The American Heiress Brides Collection

by Carter, Lisa; Davis, Mary; Dietze, Susanne

  “That would be splendid.” Lionel looked up from the floor. At least he was paying attention to his daughter.

  Father wasn’t in his office, however. Emmett alone stood before the painting of Lady Dunwood, studying the map with a brass-handled magnifying glass. He didn’t hear her come in but continued on his task, pausing to swipe a lock of unruly hair from his brow.

  Penny’s heart pounded, and her mouth went dry. Take this from me, Lord. I want to be faithful, not torn.

  Even though she hadn’t made a sound, Emmett turned. His grin warmed her to her toes. “Good afternoon. Success with the dolls?”

  She nodded, walking toward him. “They are lined up for Viola’s inspection in the parlor. One appears to have an earache.”

  “I hope she’s well enough to be delivered to the home tomorrow. I had hoped I might come with you. Viola, too. It would be good for her to give the dolls to them personally. But I also thought perhaps we could bring the art supplies and show the girls how to use them.”

  “I will write the headmistress to be certain, but I am sure she will agree.” She glanced at the magnifying glass in his hand. “Father gave you permission to copy the map, I see.”

  “First, I’m ensuring the painting wasn’t tampered with at some point. Painted over, that sort of thing—but it looks to be free of alterations. Are you looking for your father?”

  “Both of you. Tea’s in the parlor.”

  He set the magnifying glass on Father’s desk. “Your mother desired a consultation with him on a matter pertaining to the ball Saturday.”

  Ah, yes. The ball. Every mention of it made her stomach twist and her chest tighten. Emmett’s fingers clenched at his sides, as if he wished to speak, but he didn’t.

  So she leaned against Father’s desk. “Tell me about Hawton Park.”

  He leaned against the desk beside her so they were side by side, their hands almost touching. “What’s Lionel told you?”

  “About grouse hunting season. Nothing about the house.” Her future home.

  Emmett ran a hand through his hair, mussing it to dashing effect. “The estate was built over time. Two of the towers are six hundred years old.”

  She nodded, understanding his meaning. “I imagine they require extensive repair.”

  “In medieval days, the earls of Hawton were among the richest men in England, thanks to their prominent roles in wars and intrigues. Nowadays, life is far different, and Lionel is in the same position as other members of the nobility: saddled with estates built for far different purposes in far different times. The costs of running the estate are crippling him.”

  “How difficult that must be.”

  “More than a hundred servants are in his employ, from chambermaids to the men who tend the two hundred square miles of grounds. Then there are everyday expenses and repairs. He’s sold medieval weaponry from the armory and artwork.” He tipped his chin at the painting. “But it isn’t enough.”

  “He needs a wealthy wife.” More than wealthy. Someone as affluent as the daughter of a banking magnate. “And my parents wish me to be titled. A fair exchange.”

  He didn’t join in her humorless laugh. “Is there anything in it for you, Penny?”

  “Viola.” She didn’t need to think before answering. “I see myself in her. She’s parented more by Miss Partridge than Lionel, as is typical of his class, I know, but I was raised by my nanny, too. I called her Frosty.”

  “Frosty?”

  His wide smile lightened the mood, and she was grateful for the reprieve. “Are you laughing at me? In the middle of my tender story?”

  “Never.” Of course he was.

  She forced a mock glare. “I couldn’t pronounce Foster. Didn’t you have a nickname for your governess?”

  “Nanny Macklin was a stickler. I called her Mack once, to my detriment. My knuckles still hurt.” He waved his hand.

  “What faradiddle.”

  “Fara—what?” His eyes widened.

  “Diddle. You don’t say faradiddle in England?”

  “Do I look like the sort of person who says faradiddle?”

  “One doesn’t need to say faradiddle to know what it is.”

  He snickered. “My old auntie said faradiddle, but I have never once uttered the word.”

  “Until today.”

  “Until today.” His smile was soft. Sweet.

  She had to look away. With a deep breath, she placed Lionel back in his rightful place, between her and Emmett.

  “Was Macklin Lionel’s nanny, too?”

  Even though she didn’t look at Emmett, she could tell he shook his head. “Lionel was seven when I was born and already off at school, but Cyril and Vernon were still at home.”

  “Vernon is the clergyman, and Cyril is the soldier?” She’d worked to keep them straight, although she hadn’t met them.

  “As is fitting for second and third sons of earls. Fourth sons like me? No one knows quite what to do with us.”

  “So you are twenty-eight.” Seven years younger than Lionel’s thirty-five.

  “I am.”

  “A young professor.”

  “And a map copier.” There was that saucy grin again.

  It was easy talking to him, sharing jokes. Maybe God had sought to care for her by giving her a friend in Emmett, a companion in her new family. A brother. But she’d ruined it all by developing feelings for him that were not at all those of one sibling for another.

  Her heart hammered once, hard against her ribs.

  She shouldn’t be alone with Emmett anymore. Not until her feelings were under control. So she pushed off from the desk and inclined her head toward the door.

  “Come, before the tea is cold and the dolls get packed for tomorrow.”

  He nodded and joined her. Every hair on her arms stood at attention just because he walked at her side.

  Penny crossed her arms. She was wise to avoid being alone with him. The sooner she got over these wretched feelings for him, the better.

  The following afternoon, Emmett had prayed a hundred times or more for God to remove his feelings for Penny. Now, the only male at the Home for Friendless Girls with Penny, Alma, Viola, a host of dollies, and fourteen girls busy with brushes and watercolors, he prayed it again.

  So far, God hadn’t answered the way Emmett thought best.

  Penny’s declaration that she cared for Viola touched his heart in yet another new way. How could he not love her?

  Penny, her smile wide, squeezed the shoulders of an orphan girl, Vera, who painted a tree in three shades of green. “My favorite color. So soothing.”

  Looking up from her own painting, Viola shot him a triumphant smile. “I told you Miss Beale likes green, Uncle. That’s why you wore the tie, remember?”

  Penny looked at his tie. Did she remember as well as he that he’d been wearing it when first they met at the museum? Suddenly, it felt too tight, and he tugged at it with a forefinger.

  She looked away, her cheeks pinking like cherries.

  How do I stop falling in love with her, Lord?

  It was more than he could accomplish on his own. It was like chasing an already-moving train in an attempt to prevent it from leaving the station. No matter how vigorous his efforts, the train was well on its way to chugging well out of sight.

  “Mr. Retford.” A little girl Viola’s age raised her hand. “Did I do this right?”

  He took a deep breath to clear his head, relaxing as the familiar wet-paper smell wafted about him. Young Mary’s watercolor revealed a family, all with yellow hair. Her with her lost parents, perhaps? He’d prayed one or more of the girls would find solace or comfort through art, and maybe this was an answer. “You did indeed, Mary. It’s beautiful.”

  Then all the girls sought his opinion, about colors and whether or not their paintings were beautiful, too.

  “They all are,” he and Penny said at the same time. Their gazes met and then dropped away as if it was a crime to be caught looking at one another
.

  She’d certainly given that impression since their private talk in her father’s study yesterday. Like she was afraid to look at him.

  Viola beckoned him to bend down. She cupped her hand around her mouth, as if to impart a secret. “Dolls now, Uncle?”

  “When Miss Beale says so.” The boxed dolls waited in the parlor until after the art lesson.

  “When Miss Brice, the headmistress, says so,” Penny countered with a wink. “But I am as eager as you, Viola.”

  Viola hurried to where Alma exclaimed over a girl’s painting of her old house, leaving Emmett and Penny side by side, watching.

  She glanced at him, smiled, and flushed. The pause between them grew long, and Emmett struggled for something to say to her. So he smiled. “It seems we’re always in front of art, doesn’t it?”

  What a dull-witted observation. Emmett could have kicked himself.

  “But those other times, we studied paintings. Now we watch young artists at work, enjoying themselves and perhaps even healing, thanks to you.”

  “I’m the inspired one.”

  Penny made him want to write poetry—whole sonnets about the pink of her cheeks. They would turn out terrible, but she made him want to try, anyway. Inspiration did that to a fellow. Which reminded him—

  “I consult for several museums, at home and even the Metropolitan—”

  “In New York?” she interrupted.

  He nodded. “Have you been?”

  “Yes, and the—forgive me, I could talk all day about it, but you were saying?” Her eyes were so wide and lovely it made his breath hitch.

  “I could talk art all day, too. And often do.”

  “Because you’re a professor.” There, she was looking at him again.

  “And map copier,” he teased, just as he had yesterday. “But I wonder if there might be ways to introduce art to children who otherwise would not be exposed to it.”

  Her hand clutched his arm, and her face shone with eagerness. “What a wonderful thought. Remember what you said when we met, when I admitted I didn’t know much about the artist of the painting we viewed?”

  How could he forget? “I said it allowed you to approach the canvas without prejudgment.”

  “I think there is benefit in knowing about the artist, sometimes, too. Like today. Their paintings are all the more precious because of who they are and what they’ve been through.” She squeezed his arm, and it was all he could do not to take her hand and squeeze back. “The girls are enjoying this so much, and with your donations, they’ll be able to continue to paint and sketch and express themselves—”

  “I say, Penny.” Alma’s voice was sharp.

  Neither he nor Penny had noticed the girls leaving the table and queueing up at the door. Alma mouthed, the dolls.

  “The parlor, Miss Beale?” The headmistress, Miss Brice, tipped her head.

  Penny’s hand jerked from his arm. “Oh, yes. Girls, our guests have brought something special for you today.”

  Without a backward glance, she bustled out the door, the girls at her heels. When Alma passed Emmett, she didn’t spare him a look, either, and her mouth was set in a disapproving line.

  Emmett pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d made his interest in Penny obvious. Again. Alma recognized it. Lionel might next time.

  But Penny had forgotten herself, too. As a well-bred lady, she would not have touched his arm had she not been caught up in her excitement. Assume it was for the project, Emmett. Not you. Keep your mind on art.

  Art was not on anyone’s minds when the girls opened their boxes, however. He leaned against the doorjamb and watched the scene. Some girls hugged their dolls, and the two littlest girls immediately changed their dolls’ clothes. Viola fluttered among them, Amelie in arms and Alma at her side, while Penny held back, swiping tears from her lashes. Then, one of the tiny girls brought her a doll midchange, and Penny bent to help with the buttons.

  You cannot love her.

  He told himself that the entire carriage ride back to the house, where Mr. Beale had left the study free for him to work. He told himself again as he measured and scrutinized and sketched the lines of the map, reminding himself he was the worst type of cad for making moon-eyes at his brother’s almost-fiancée. He was still telling himself when Lionel sauntered into the room, surrounded in a cloud of his expensive bergamot cologne.

  “So this is the famous map.”

  Emmett had told Lionel about it last night. Whitacre was right; it was easier to copy the painting when he didn’t have to creep about. Nevertheless, Lionel hadn’t expressed much interest, so it was a surprise to see him here.

  “I didn’t know you’d arrived.”

  “Thought I’d fetch you and Viola. The females are at tea, and Mr. Beale had business in the library, so I came in search of you.” Lionel squinted. “Looks like a bunch of squiggles and whatnot.”

  “It is.” Emmett set down his pencil. “But it’s up to Whitacre to find a landmark in it. My job is to copy the map with precision.”

  Lionel drifted to sit in one of the wingback chairs by the hearth, where a small fire crackled in the grate. “Pleasant way to execute your duty.”

  Emmett shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help himself. “And is your duty pleasant, Lionel?”

  Lionel glanced at the open doorway, as if he feared being overheard. “Penny’s a kind woman. Good with Viola.”

  And so much more that Lionel was blind to. Emmett dropped into the wingback chair across from his brother and bent toward him, the better to keep his voice low. “You didn’t answer my question. If you have doubts, you don’t have to go through with it.”

  “The contracts are drawn.”

  “I admire your commitment, Lionel, but—”

  “Call me all manner of names for marrying for money. Mercenary, heartless. But I won’t dishonor her by backing out. No, we’re in in for a penny, in for a pound now.”

  In Lionel’s vehemence, he hadn’t noticed his pun, an ironic choice since it used Penny’s name. But the idiom was apt, since it meant once one began something, one had to see it through to its completion.

  It didn’t make it right, though.

  “How many pounds, Lionel?” What was Penny worth in this exchange?

  “Two million, American currency. Enough to set a good amount right.”

  Like paying the boot maker for the fashionable congress gaiters on Lionel’s feet.

  “You haven’t proposed.” Which seemed odd.

  “Her mother wants a production of it.” Lionel rose. “I’m to propose at the ball. Penny doesn’t know. It’s to be a surprise.”

  Emmett stood, his stomach dropping to his soles. “Lionel.”

  “I’m not keen on humbling myself before a crowd, but it is a moment of mortification for two million dollars.”

  A lifetime for two million dollars, not a moment—Lionel’s tender pride was least on Emmett’s mind. How could Penny, traded for such a sum, say no to Lionel in front of all those people?

  She couldn’t, even if she wavered from her obedience to her parents and her determination to care for Viola.

  “I’m sorry.” For Penny. For this mess.

  “Thank you.” Lionel shrugged, mistaking Emmett’s apology. “Ready to return to the Bellevue with us?”

  His head shook. “I’ve more work to do with the map.”

  Once Lionel left, Emmett took up the pencil and sketchbook, which was open to a drawing of the map. He’d drawn several versions, in fact: in its entirety and in quadrants, both to scale and enlarged. He wasn’t quite finished, and these renderings were the whole reason he’d come to Philadelphia. He must be ready with them before his scheduled return to England after the ball. Or sooner, the way Whitacre pestered him with notes left each night at the Bellevue.

  Shame pinched his gut. He should have come to America to support Lionel, but his brother had been an excuse to get a job done.

  Lionel hadn’t asked for support, though. Their family wa
s fractured—distant and formal since the deaths of their parents several years ago. If it wasn’t for Viola, Emmett wouldn’t see much of Lionel. He saw little of Vernon and Cyril, too.

  The Retford brothers, almost strangers nowadays.

  Nothing was beyond repair, however. Emmett sank onto the expanse of Mr. Beale’s desk and prayed for healing between him and his brothers.

  Of course, his relationship with Lionel wouldn’t be helped a whit if Emmett confessed to loving Penny. Penny felt something for him—he knew she did—but was it love? And even if it was, he had nothing to offer her but a modest cottage and a shot at a new career path he didn’t have yet. Whitacre hadn’t heard back from the prince.

  Emmett snatched up the pencil and paper and returned to his sketching. If the Lord didn’t free him of his affections for Penny, Emmett prayed God would at least free Penny from whatever she seemed to feel for him, so she could be happy with Lionel.

  And that his family—his whole family, including Penny—would grow together again.

  Chapter 5

  The next two days passed in a whirl for Penny. Fittings for her ball gown, food tastings, and two nights out with Lionel, Alma, and Emmett had left her weary. At luncheon, Mother expressed concern over the bags under Penny’s eyes and sent her for a rest, but Penny feared shutting her eyes.

  When she did, she saw Emmett’s face. Then Lionel’s, and Viola’s. Her dangerous feelings for Emmett prevented her from resting, so it was far better to do something else. Like read.

  But after trying for half an hour to get lost in the pages of a novel, Penny conceded defeat. Curled on the gold lounge in the parlor, she was still on the same page she’d started on, unable to focus for more than a sentence or two before her mind flitted to Emmett. Again. She shut the book and smacked it onto the lounge in a huff.

  She’d thought she’d done the right thing, deciding not to be alone with Emmett because she couldn’t trust herself. But then at the girls’ home two days past, he’d looked down at her with his soft brown eyes, and she’d forgotten anyone else was in the room.

  It hadn’t mattered that they weren’t alone. She couldn’t keep being lost in his conversation, drawn to him no matter who else was around.