Carolina Love Song

by Peggy Gaddis

They did have one thing in common, though, he thought. Information. Anthony was the only person outside of Lucas’s family who knew about the infuriating terms of his father’s will.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest, leaned back in the oversized leather armchair, and sighed before quietly announcing the reason for their meeting and his demeanor. “I’m leaving for the South Lakes tonight to collect the little baggage.”

  “Good God, man, that’s no way to refer to a fiancée!”

  Leave it to Anthony to be gallant. What else was Lucas to call a fiancée he had neither proposed to nor even met?

  “You’re the expert at charming the ladies.” Lucas stretched his long legs out in front of him and gave Anthony a mocking glance. “What would you have me call someone I’ve been promised to since I was a boy, whom I now need to wed if I don’t want to lose all the lands that go with my earldom?”

  Anthony grinned. “Destiny?”

  He let out a low, embittered laugh that rumbled from his chest and shook his shoulders. Then he took a healthy swallow of his brandy, refusing to dignify Anthony’s daft suggestion with any reply.

  Apparently sensing that Lucas was not in the mood for jests, Anthony cleared his throat and soberly said, “You’re not the only one being forced into this marriage, you know.”

  “I’ve given her enough time to cry off.” Lucas gave an indifferent shrug, then added, “In any case, it hardly matters now. I’ve only four years left to meet the terms of Father’s will, and I see no point in delaying the inevitable any longer.”

  Especially since a title would be of little use without most of the vast holdings his father had chosen not to entail on Lucas. Everyone who relied on him rightfully expected him to hold on to the properties if he could.

  “I still can’t believe your father did it,” Anthony muttered as he splashed more brandy into both their glasses, draining what was left in the decanter. “He was not an unkind man. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense,” Lucas countered. “I have a duty to sire an heir. Considering my mother’s reputation, Father knew it would not be easy to find a willing bride to continue our tainted family line.” And he’s using me to exact payment from those who abandoned him at his time of need. “It just irks me to know that Father didn’t think I was capable of finding a bride on my own.”

  “Tainted? Ravenstone, we both know your mother was not insane,” Anthony grumbled, but his uneasiness at the topic was evident in the way he shifted in his chair.

  “No, but even I could not have described Mother as the embodiment of stability,” Lucas said bluntly. He had never been the sort to hide from the ton’s opinion of his beautiful, unpredictable mother.

  The late Countess of Ravenstone had been an emotional pendulum; constantly swinging from extremely high spirits to deep melancholy during what she called the “agony and bliss” that was her life. Her restless soul lurked in the darkest depths of Lucas’s past, along with the memory of his dead father lying in a pool of blood in the family’s hunting lodge.

  Lucas shook his head to dismiss the painful thoughts and decided to return to the business at hand. “I didn’t come here to discuss my mother. Am I to assume your aunt is still willing to live in Ravenstone with Olivia while I’m away?”

  Anthony snorted. “Aunt Lucy has talked of naught else. I almost feel sorry for your little sister, you know.” He gave him a mocking look of contrition. “Five minutes with my aunt and her incessant yammering about the latest in her growing collection of ailments will bore little Olivia to tears.”

  “Boredom will be a nice change for her,” Lucas drawled as he straightened in his chair. At least he didn’t have to worry about Olivia while he dealt with the unpleasant business of claiming his bride. “With our parents’ demise, her upcoming Season, and my impending marriage, my sister already has enough excitement in her life.”

  He gave his friend a serious look. “Will you be able to escort your aunt and Olivia to Ravenstone tonight?” When Anthony nodded in the affirmative, Lucas continued, “Excellent. I appreciate your help. Surrey is not far away, but I don’t like the thought of them travelling without a male escort. If you call in at my townhouse at, say, half past six, you can be back in London before midnight.”

  At his friend’s ready agreement, Lucas finished his drink and put his glass down, intending to leave when Anthony’s softly spoken question stopped him.

  “Do you even remember the chit’s name?”

  He had to suppress an impatient sigh. Why couldn’t Anthony leave the subject alone?

  “Yes. Father’s will doesn’t mention it, but the betrothal contract does. She is Miss Penelope Maitland, the late Baron Maitland’s daughter. Maitland was one of Father’s cronies.” It was the first time he had spoken his betrothed’s name, and he said it slowly, testing the feel of the name on his tongue.

  “I didn’t know Maitland had a daughter. Is she pretty?”

  “I have no idea.” He stood, suddenly eager to end the conversation. “Maitland died before she was supposed to have her come-out, and the current baron has yet to let her have one.”

  Taking his cue, Anthony rose from his chair with a solemn expression and shook hands. “I suppose you’ll be a married man when you next step foot in London. Let me be the first to congratulate you on your pending nuptials.”

  Lucas returned the handshake and nodded, his mouth curving into a bleak smile of resignation. Then he strode out of Brooks’s without another word to anyone, oblivious to the wary stares the illustrious club members cast as he passed along the way.

  Raging echoes from the grave compelled Lucas to wrestle with fate. And one way or the other, he meant to win.

  • • •

  Accepting defeat, Penelope Rose Maitland gave in and quickly grabbed a piece of piecrust, furtively dropping it onto the flagstone floor. Her border collie’s grateful sigh made her grin.

  “I saw that, Polly! Don’t even try to deny it.” Mari’s angry accusation was uttered in a dark voice that barely rose above the constant din of raucous laughter and conversation pervading The Mucky Duck’s crowded dining hall.

  Penelope gave her friend an exasperated look. Sensing that something other than this minor lapse in proper etiquette was behind her friend’s dramatic display, Penelope decided to meet it with an equally convincing portrayal of innocent bewilderment.

  “You saw what?” she demanded, leaning back in her chair. “Mari, you’re the one who wanted me to try your newest apple and blackberry pie recipe.”

  “That!” Mari shrieked. Her voice rang shrilly, and her delicate nose wrinkled as she pointed at Nelson accusingly. She looked every bit like a duke’s granddaughter. A disinherited one, true, but … “I saw that. Polly, why do you always have to share your food with that dog?” Frowning, she added, “I made the pie for you, not him.”

  Penelope flinched. It never occurred to her that rewarding one loyal companion would insult another. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to seem unappreciative of your generosity,” she said in genuine contrition before proceeding to explain her actions. “But you know I never eat the crust, and I’m certain Nelson was grateful to taste a bit of your delicious creation.”

  “So you liked it?”

  “Mari, it was the best pie I have ever tasted.” She meant it, too, and she had tasted many, many pies.

  “Thank you,” Mari murmured, visibly flattered. “I shall ask Mama to add the pie to our menu, then. Papa would be pleased.”

  Mari’s parents had bought this popular coaching inn located in the tiny village of Bouth in the South Lakes after they’d married, but Penelope was the one who sampled all the new food here. Nothing was added to the menu unless she had pre-approved it as delicious — not because Penelope was a food connoisseur, but because Mari was too concerned about maintaining her slim figure to
try any of her exquisite concoctions.

  “Mari, your parents owe it to the world to add the pie to your menu. Certainly it deserves a place in that recipe book you intend to write.”

  When Mari smiled, Penelope knew both she and Nelson had been forgiven. Gratified, Penelope took another bite of pie.

  “I didn’t mean to be harsh, Polly. I’m just worried.” Mari hesitated before asking, “Do you remember the governess position that Mrs. Bexley offered me?”

  Penelope nodded. “She asked me about it. Mrs. Bexley said her daughter needed to be taught by the best, so she would only offer the position to a beautiful woman with impeccable manners.”

  Mari’s gray eyes twinkled with satisfaction. “I turned it down. I told her there are any number of ‘beautiful’ women with ‘impeccable manners’ in Bouth.” She gave a sly grin. “Then I suggested she ask you about it.”

  “I did wonder why Mrs. Bexley suddenly contacted me to discuss the job.”

  “You’re perfect for it!” Mari declared loyally. “But don’t let Nelson beg for food around Mrs. Bexley.” She leaned forward, laying her hands on the scarred oak table. “Oh, please say you accepted the offer. It will help solve your stepfamily’s dilemma.”

  Penelope tensed. Her stepfamily’s “dilemma” involved creditors demanding her physician stepfather, Dr. Walker, to settle the family’s enormous debt with money everybody knew Papa didn’t have, or else give up Highfield Manor and deprive his children of the only home they’d ever known.

  The extra income would undoubtedly help. Penelope wasn’t averse to working for a living if the opportunity arose. Sadly, no opportunity was forthcoming, and she admitted it in a flat, emotionless voice: “Mrs. Bexley didn’t offer me employment.”

  Mari gaped at her. “I don’t understand. I specifically told her that I’m not the only one in Bouth who has a claim to both beauty as well as impeccable manners, and you said she came to you to discuss the position.”

  “She did.”

  “Then why — ”

  “Mrs. Bexley asked me about the position,” Penelope confirmed, arching a brow before adding dryly, “She asked if I happened to know anyone, other than you, who ‘possessed both beauty and impeccable manners.’ She was even gracious enough to give me time to think of an acceptable candidate.”

  Mari shook her head, causing auburn tendrils to sway against her temples. She started to express her outrage but stopped suddenly.

  Penelope sat with her back straight and shoulders rigid, hoping no emotion flickered in her eyes. Mari studied her face for a long minute, and Penelope’s lips quivered as she valiantly struggled to keep her smile in place.

  Evidently concluding that more indignation about Mrs. Bexley’s thoughtless act would only emphasize how the harridan obviously thought Penelope wasn’t good enough for the post, Mari said softly, “Mrs. Bexley was … clever, indeed, to have sought your help in finding an excellent governess. She correctly assumed that, as Lord Maitland’s daughter, you’d have expert judgment about who deserves the position.”

  Her friend’s considerate words sent a fierce streak of relief through Penelope, leaving her strangely giddy. “Exactly,” she agreed, nodding her head as a bubble of laughter escaped her. “Why, my father was so confident in my abilities that he never needed to leave London more than twice a year to visit Mama and me in Maitland Hall.”

  Mari giggled. “Don’t forget your uncle and your cousin! The present baron and his son are clearly impressed with your talents.” She paused to swipe away tears of mirth. “If they didn’t have such faith in your capabilities, their honorable nature and familial affection would oblige them to at least write to you once in a while.”

  “My noble relatives are undeniably in awe of my accomplishments.” Penelope laughed at the sheer absurdity of the entire situation while she affectionately stroked Nelson’s furry neck.

  Her friendship with Mari, she mused, flourished because of their mutual ability and conscious choice to laugh, instead of wallow, at the disadvantages life handed them. In this little village where the idyllic country life was disrupted only by the occasional trespassing sheep or carriage accident, women had to learn to cope if they wanted to survive in a society where entitlement to opportunities depended largely on nothing more than an accident of birth.

  If Penelope had been born a boy, she’d have been the valued heir. She would’ve secured her father’s affection, studied at university and inherited properties. Uncle Hugh wouldn’t have been able to cast her out of her own home merely weeks after Father died, and she wouldn’t be in the situation she was in now: rejected and forsaken.

  On the other hand, she would’ve never known the blessing of having a warm, caring stepfather or experienced the simple joy of finally seeing Mama’s smile, of witnessing the twins grow up.

  Thinking of the twins reminded Penelope of the actual reason for her visit to the inn that day. Reaching behind her chair, she pulled out a fistful of daisies, amused by the look of dread on Mari’s face.

  “Colin asked me to give you these.” Penelope released a theatrical sigh and handed the bouquet to her friend. “Yet another dozen flowers have sacrificed their lives for your beauty.”

  “Oh, joy. These daisies are lovely … but you shouldn’t encourage your brother, you know.” Mari grimaced as she accepted the bouquet and laid it on the table. “I like Colin. I don’t want to be the cause of any pain for the boy.”

  “You’re the cause of a lot of pain for most of the young men in Bouth.” Penelope shrugged. “Besides, Colin’s fifteen — he needs that kind of pain. He also wrote a poem. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “No.”

  Penelope ignored her. With a grin, she took a crumpled sheet from her pocket and cleared her throat. She had just opened her mouth to utter the first line when Mari interrupted her.

  “I wonder how many flowers your earl will slay when he finally claims you,” Mari remarked in a teasing voice.

  Her grin faded. Her earl, indeed. After the Mrs. Bexley debacle, Mari was probably trying to remind Penelope of her own worth. Unfortunately, Mari’s tactic failed because these days she rarely thought of her fiancé — the man people referred to as “Raving Ravenstone.” There were only four things Penelope knew about her engagement to “her earl”:

  First, it was their fathers who had agreed on the betrothal, long before both she and the earl were old enough to understand or refuse.

  Second, never in the twenty-two years since the betrothal contract was signed had Lord Ravenstone given any indication he would honor the agreement, and she was quite certain he would never do so. Her usefulness as a baron’s daughter died with her father. Since status was everything to the nobility, she had long ago ceased to hope the earl would ever acknowledge her existence.

  After recovering from her drastic change in social standing, she considered a plain, little thing like her lucky to be exempted from the ordeal of finding a husband, as women were expected to do.

  Penelope had turned twenty-five this year, and if it weren’t for her “engagement,” she would’ve already been dismissed as the next in line for the title of Village Spinster. Already, she harbored more animals than “Mad Sally,” Bouth’s reigning Old Maid, who lived in a cottage with her thirteen cats and spent her days demanding children get off her front garden.

  Actually, Penelope doubted the earl even remembered their engagement. The way everyone was still inclined to believe her claims was a small miracle. She hoped she could keep the pretense up until the time Lord Ravenstone decided to marry.

  It was imperative to keep people certain about her affianced state. Nothing was more important, because the third thing she definitely knew about her betrothal was she had used it to ask the creditors to give Papa a little more time to pay off debts. Papa would be livid if he found out she’d used her engagem
ent as a bargaining tool, but there had been little else the family could have done. Her stepfather had been away on business, and if she hadn’t bargained for more time, they would have already lost Highfield Manor.

  The fourth thing she knew about her engagement was there would be the devil to pay if Lord Ravenstone ever found out she’d been using his name without his consent or knowledge.

  Penelope sighed and dismissed the gloomy thoughts. She refused to allow unresolved issues and forgetful earls to destroy her day. This rainy, muddy day.

  “Don’t worry, I’m not leaving Rusland anytime soon,” she reassured Mari. Rusland Valley was where Highfield Manor was located, a five-minute horse ride north of Bouth. “I haven’t received any message from Maitland Hall regarding the earl.”

  “Speaking of Maitland Hall,” Mari said in a hushed tone while she looked around to see if anyone was within hearing distance before deciding that it was safe to go on talking, “A gentleman from London checked in here last night, asking about Baron Maitland and directions to your uncle’s estate.”

  Penelope’s eyebrows rose and before she could stop herself, she asked in a tone of mild curiosity, “What did the gentleman want with my uncle?” Mari opened her mouth to speak but Penelope held up her hand for silence as she hastily dismissed the news. “Never mind. Whatever my uncle is up to, it has nothing to do with me. I don’t care what Uncle Hugh does as long as he leaves me and Mama out of it.”

  “Aren’t you the least bit interested in this visitor?” Mari pouted, clearly disappointed with her lack of enthusiasm for juicy gossip.

  “I’ll admit it’s an unusual occurrence. No one ever goes to Maitland Hall.” She considered that for a moment. “Very well, did the gentleman say what the visit was about? And why are you so sure he’s a gentleman?” she couldn’t help but ask.

  “Penelope, I grew up in a coaching inn.” Mari crossed her arms over her chest, looking smug. “I know when I see nobility. It’s a skill an innkeeper’s daughter has to learn. This particular gentleman’s clothes were of the finest quality. And even if his clothing were shabby, his accent and good manners would’ve given him away. Why, even his giant of a horse looked positively regal.”