a daughter?"
He did not reply, but stared out the window—what could he say? The solicitor had made some remark about the Marquess's generosity, but only if his sister produced a son.
By now they were entering London and Breanna stared out the window. She had never been to London, and under other circumstances would have enjoyed the sights and sounds around her. "What is our
destination, Fielding?" she asked at last, not that it really mattered. Nothing mattered now.
"You will be staying at the Remington townhouse, which I understand is most impressive."
"Is this where I am to meet . . . the Marquess's grandson?"
"No, but you will be married to him by proxy tomorrow. While you are staying at the townhouse, you will be fitted with clothing appropriate to your new position." Fielding's eyes were now bright with enthusiasm. "Think of it, you have but to say what you want, and it is to be given you."
"What I want is to go home."
His lips twitched nervously. "Hardly a request that will be granted. I hope you will not embarrass me by being discourteous to the Marquess and ungrateful for all his generosity. Consider our family honor before you say anything you may later regret."
"Our family has no honor" she stated flatly.
Fielding's face whitened. "Make no mistake about it, Breanna, the Kenton name is still respected in England, which was one of the reasons the Marquess chose you for his grandson's bride. If he is displeased with you, he could still find another to take your place."
Breanna understood Fielding's concern. He was afraid that she would displease the Marquess and he would send her packing and insist that Fielding return the money that had been advanced to him. "Have no worry on my account. As distasteful as it is, I shall honor your agreement. But I want it understood that I do this for Sophie and the children. My only hope is that you will not squander the thirty pieces of silver you received for selling your own sister."
His eyes sparked with anger. "You go too far, Breanna. Remember this one thing: If the Marquess tosses you out on your ear, don't come crying to me."
She sighed heavily, knowing it was useless to argue with Fielding. She remembered how her brother had been her childhood hero—how she had always admired and loved him then. Her respect for him had lessened as she had grown older and become aware of his selfishness. Too many times she had seen Sophie with tears in her eyes because of Fielding's shortcomings as a husband and provider.
"I can promise you this, Fielding, I will never again live with you —not after what you have done to me."
His features were grim. "Now we begin to understand one another. Listen to me, because we are almost there, and I have a few things that I want to explain to you."
She stared straight ahead. "Such as?"
"I want to tell you something about the old Marquess so you will have some notion of the kind of man you will be dealing with."
"I am not marrying the grandfather."
"No, but you may as well know he is the one who will be ruling your life until you give him a great-grandson."
She became resigned. "All right, Fielding, tell me about the formidable Marquess of Weatherford."
"First of all, he is not a well man, and from what I understand, he is confined to his room most of the time. He has been a recluse for some years, and it is said that the driving ambition in his life is to have an heir to survive him. Give him that heir, Breanna, and he will deny you nothing."
"Have you ever met him?"
"No. He sees no one." Fielding reached for Breanna's hand, but she jerked it away from him. With sadness etched on his face, he realized that he probably merited his sister's scorn. "As you wish, Breanna. Perhaps the time will come when you will look on me with a little more tolerance."
Before she could answer, the coach turned through an iron gateway which led to a circular, tree-lined driveway. In a flurry of activity, the carriage door was wrenched open and several liveried servants lined the steps leading to the huge double doors. A footman bowed before Breanna and offered his arm. "I am instructed to welcome you, my lady," he said with a warm smile of greeting.
After Breanna stepped to the ground, she noticed that her brother made no attempt to follow suit. Her eyes were wide and questioning when she looked into his.
"One of the Marquess's stipulations was that I was not to accompany you any further than the front door. You see how it is, Breanna?"
Suddenly, she felt more alone and frightened than she ever had in her life. Even though she was angry with her brother, his presence had lent her a degree of comfort. "Will you abandon me completely?" she asked, shivering at the thought of facing the Marquess alone.
"I must," he replied, leaning forward and closing the carriage door. "As I said, that was the agreement. Just remember that you are a Kenton and don't allow anyone to intimidate you, Breanna." With those parting words, Fielding tapped his cane on the roof, signaling to the coachman to drive on.
Breanna stared after the departing coach, knowing she had just been deposited in a world where she would have to fend for herself. Feeling the servants' curious stares, she raised her chin and faced the twenty steps that would take her up to the front door. Her whole future awaited her on the other side of that door, and she trembled in fear at what she might find there. She recalled her brother's words, and oddly enough, they did give her courage. Yes, she was a Kenton, and she would face her adversary with dignity and pride in who she was. No one would make her cower in a corner, not the Marquess, and certainly not the unknown man who was to be her husband.
From the top of the steps there appeared an elderly woman whom Breanna decided must be the head housekeeper. With a disdainful glance at Breanna's threadbare appearance, the woman smiled tightly. "I am the housekeeper, Mrs. Crowder. The Marquess has asked that you be brought to him immediately upon arrival."
Breanna was oblivious to her surroundings as she was ushered up twisting stairs to the second floor. She was vaguely aware that the huge green vase she passed was from the Ming Dynasty, and that the paintings on the wall were masterpieces, finer than any that had hung at Kenton, even in its more prosperous days. When Mrs. Crowder stopped before a door, Breanna was overcome with dread. She was about to meet the great man himself, and she hoped she could hold her own with him. Something told her that if she did not establish her independence on this first meeting, she would be lost forever.
The housekeeper opened the door and stepped back so Breanna could precede her inside. Breanna's nostrils were immediately assaulted with the nauseating smell of strong medicines and other unidentifiable sickroom odors. The room was so stuffy that Breanna could scarcely breathe. She could see no more than a vague outline of the man who was reclined on a big mahogany canopy bed. Even so, she felt her confidence evaporate at the thought of meeting him.
"Lady Breanna Kenton, my lord," the housekeeper announced without warmth or feeling.
"Come closer, girl," a raspy voice ordered with irritation. "Why do you dawdle in the middle of the room?"
Breanna took as many hesitant steps as it required to bring her before the white-haired gentleman. At first, until her eyes became accustomed to the shadows cast by the hanging canopy, all Breanna could see was a gnarled hand, one finger circled with a crested ring. "Closer, girl. How can I see you when you hang back like a frightened rabbit? I want to find out if I got my money's worth in you."
His whole manner incensed Breanna. She did not appreciate his high-handed, insulting attitude. "You will find, my lord, when you come to know me better, that I in no way resemble a frightened rabbit. As to whether or not you got your money's worth, you will have to judge that for yourself."
There was silence as the gnarled hand reached out and lit a candle on the bedside table. The candle glow chased the darkened shadows away, and her eyes met with the lightest blue eyes she had ever seen. Bushy eyebrows arched over a wide nose. The Marquess's cheeks were sunken, and his pallor had a yellow cast to it, leaving little doubt in Breanna's mind that Lord Quincy was seriously ill. Steely blue eyes ran over her from the tip of her red-gold curls to the toe of her worn black slippers.
"I take it from your tone of voice that you are not happy about the arrangement between your brother and myself."
She gave a proud toss of her head. "That's correct."
"Did your brother tell you about the wealth I will bestow on y
ou?"”
"Yes," she said dully, staring into his probing eyes. "If you think to impress me with your wealth, you are wasting your time and mine."
He snorted. "I was told you were a beauty, but I've seen prettier than you. I can't say much for your manners. You are not as easily humbled as your brother was."
"I'm glad you realize that at the onset, because it will save us both a lot of time." She tossed her red-gold mane. "While we are on the subject of what we have been told about one another, I must point out that I was informed you would be unreasonable and domineering. I find that was not an exaggeration," she countered.
Crackling laughter filled the room until it turned into a spasm of coughing. After the Marquess caught his breath, he motioned for Breanna to seat herself near his bed. She obeyed, demurely tucking her hands in her lap.
"I'm glad you aren't one of those silly women who cringe every time a man speaks sharply to them." His eyes bored into her as if he were assessing her hidden qualities. "You could be really incomparable with the right finery. I never cared much for redheaded women, but your hair wouldn't be too bad if it was fashionably dressed. Your skin's nice. I don't know about the rest of you since you are covered with that hideous gown that a scullery maid wouldn't be caught dead wearing."
For the first time, Breanna smiled. "It's your fault, my lord, if you do not like what you see. One should never buy anything without first judging its merit for oneself. It would serve you right if you find me unacceptable."
There was no mistaking the amusement in the old man's eyes. "I know more about you than you know about yourself, Breanna Kenton. I had my solicitor look long and hard before I decided that you had the perfect qualities to be my grandson's bride."
Dakota Dreams (Historical Romance) Page 6