by Diana Bold
Marrying the American Heiress
By
Diana Bold
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Marrying the American Heiress
By Diana Bold
Copyright October 2018
Cover Artist: Sweet ‘N Spicy Designs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
Dedication
For Dana Walsh. Thanks for making the transition to my new life a little easier. Though we haven’t been friends long, you’ve made my days much brighter. Here’s to making our dreams come true!
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Prologue
London – June 1867
“Lord Sherbourne? The Duke of Clayton has arrived. He wishes a moment of your time.”
Michael Blake, Viscount Sherbourne, glanced up from the thick stack of ledgers piled atop the polished surface of his desk. “It’s all right, Wadsworth.” He met his butler’s impassive gaze and struggled to hide his inner turmoil. “Show him to the drawing room. I’ll be with him shortly.”
“Very good, sir.”
After Wadsworth exited the room, Michael sagged in his chair. Bloody hell.
He wasn’t in the mood to deal with this. Not today, when so many columns of negative numbers swam through his brain. Not now, while he struggled to recover from the shock of betrayal.
Last night, Clayton’s only daughter—the lovely Lady Natalia—had been caught in a compromising position with Michael’s younger brother, Dylan. Michael had seen the passionate embrace with his own eyes.
His brother… and his future bride.
Though it was barely daybreak, Michael had been expecting the duke’s call. In fact, he had just concluded a very uncomfortable interview with his own father, the Earl of Warren, about the matter.
With a weary sigh, Michael closed the ledger and pressed his fingertips to his throbbing temples. He’d wrestled with his family’s dire financial situation all night, but if there was a way to save himself without the influx of Natalia’s dowry, he couldn’t find it. If he didn’t marry Lady Natalia, the earldom would be bankrupt before the end of the year.
Pushing away from his desk, Michael strode from his office and up the stairs that led to the drawing room. His footsteps echoed loudly on the marble, shattering the stillness of the great slumbering house on St. James Square. Portraits of his illustrious ancestors lined the stairwell, glaring their disapproval at the unseemly racket.
Fear of these portraits had ruled his childhood. His father had dragged him bodily into this hall almost every day of his youth to remind him of his place in the world and his responsibility to his family.
Unfortunately, the portraits retained some of their power. He still felt as though he were on trial, as though he could never be good enough to earn his place among them.
This latest fiasco seemed to prove them right.
Michael paused outside the drawing room and tried to marshal his famed icy demeanor. He would listen to what the duke had to say and bear in mind his father’s earlier threats and recriminations. But in the end, the decision must be his.
Taking a deep breath, he opened the massive oak doors.
The Gold Drawing Room, with its white satin, gold leaf, marble floors, and sparkling floor-to-ceiling windows, was meant to impress. The Duke of Clayton, however, did not impress easily. He waited in a gilt chair near the ornate fireplace, impatience resonating from him in waves.
“Your Grace. What a pleasant surprise.” Somehow, Michael kept the irony out of his voice as he shut the double doors behind him.
“Sherbourne.” Clayton rose and nodded as Michael crossed the room. “Forgive me for dropping by so unexpectedly, but I have a pressing matter to discuss with you.”
Tall and broad-shouldered, the duke wore the weight and dignity of his position like a shield. Though his dark hair had grayed at the temples, he still looked far younger than his years. Michael didn’t know the man well, but they moved in the same circles. He’d always admired the duke’s conservative politics, which mirrored his own.
“Think nothing of it.” Michael motioned toward the chair the duke had vacated. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”
He wasn’t sure whether it was too late for alcohol, or too early, but given the circumstances, liquid fortification seemed to be in order.
Clayton resumed his seat with regal dignity. “I’ll have a brandy, if you don’t mind.”
Michael moved to the sideboard, which was lined with crystal goblets and expensive liquor. As he poured them both a drink, the duke shifted restlessly and drummed his fingers against the side of the chair.
Michael understood the older man’s need to settle things quickly and avert any hint of a scandal. They were a lot alike, he and the duke.
Handing Clayton his brandy, Michael took the chair across from him. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?”
Clayton met his gaze with startling directness. “It’s about my daughter, Sherbourne. I’ve come to urge you to announce your engagement as soon as possible.”
The duke’s sheer bravado surprised Michael. Apparently, the duke believed he was above apologies or explanations. How dare the man sit there as though nothing had happened, as though his daughter’s disastrous indiscretion held no bearing?
Michael took a bracing sip of brandy and reminded himself of all the reasons why he must do exactly as the duke and his father wanted. He needed to marry for money, and he needed to do it quickly.
It wasn’t—as his brother Dylan had so angrily accused during one of their many arguments—to score points with their father. The earl’s expensive tastes, excessive gambling, and blatant mismanagement had gotten them into this mess.
Far more lay at stake than his family’s fortunes. If Michael couldn’t find a way to stem these losses, his failure would hurt countless others who lived on his father’s land.
“Does Lady Natalia still wish to marry me?” Michael ran his fingertip around the rim of his goblet and tried to sound disinterested. If he’d tried a little harder, courted the girl in earnest instead of merely going through the motions, perhaps he might not find himself in his current dilemma.
“Of course, Natalia wishes to marry you.” The duke didn’t bother to hide his irritation. “She’s made a terrible mistake, but she realizes that now. She’s more than willing to do her duty.”
Duty. He wondered if Lady Natalia hated the word as much as he did. What an unhappy pair they would make, trapped together by duty.
With crystal clarity, he imagined living with this woman until the day he died, while she dreamed of his brother, and he grew more bitter and lonely with each passing year.
Michael cleared his throat. The consequences of refusing the duke were clear. He’d be forced to wed the only other great heiress on the market—Miss Emma Marks, an American adventuress who’d come to London shopping for a title. Hardly the sort of woman he’d imagined for his bride, but at the moment, even a low-born wife seemed preferable to the hell he was sure to
find with Lady Natalia.
“I’m sorry, Your Grace. I can’t marry your daughter.” The words were remarkably freeing. Just saying them loosed something deep inside him, the part that had followed Society’s rules and his father’s unceasing demands for far too long.
The duke leaned forward, bristling with the haughtiness of his position. “I’ve already spoken with your father, you insolent whelp. He agrees that this marriage would be in the best interest of everyone involved.”
Yes, everyone would be happy except Natalia, Dylan, and Michael. What a pair of self-serving old bastards Clayton and Warren had become. How easily they were willing to surrender their children’s futures for the sake of their own fortunes and reputations.
“I’m well aware of my father’s feelings,” Michael assured his guest. “But he isn’t the one who has to live with my decision.”
“Don’t be a fool.” The duke got to his feet, his fury evident. “Natalia is a lovely girl, and she’s certainly learned her lesson. She won’t do anything else to embarrass you.”
Michael stood as well, refusing to let the duke gain an advantage. Clayton’s size probably intimidated most men, but Michael easily matched him in height, if not in girth.
“Your daughter loves my brother. Do you think I could ever trust her, having seen the way she looks at him?” Michael gave the duke a hard look. “You might want to think about that. Ask her what she truly wants. At this point, I think the best solution would be an alliance between the guilty parties.”
Dylan might as well have Lady Natalia’s heart and her fortune. Of course, Dylan would never contribute a farthing to their family’s cause, but who could blame him, given the abuse he’d suffered at their father’s hand?
Clayton shook his head wordlessly and downed the last of his brandy, placing the empty glass on a nearby table. “If you choose to refuse me, that’s your business. But how dare you presume to give me advice!” Turning, the duke stomped from the room and slammed the door behind him with all his strength.
As the echo faded away, Michael allowed himself a brief smile. Very few men had ever crossed Clayton and lived to tell the tale. Unfortunately, his fleeting victory had sealed his fate.
Returning to the sideboard, he refilled an empty glass and lifted it in an imaginary salute.
To Emma Marks. My future bride.
Chapter One
Three weeks later…
Emma Marks peered intently over the rail of her luxurious, private theater box, scanning the crowd below with a deep sense of satisfaction. After three months in London, she still found it hard to believe she actually belonged here, among the glittering ton. No one would have disputed it, not when the Prince of Wales himself had declared her the most beautiful, wittiest woman to grace the city in a decade.
No small accomplishment for a girl who’d been repeatedly cut and shunned back in New York.
Her father’s money was far too new for American Society. Nothing she’d done had ever been good enough to gain entry to Mrs. Astor’s charmed circle.
But the English were different. They seemed more than willing to accept her, as long as her father’s pockets remained deep, and she had a trunk full of beautiful Worth gowns for every occasion.
Emma’s aristocratic companion, Lady Jane Bennett, leaned forward as well, her lovely face alight with sudden intensity. “He’s here, Emma. Viscount Sherbourne. Look straight ahead, in the box directly across from ours.”
Viscount Sherbourne.
Instantly intrigued, Emma lifted her jeweled opera glasses for a better look. Jane had been singing the elusive viscount’s praises for quite some time, but Emma had never had the opportunity to evaluate him for herself.
“Straight across,” Jane whispered impatiently. “You’re looking too far to the right.”
Emma redirected her glasses, but in truth, she wasn’t expecting much. She and Jane had very different ideas about what sort of man would make a good husband. A title was extremely important—she wasn’t hypocrite enough to pretend otherwise—but she also longed for a man to fall in love with. One who appealed to her on a wildly romantic level.
For instance, she’d much prefer a handsome young baron to an elderly potbellied duke.
Jane, however, thought elderly dukes the better choice. After all, she was bound to outlive them. Smiling to herself at this rather pessimistic attitude, Emma finally found the box Jane had indicated. To her surprise, neither of the two occupants appeared ready to drop dead of old age.
Both men were uncommonly attractive. The first reminded her of a warrior angel, stern and golden, while the second was as wickedly dark and handsome as Lucifer.
Captivated, Emma’s gaze settled on the dazzling blond man. Awareness swept over her, startling her with its intensity. Something about this aloof brooding stranger touched a chord deep inside her and resonated through her very soul.
“Which one is Lord Sherbourne?” Emma asked, trying to contain her escalating excitement. Finally. At last, I’ve found someone worth pursuing.
“That handsome blond gentleman.” A strange wistful note crept into Jane’s voice as she, too, stared across the theater through her opera glasses. “The dark one is the Earl of Basingstoke.”
“An earl?” Emma reluctantly dropped her gaze away from Sherbourne and gave the dark-haired man another look. She could certainly do worse than returning to New York a countess. “Perhaps I should set my cap for him then.”
“No,” Jane said sharply. “Basingstoke is a terrible rogue. No one will ever tame him.”
Emma gave Jane a long considering look. To her amusement, Jane blushed and looked away.
Very interesting.
“I don’t know,” Emma mused teasingly. “Sherbourne is a mere viscount.”
Jane frowned, oblivious to Emma’s gentle taunt. “Sherbourne will be the Earl of Warren, eventually. Believe me, you couldn’t possibly do any better.”
Emma fought a smile as she met Jane’s annoyed blue gaze. Despite their burgeoning friendship, Jane must rue the circumstances that forced her to sponsor an American upstart like Emma.
Jane’s father had been a marquess, but he’d gambled away the family fortune and died without a male heir. He’d left Jane nothing but an elegant London townhouse and a mountain of debts. Considered firmly on the shelf at the grand old age of twenty-five, Jane had agreed to sponsor Emma this season. The hefty fee she’d charged would help her save her home.
“I’m certain Sherbourne is every bit as wonderful as you say.” Emma wondered at her willingness to drop all thoughts of pursuing the earl. Usually, she liked her men dark and dangerous, but something about Sherbourne repeatedly drew her gaze. “But I don’t know. Look at him. Perhaps he’s too perfect.”
“Too perfect?” Jane laughed softly and shook her coifed blond head. “I fail to see why you consider that a bad thing.”
As Emma continued to contemplate the beautiful viscount, Jane leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I have it on good authority that Sherbourne has no choice but to make a financially advantageous marriage. With Lady Natalia off the market, you’re the only one with a dowry large enough to suit his needs. He must offer for you. It’s merely a matter of time.”
Emma winced at Jane’s matter of fact announcement but couldn’t fault her since her father had hired Jane specifically for this sort of knowledge. Emma’s family had an immense fortune but no title. It was expected that the man she married would have a title but no fortune.
Lifting her opera glasses once more, she risked another quick glance in Sherbourne’s direction. This time, to her chagrin, she found him staring back at her.
Her first impulse was to keep scanning the crowd as though she had no idea who he was, but something in his expression gave her pause. His finely chiseled features were set in grim resignation, as though the mere sight of her sent him into a deep dark depression.
While hardly flattering, his strange reaction intrigued her even more. Perhaps J
ane was right. Perhaps this paragon of English decency really was desperate enough to ask for her hand.
She set her glasses aside and gave Jane an expectant look. “Tell me everything you know.”
Jane smiled, completely in her element. “His father is the tenth Earl of Warren. The family holdings are extensive. The earl gives an absolutely smashing ball every year at the beginning of the season. Very exclusive guest list.”
Emma shook her head in frustration. “I don’t care about any of that. I want to know about Sherbourne. Has he ever been involved in a scandal? Does he have a mistress? Has he ever gambled too much on horses or made a fool of himself with brandy?”
Jane looked affronted at the very idea. “Of course not. He’s a fine young man. He is—”
“I know. I know. He’s a paragon.” Emma held up one gloved hand in protest. “Please, Jane. Think. There must be something.”
The music swelled in a final crescendo, signaling intermission. They’d whispered and plotted through the entire first act of the mediocre play. Not that it mattered. Socializing seemed to be the main entertainment on Drury Lane.
Jane looked around, as though to double check that no one was close enough to hear. “Did you know Sherbourne offered for Lady Natalia? It’s not common knowledge, and I’m certain he doesn’t want anyone to know. Especially given the fact that his brother stole her away.”
“Viscount Sherbourne and Captain Dylan Blake are brothers?” Now that was an interesting little tidbit of information. Emma knew Captain Blake, though not as well as she would’ve liked.
“Captain Blake escorted me to dinner,” she reminded Jane. “At the Duke of Clayton’s party.”
There’d been quite a scandal when Lady Natalia had been caught in a compromising situation with Captain Blake in her father’s garden. Emma hadn’t seen what had happened, but she’d heard all the gossip.
Jane raised a knowing brow. “Oh, yes. I remember. You were quite put out when you couldn’t capture the captain’s attention.”