Bride by Contract

by Margaret Rome

  'None for me, thank you, Morva,' Percy declined, 'I prefer brandy. Would either of you care to join me?'

  'No, thank you, Percy.' Morva shook her head, her heart racing with pride on behalf of her brother who was trying so hard to display the courage of an officer and a gentleman. She loved him so much, she acknowledged with an inner ache, the brother who was eighteen years her senior, who had sauntered in and out of her life like a handsome, golden-haired god, patting her head in passing, bringing her occasional presents that had been treasured and carefully stored…

  'We will both join you, Percy, dear.' Arbitrarily, her grandmother overruled Morva's refusal. 'There are decisions to be made, plans to be drawn up—a liqueur will help to release tension so allowing concentration to be more easily achieved.'

  Morva waited until their drinks had been poured and Percy had returned to his seat before blurting out the questions she had been too shocked to ask in Mister Kingsale's presence.

  'What I cannot understand is how Percy could have been born without your knowledge, Granny! And why weren't the circumstances surrounding his birth made known to him years ago? It was criminal of Daddy to allow him to believe that he was destined to become the tenth Earl of Howgill, to wait until the last possible moment before snatching away what he had been brought up to regard as his rightful inheritance!'

  Bleakly, her grandmother responded. 'The answer to your first question is that, in nineteen forty-four, the year in which Percy was born, our country was at war. Your father, in common with the majority of young men of his generation, had been called into active service and during the four years he was serving with his regiment he paid just a few flying visits home.

  'Naturally, I was displeased, yet I could not bring myself to condemn a young soldier living a life of constant danger for wanting to relax, to tour the fun-spots of the capital in the company of his fellow officers. I believe that it was in London, during his last leave before his regiment embarked to take part in the invasion of Normandy, that he and your mother first met. A year later, when he brought his family home to Ravenscrag. I was given no reason to suspect that the girl he introduced as his wife was, in fact, his very recent bride.'

  Gravely Morva pondered on her grandmother's explanation, conscious of the dislike that had existed, the antagonism that had flowed between the old and the new Countess of Howgill. She had no recollection of her mother, she knew her only as a word-portrait painted by her grandmother in strokes of scarlet and vermilion—with a dense black void where her heart should have been.

  'The answer to your second question is contained in Father's letter.' Percy patted his breast pocket as if having to convince himself that the document really did exist, that the events of the past few hours were not just a part of some intolerable nightmare. 'He begins by apologising for his sin of omission,' his lips twisted into a grimace of wry resentment, 'excusing his lapse, in the first instance, on the grounds of his being unable to resist mother's tearful pleading not to reveal their secret. Then secondly, after their divorce had been finalised, because he could not bear the thought of having to face the anger and contempt of a son who had been made to feel confident of his role in society.'

  Morva almost cried out in pain when suddenly he bowed his head to rake agitated fingers through his hair.

  'Granny!' he groaned, 'what am I to do with my life? I realise that I must resign my commission and, of course, break off my engagement—'

  'For heaven's sake, why …?' Morva jumped to her feet, blinded by a sudden surge of tears. 'Wh… what does the lack of a title matter to two people who are in love?' Fiercely, she brushed away her tears, missing the look of helpless resignation passing between her brother and grandmother. 'Please don't rush into hasty decisions, Percy,' she gulped. 'Who knows, it may be months—even years—before the new Earl of Howgill can be found!'

  'If you had had sufficient grace to have made your appearance at the appointed time, you would be aware that information concerning the whereabouts of your father's successor was included in his letter,' her grandmother snapped with the asperity of one who had almost reached the end of her tether. 'The person's name is Belvoir—Troy Belvoir,' she stressed with a fastidious shudder. 'Mister Kingsale has intimated that he intends writing to inform his new client of his inheritance this very day; I have no doubt whatsoever that he will descend upon us just as quickly as he is able to arrange transportation from his shack in the Canadian Rockies!'

  CHAPTER TWO

  Morva reined Clio to a standstill the moment she spotted the chocolate-brown limousine parked before the steps leading up to the main entrance to the castle. For amazed seconds her eyes roved over the gleaming bodywork, tinted windows, plump, white-walled tyres and opulent cream leather upholstery of what appeared to her to be the longest and most expensive car in the world. Who could it belong to? In spite of the fact that Percy could number quite a few millionaires amongst his friends, she felt certain that not one member of his aristocratic set would descend to flaunting such an ostentatious, even vulgar, display of wealth.

  Tantalised by curiosity, she wheeled Clio in the direction of the stables and quickly dismounted, leaving her in the charge of a stable boy before making her way towards the West Wing where Granny's small sitting room was situated. But the pleasantly furnished room with its deep wooden windowseats, shelved recesses strewn with a collection of Victorian bric-a-brac, and two huge leather chairs with outspread arms placed within toe-toasting distance of the fireplace, was empty. It was the only habitable room in the castle during the early morning hours, the only one that was free of draughts blowing chilly as the Helm Wind along unheated stone passageways.

  With increasing curiosity she went in search of her grandmother and her unusual visitor, tripping lightly up the handsome West Staircase towards more formal apartments in which important visitors were received—important only in the sense that her grandmother wished them to be impressed with the full grandeur of her stately surroundings. The moment she opened the door of the Blue Drawing Room the sound of her grandmother's cultured slightly condescending voice proved her suspicion correct. Whoever it was that had been granted an audience within the imposing surroundings of walls lined with dark blue Indian silk; tall windows with wooden swags covered in the same exotic material; eighteenth-century footstools, sofas and tables that had been commissioned by the fifth Earl; a collection of priceless family portraits painted by famous artists; silver-framed mirrors and bronze and ormolu urns, was being subjected to the full blast of her grandmother's grand dame treatment. Prepared to act as rescuer Morva stepped quietly into the room, but her pleasant smile of welcome froze on her lips when she heard the visitor respond to some remark of her grandmother's in a mildly amused, but definitely Transatlantic drawl.

  'During my early youth I dabbled in dozens of occupations, Lady Howgill—forest ranger; ranchhand; cowboy; surveyor; blacksmith; elk hunter; horse wrangler; itinerant—you name a place, and I've most likely been there—but when my father died ten years ago I was forced to settle down to running the family business.'

  Standing still and unobserved, Morva took wide-eyed stock of the stranger she guessed instinctively was the usurper, the man who, because of loyalty owing to her brother, she felt duty-bound to dislike— the new Earl of Howgill.

  He was huge. A typical product of his natural environment, a place whose geography she had been studying during weeks spent a waiting his arrival, where mountains rose two miles higher than the level of the ocean; where cottonwood trees grew tall; precipices dropped to the depth of eternity, where the landscape was so turbulent it defied description—rock slides and ridges, steeples and crags, snowfields and canyons, streams alive with trout, gulches harbouring gold and silver ore, forests that were home to gophers, marmot, coyotes, and the huge, lumbering, deceptively cuddly-looking grizzly bear…

  She had just begun edging silently towards the door, beset by uncertainty and the shyness that had plagued her since childhood, when her grand
mother's gimlet eyes swivelled towards her. Immediately, she cut short her visitor's good-humoured confidences.

  'How very interesting! Later, you must tell me more, but now you must meet my granddaughter.' Imperiously she beckoned. 'Come here, child!

  She waited impatiently until Morva crept nearer.

  'Lady Morva Eden—the Most Honourable Earl of Howgill.' She effected the introduction with a distinct sneer.

  Morva had to tip back her head to meet the friendly gaze of clear, bright eyes that looked used to scanning distant horizons, capturing in their depths the reflection of skies that were cloudless, serene, and deep cobalt blue.

  'Glad to make your acquaintance, Lady Eden!'

  Nervously, she nodded acknowledgment, brushing cool fingertips over a palm that felt powerful as a paw, then hastily withdrawing her hand from his threatened crushing clasp. Too shy to return his keen scrutiny, her glance slid away from dense black hair curled tightly as the fleece of a close-shorn ram, down the crags and crevices of his sun- and wind-tanned profile, passed startlingly white teeth and a jutting jawline to come to rest upon a chequered shirt stretched taut across muscular shoulders, a massive chest, and sinuously moving biceps.

  Her eyes were running scared, panicky as a doe on unknown territory, yet he apparently mistook her furtive reconnaissance for a condemning stare.

  'I guess I should apologise for my informal gear.' She followed his rueful glance down towards casual shoes and rangy limbs encased in pale blue cords. 'I didn't know quite what I'd find at the end of my journey. To be honest,' he caught her unawares with a wide, engaging grin, 'I set off for Ravenscrag expecting to have to clamber over ancient ruins.'

  Before Morva could answer, her grandmother's hard, unforgiving voice intruded.

  'Then how gratified you must have felt, Lord Howgill, when you discovered that far from inheriting an empty title you were the present custodian of one of England's stateliest homes housing a priceless collection of medieval and Renaissance art, to say nothing of a thriving estate, three thousand acres of land with eight tenant farms, and a forty-acre lake!'

  The interloper appeared disappointingly unimpressed.

  'I could have been knocked down with the proverbial feather,' he shrugged, his broad width of shoulders making an incongruous contradiction of his words. 'Really, Lady Howgill, I can't quite see myself as a belted earl. In fact, my friends back home fell about laughing when they heard of my elevation to the English peerage.'

  'Indeed!' Lady Howgill's imperious nostrils flared. 'And do you also view the honourable title you have inherited as a source of vulgar amusement?'

  Morva flinched, feeling sympathy for the new earl whose unsophisticated background had rendered him ill-equipped to withstand her grandmother's crushing weight of displeasure. She looked away, fixing her eyes upon the carpet as, with fists tightly clenched, she' shared his feeling of cowed embarrassment, the sense of inadequacy her grandmother was capable of inflicting with just a few disdainful words.

  But his response, though softly drawled, was far from abject. Indeed, to Morva's shocked ears, he sounded as if he was daring to mildly censure a wilful octogenarian for her petulant, ill-mannered remark.

  'My friends are not vulgar, ma'am, they're merely frank, friendly, big-hearted Canadians who've missed out on the benefits of a privileged upbringing, who have no accepted rules of behaviour other than an innate courtesy that demands that visitors should be made welcome and put fully at their ease, together with a belief that the essence of good manners is consideration for the feelings of others—a sensibility that comes naturally to some but which appears to demand considerable effort from an unfortunate few.'

  Her grandmother's outraged gasp provided ample evidence that his lightly barbed reproach had landed directly on target, shattering the composure of the Countess who took pride in showing an example of fine breeding, irreproachable etiquette, and exemplary manners.

  'Well, really…!'

  When her grandmother lapsed into outraged silence Morva had to fight an almost irresistible urge to applaud the unlikely winner of a joust—a tilting match of words—in which the most experienced contestant had been cleverly outmanoeuvred. Unwilling admiration for the quiet-spoken Canadian grew when he attempted to placate his stiffly held, angrily flushed adversary.

  'I can understand why I must appear like a sneak thief in the corral to you and your family,' he consoled gently, 'but believe me, I'm no mountain varmint preparing to pounce on a defenceless doe.'

  Morva sensed rather than glimpsed his clear blue gaze swivelling towards the space above her downbent head, but when she looked up he was once more addressing her keenly listening grandmother.

  'I know nothing of protocol and pageantry, or of the sort of conduct expected of peers of the realm. And as business affairs eat up great chunks of my time I have no wish to take on further responsibilities. The Earldom of Howgill rightfully belongs to your grandson,' he stressed with what sounded to Morva like a hint of desperation. 'Surely a way can be found to prevent the title from passing to a very distant relative?'

  'There are no ties of blood between our two families, Lord Howgill,' her grandmother disclaimed with a haste that was almost insulting. 'You have succeeded to the earldom because you are the nearest male descendant of a former holder of the title. And no,' she confessed with a weary, regretful sigh, 'there is no way round the rare and curious situation that has resulted in my grandson being robbed of his expectations. Letters patent granted to the first Lord Howgill specify that only legitimate offspring can inherit the title. My grandson was born almost a year before his parents were married, therefore nothing can be done to put him in line to the title. The best peerage lawyer in the land was consulted. His conclusion was most definite. The Legitimacy Act excludes illegitimate children from inheriting a peerage!'

  When her grandmother dabbed at her eyes with a dainty lace handkerchief Morva cast her a suspicious glance, wondering what tricks were being secreted up the sleeve of the haughty old aristocrat who never apologised, never explained, and had certainly never been known to angle for sympathy.

  'As you can imagine,' she appealed, twisting the scrap of lace into an agitated ball, 'the news came as a great shock not only to Percy—who was, of course, the greatest loser—but also to my granddaughter and myself who have known no other home but Ravenscrag Castle.' As if having to draw upon pitiable reserves of courage she tilted her chin, yet still managed to portray an image of a frail, broken spirit when she concluded in a barely audible whisper.

  'We delayed our departure in order to extend a personal welcome to the new owner of Ravenscrag. Now that you have arrived, I shall instruct the servants to begin packing our belongings immediately.'

  With foxes one must play the fox! The old country maxim flashed through Morva's mind as she stood transfixed, watching the effect of her grandmother's cunningly dangled bait upon the unsuspecting quarry possessing an ample endowment of virility and strength yet who appeared blind to the presence of hidden snares.

  'No need to act hastily.' Awkwardly he stumbled into her grandmother's trap. 'I would consider it an honour, ma'am, if you and Lady Morva would stay and keep me company for as long as you find it convenient.'

  'How very generous!' Traitorously, Morva found herself comparing her grandmother's smile with the baring of complacent fangs. 'My granddaughter and I will be glad to delay our departure so as to assist you in any way we can to adjust to your new role in society, Lord…'

  She hesitated, pouting doubtfully. 'Oh dear! If we are to continue living under the same roof we must try to be a little less formal. If you wish, you may address me as Lady Lucy. But how am I to address you?'

  'Why not call me Troy?' His relieved grin encompassed Morva as well as her grandmother. 'I was landed with the name simply because I happened to be born on the anniversary of the day my great grandpa found his first sizeable nugget.'

  'Ah yes, I do see the connection! Troy measure is used to weigh preciou
s metals, is it not?' She smiled politely, then shook her head. 'No, I think I prefer Belvoir—pronounced Beever, of course…?'

  The new earl looked astonished. 'How on earth did you know? I've always regarded the unusual pronunciation as a family quirk!'

  'Not at all, dear boy,' she deigned to bestow a patronising smile, 'it is the proper English pronunciation. I'm relieved to discover that whatever else your ancestor may have left behind when he emigrated to Canada, his proud family name travelled with him.'

  'Very well,' he conceded with a grin. 'I don't mind your using my surname if that is what you prefer. Actually, it's rather apt. My friends insist that I work like a beaver! I take all such remarks as compliments— the busy beaver can fell a fully grown tree and strip it of bark and branches simply by using its teeth.'

  'Is that the sort of work you do, felling trees?' The question popped out before Morva could stop it. For the first time in her life she was experiencing intense curiosity about a member of the opposite sex, a man so entirely different from the few of her brother's friends who had occasionally paid them a visit that he appeared to her not just as a visitor from a Commonwealth country, but as a creature from another planet—a planet inhabited by males who grew tall and straight as trees, who had muscular bodies built as if specially designed to withstand the rigours of the great outdoors, fists fashioned to mould around the handles of razor-edged choppers; rippling, power-packed shoulder muscles; lithe, agile limbs to enable them to shin up trees or to keep a massive frame perfectly balanced upon slippery, newly felled tree trunks inching downriver towards nearby sawmills.

  When he trained his eyes in her direction she shrank inwardly, wishing the impulsive question had never been allowed to edge his firm mouth with a crinkle of amusement; to invite a look that was keen, tolerant, and puzzlingly kind, the sort of look usually reserved for children and for very young animals too timid to explore their surroundings, too unprepared for life to be separated from their family.