To Marry an Heiress

by Lorraine Heath

  Of late, as his world was crumbling around him, he could count on the mortar remaining, providing him with the means to rebuild. He honored the rules she despised, because they provided constancy in an ever-changing world.

  He glanced at his wife. With her hat poised at a jaunty angle, her back straight, her riding crop in hand as she properly sat her horse, she appeared to be a woman who easily fitted into his society. Further proof that looks could be deceiving.

  He himself still looked to be a lord, although he’d tumbled off the pedestal long ago. Marriage to her was supposed to have helped him clamber back on. Instead he’d fallen farther down.

  Nothing to be done about it now except to make the best of it. Although he hadn’t a clue how he was going to manage that feat.

  He watched as joy lit her eyes, and he realized it was that specific emotion that had caused him to turn his attention to her. He’d wanted to witness her expression when she first saw the village that had served his family’s estate for generations.

  “Is that the village?” she asked.

  “Yes. Farmingham.”

  Grinning, she looked at him. “The houses are pink.”

  “Since medieval times, pink has been the preferred color for half-timbered buildings.”

  “Half-timbered?”

  How differently she pronounced “half,” harshly, as though someone had asked her to stick out her tongue and make some retched sound.

  “They split logs in half and use them to form the frame for the houses.”

  “The village is quaint.”

  “Quite so. It’s a peaceful place. You’ll be quite safe coming here on your own. You should find a dressmaker, shoemaker, blacksmith, butcher, just about anything you might desire. Whenever possible, I prefer to support the villagers rather than the merchants in London. I would ask that you not purchase excessively. They keep a tally of our purchases, and I make payment at the end of the month. None of these people is in a position to wait long for debts to be settled.”

  “I’d hardly call myself extravagant.”

  Ah, he’d managed to offend her, if her tone of voice and the narrowing of her eyes into darkened slits were any indication.

  “I meant no offense. I simply have no desire for these good people to suffer because I am not currently in a position to make good on all debts.”

  She studied him thoughtfully. “Are you here today to make payments?”

  “Yes. Winston and Mrs. Cooper, the cook, made purchases for Huntingdon in my absence. I’m here to settle the accounts.”

  “I see.” She glanced back toward the village. “I think I’d like to take a walk here.”

  Georgina had never felt comfortable in London, teeming with its people and conveyances. If the noise wasn’t bombarding her, a putrid odor was. She never felt clean.

  But here. Dear Lord, she thought she could easily fall in love with this place. The shops were small, beckoning, and the people were friendly. Word had quickly spread that she was “her ladyship.”

  “Ever so glad to see his lordship has taken a new wife,” the butcher’s wife had said. “High time, if you ask me, him bein’ the good man that he is.”

  Unfortunately she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did you know the first Lady Huntingdon?”

  “Ah, that I did. Lovely woman. Absolutely lovely. And his lordship adored her.”

  Of course he had. Affirmation of his regard for his former wife was not exactly what she wished to hear. The woman was apparently perfect.

  Georgina tried not to wonder how she might compare to Devon’s former wife, and yet she could not help but feel inferior.

  Comments made by others as she passed their shops reinforced her opinion that her husband was well liked by these people. As Margaret had been. She’d apparently purchased an abundance of items from them, which, considering their financial situation, had surprised Georgina. She would have expected the woman to show restraint, especially in light of Devon’s earlier admonishment that she not spend excessively.

  Perhaps he felt that rule did not apply to a woman he loved. She hated harboring the unkind thought about him or his deceased wife. Yet she could not see him taking his Margaret to task regarding any matter.

  He’d excused himself to take care of his business, leaving her to wander the streets, peer into the shops. She’d been with him when he’d made payment at the butcher’s, whom he called by name. He seemed to know everyone’s name.

  She didn’t mean to spy on him, but he stood out, dressed in his frock coat with his top hat. A gentleman. His lordship. Lord Huntingdon. Her husband.

  She couldn’t help but feel proud watching him. He cut an exceptional figure whenever he stopped and spoke to one of the villagers. He never smiled but always appeared incredibly serious, as though his worries were many.

  Her little vegetable garden wasn’t going to do much to hoist his burden.

  She watched, mesmerized, as he strode toward her, tugging on his gloves as though he’d removed them, though she knew he hadn’t.

  “I’m finished here,” he said as soon as he reached her. “Are you ready to return to the manor?”

  “Yes.”

  He extended his arm, and they strolled toward the blacksmith’s, where they’d left their horses tethered earlier.

  “I noticed several straw objects decorating windows, hanging over doors—cornucopias, dolls, horseshoes—do they have some meaning to the villagers?” she asked.

  “How astute you are, countess. They’re corn dollies. The villagers weave them out of straw to preserve the spirit of the corn and ensure a good crop next year.”

  “They grow corn around here?”

  He gave her a wry grin. “Wheat and barley.”

  “Then where does the spirit of the corn come from?”

  “When we refer to corn, we’re discussing all grains.”

  “When I think of corn, I think of ears of corn.”

  “We don’t grow your American corn here.”

  “Your tenants, then, those that farm, they grow wheat and barley?”

  “Yes. Another month, and they’ll be harvesting it.”

  “And then?”

  “They’ll begin preparing the soil for next year’s crops. It’s a constant cycle.”

  “For a man of leisure, you seem to know a lot about the process.”

  He gave her a pointed look. “I daresay I have discovered that one can gather an abundance of information while engaged in a casual morning ride. I should think you could attest to the same experience. Besides, I have years of watching tenants toil in the fields. I’ve managed to acquire a bit of knowledge regarding their labors.”

  Devon slipped his watch from his pocket, snapped open the cover, which bore his family’s crest, and glared at the time: seven-thirty. Dinner was to be served precisely at seven.

  He vividly recalled explaining that fact to his wife the day before. He scraped his chair back from the table, and the servant who had been standing at the ready to begin serving the meal flinched.

  “Give me a moment to locate Lady Huntingdon, and then we shall begin.”

  He fought to walk calmly from the room. He hadn’t seen Georgina since they’d returned from the village. He was hesitant to admit how much he’d welcomed her company. Although they’d spoken little, he’d still managed to find some comfort in her presence.

  How different she’d appeared on horseback then. She’d been poised and confident. While she might not have known her way around a ballroom, she was comfortable around horses and the villagers. Her interest in the people was apparent. She never looked down her nose at anyone as Margaret had been prone to do.

  Although he had to admit that she’d been equally confident with a dust rag in her hand. He still couldn’t quite get over the fact that she’d been instructing his children in the art of cleaning.

  In truth his children were not her responsibility. That they seemed to have taken an instant liking to her was understandable. They we
re children, eager to open their arms to affection, and Gina certainly seemed to have a penchant for bestowing affection. She was more giving than he cared to recognize.

  He strode into the hallway, where Winston suddenly appeared. Thank God, someone in this household could be relied upon. “Winston, have you any notion where I might find my wife?”

  “Yes, milord. She is dining this evening with the children in the day nursery.”

  He couldn’t have heard correctly. He cocked his head. “Pardon?”

  “Indeed, milord. I assumed her ladyship had discussed this change of plans with you and received your permission to dine with the children.”

  Winston had been in Devon’s service too long to let on that he realized Devon had no earthly idea what his wife’s plans were. “You’re quite right. I seem to recall that indeed she did.”

  “As I thought, milord. With all the burdens you carry, it is little wonder you are not more forgetful.”

  “I shall just…” He considered returning to the dining room to eat alone, but he had done that for the past three years. Solitary meals with his own thoughts echoing through his mind served as his only distraction.

  It was not that he enjoyed dining with his wife, with her outrageous ideas concerning what was proper. It was that he preferred company, and as she was the only one available, then she needed to make herself available to him, not the children.

  He realized Winston stood at attention, patiently waiting for him to finish debating his course of action. By God, if his wife wished to dine with the children, she could jolly well eat two meals then, because he wasn’t dining alone.

  If she couldn’t provide him with money, she could provide him with conversation.

  Taking them two at a time, he bounded up the stairs. He was completely unprepared for the sight that greeted him when he walked into the day nursery.

  His children sat in small chairs at a short table. Gina also sat there, her knees close to touching her chest, as she listened intently to Noel rambling about Merlin’s powers. Holding a glass of water, she was so focused on Noel she’d obviously not heard Devon’s entrance.

  He cleared his throat.

  Georgina screeched. Her arm went up, as did the glass in her hand. The water sloshed around her, over her arm, her gown.

  The children giggled. Devon swallowed his laughter, knowing from ten years of marriage to Margaret that a startled woman’s recovery included a dressing down.

  But Georgina merely peered at him impishly while she carefully patted the moisture from her arm and bodice. Her eyes held no anger. She didn’t scold him. On the contrary, she seemed glad to see him. He wondered how much longer it was going to take for him to realize that Georgina was completely unlike Margaret.

  “I’m incredibly pleased you could join us, my lord.”

  Before he could respond that he had no intention of joining them but had merely come to fetch his wife, Millicent was out of her chair, her eyes wide, her hand tugging on his.

  “Oh, Father, are you going to eat with uth?”

  His gaze darting between his daughter and his wife, he knew he could not utter his true intent without harming his daughter’s gentle heart—and he knew his wife knew that he knew it. Blast it!

  The woman had a true gift when it came to manipulation. And a way of paying him back for startling her that made him want to throw his head back and laugh. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed with absolute impetuosity—or more to the point, had possessed any desire to.

  He turned his full attention to Millicent. “You must forgive me for my tardiness, Lady Millicent. I seem to have misplaced my invitation.”

  She placed her tiny hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Here, Father, you must sit at the head of the table,” Noel said, abandoning the chair in which he’d been sitting.

  Devon had no idea that a square table could possess such an exalted position. Still, he sat beside Georgina and found his knees dreadfully close to touching his throat. Millicent sat across from Devon. Noel removed the doll from the last chair, a bowl of soup in front of her, and took her place.

  “We’re eating son-of-a-gun stew, Father,” Noel explained.

  “Son-of-a-gun?” he asked.

  “Yes, sir. Cowboys eat it all the time.”

  “And we made it!” Millicent boasted.

  Devon quirked a brow and looked at Georgina. “So not only have you taught my children to clean but to cook as well.”

  “I thought they would enjoy it.”

  “Taste it, Father,” Millicent prodded.

  With skepticism he studied the conglomeration of items surrounded by the thick juice in his bowl. Cautiously he spooned up a helping and brought it to his lips. One taste later, he was surprised cowboys didn’t expire on the spot.

  “Don’t you think it’s deliciouth, Father?” Millicent asked.

  “Who wouldn’t think that, Kitten?” he hedged.

  “We made sourdough biscuits and fried apples,” Noel added.

  “Fried apple dipped in thugar,” Millicent explained.

  “Ah, now that sounds tasty indeed,” Devon said. “I look forward to sampling dessert.”

  “We’ve already eaten them,” Noel said.

  “I would think dipped in sugar meant they were dessert,” Devon mused.

  “They were, Father, but since we were the cooks—” Noel began.

  “We got to eat them firtht,” Millicent finished.

  Devon glanced at Georgina. “Are there no rules in this world you inhabit?”

  “Only to make the most of each day.”

  “Am I to gather then that we do that by eating dessert first?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “I’m not at all certain that’s wise,” he murmured.

  He dropped his gaze to her mouth. He was incredibly tempted to feel her smile against his lips. He’d been a fool to taste her sweetness and then deny himself further enjoyment of it.

  He should have bedded her as dispassionately as he’d originally planned. Perhaps then his body would not ache with his need for her.

  He turned his attention back to his bowl of stew only to discover that his appetite had disappeared.

  Chapter 16

  G eorgina drank her coffee, relishing the bitter brew. As mistress of the manor, she could dictate exactly how she wanted it prepared. As far as her husband was concerned, that’s what she did.

  Mrs. Cooper, however, knew differently. Georgina prepared it herself and brought it into the breakfast room before Devon arrived.

  Sitting at her place at the table, she watched as her husband filled his plate with food from the sideboard. The offerings were not as abundant as they were at Lauren’s house, but the variety was nothing to scoff at. Devon seemed pleased with the assortment, if the amount he piled on his plate was any indication.

  She had a feeling in later years he was going to become as rotund as her father. He had an immense appetite for a man who did nothing all day.

  She had yet to determine exactly what an earl did. And her husband was as elusive as a shadow. Their paths seldom crossed except during meals. He had insisted she honor him with her presence during the morning and the evening meals.

  She’d eat with the children in the late afternoon, then join him in the evening. If he knew she was spending time with the children, he voiced no objection and he went with her when she said good night to them, a silent sentinel standing at the foot of the bed while she regaled them with stories.

  She found it odd that the longer they were here, the more distant he became, as though he was strengthening the wall he’d begun building between them in London. Lauren had mentioned he was reclusive, but Georgina didn’t think he should feel uncomfortable in his own home.

  He set his plate on the table and took his chair, barely casting a glance her way. He unfolded The Times, which Winston set at his place each morning. She’d been horrified to discover the butler actually ironed the newspaper “to se
t the ink for his lordship,” he’d explained.

  As though ink on fingertips was a crime.

  She had no idea where he went when he left the table. A few times she’d searched for him, certain he was somewhere in this vast house, but she’d never been able to locate him during the day.

  In the evening, after they’d put the children to bed, he’d retire to his library. She could find him there, going over his ledgers. But what he did with the remainder of his time was a mystery.

  She planted an elbow on the table and cupped her chin with her palm. “What do you do all day?”

  He stilled, glaring at her over the edge of his newspaper, a forkful of eggs halfway to his mouth—a mouth framed by lips that had brought her immense pleasure. She’d never expected to miss the days and nights in London that they’d had together before her father died. Who would have thought they would be more like strangers the longer they were married?

  “How I spend my day is not your concern.” With precision, he shoved the fork into his mouth and then dabbed at his lips with his linen napkin.

  “But how I spend mine is your concern?”

  Glowering, he set his fork aside as though he feared he might bend it with his anger. “Impertinence does not become you.”

  “And you think being mad enough to spit nails might?”

  He leaned forward slightly. “Pardon?”

  She sighed in frustration. “Devon, I need something to do.”

  He straightened, studying her as though he couldn’t quite determine what language she spoke.

  “You are responsible for managing the household, overseeing the servants,” he said.

  She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Which takes very little of my time. They know their duties. They don’t need me poking my nose into their business.”

  “But you feel a need to poke your nose into my business?”

  She slapped her palms on the table. “I don’t know what your business is! I seldom see you. Surely there is something I can do around here to feel more useful.”

  “I daresay some sort of needlework is acceptable for your position.”

  “Needlework?”

  “You are familiar with needle, thread, cloth, are you not?”