Loving a Lady (Brotherhood of the Black Tartan Book 3)

by Nichole Van

  “Of course, Mother.” Jane gave her reply automatically. If she had said more to their visitors, her mother would reprimand her for speaking too often.

  Jane pressed her fingernail into her palm. Half-moons, she thought. Concentrate on making half-moons.

  “Why are you harping on about Jane’s manners, Mother?” Peter rolled his eyes and snorted, sarcasm dripping. “The new Lord Hadley will not notice one way or another.”

  He pronounced Lord Hadley with a hostile wince, as if saying the man’s very name hurt his mouth.

  Jane shot Peter a grateful look. She could see them both reflected in the mirror above the mantel, their heads nearly touching, Peter’s tousled blond overlapping her brassier auburn. Symbolically always beside her.

  “Hadley . . . perhaps not.” Lady Hadley glanced her way. “But I’ve had another letter from Montacute, Jane, and your brother is hinting, again, at you joining him and his duchess in London for the Season. If that happens, we must focus on perfecting your behavior.”

  Jane narrowly avoided a wince herself. Only the biting pain of her nail into her palm stopped her reaction.

  Her other half-brother, the current Duke of Montacute, had exacting expectations of her. Words from his latest letter rattled through her skull:

  You must ever be mindful, sister, of the honor your name does you. You are the daughter and sister of Montacute. Your every breath should reflect the exalted circumstances of your birth.

  Nearly twenty years her senior, Montacute had always been a menacing figure, more stern father than brother, truth be told. Jane revolted at the thought of living with him and his duchess in London, forced to interact daily with their caustic selves. Worse, it would separate her from Peter.

  Her mother continued, motioning toward Jane with a languid hand, “Montacute has increased your pin money since the old earl’s death, Jane, but with the earldom on the brink of bankruptcy, I do not know how much longer you will have a home here. It all depends on what the new earl decides when he arrives. Unmarried, you are simply a drain upon both Hadley and Montacute.”

  As was proper, Montacute had assumed financial responsibility for Jane since her stepfather’s death and provided her with a monthly allowance. But her mother’s words were true—unmarried, Jane was nothing more than dross.

  Peter moved to sit, sprawling in the chair opposite, shooting her an understanding look. While neither of them was enthusiastic about having to tolerate the new Scottish earl himself, they genuinely dreaded the consequences of his choices.

  “Well, we are all drains on Hadley now, Mother,” Peter said, again distracting Lady Hadley’s attention. “He holds our purse strings, such as they are. We are all reliant on his good-will for our every need. I consider it prudent to politely avoid the man as much as possible.”

  Given that Peter could scarcely say the man’s name without grimacing in distaste, her brother was far more troubled than he let on. He was justifiably angry that Hadley—uncouth, unrefined, and currently unknown—now held Peter’s future in his hands. The hurt of being abandoned so thoroughly by his sire ran deep. Peter had been cut adrift, floating away from her, and Jane felt powerless to bring him back to shore.

  Jane sat straighter in her chair.

  “I agree with Peter,” she said. “We shall simply endure Hadley’s coming the way all English have faced Scots over the centuries—with impeccable manners, reserved politeness, and sardonic verve.”

  Peter grimaced and saluted her with a raised eyebrow. His expression mirroring her own sense of impending doom.

  To continue the story purchase Suffering the Scot from Amazon today!

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  Seeing Miss Heartstone

  A Regency Romance

  Whitney Award winner for Best Historical Romance 2018

  Seeing Miss Heartstone

  A Regency Romance

  Chapter One

  . . . My lord, news of your current financial pressures has reached many ears. I know of an interested party who would be honored to discuss a proposed joint venture. They have asked to meet you along the Long Water in Hyde Park tomorrow morning, where they shall endeavor to lay out the particulars of their proposal . . .

  —excerpt from an unsigned letter posted to Lord Blake

  In retrospect, Miss Arabella Heartstone had three regrets about ‘The Incident.’

  She should not have worn her green, wool cloak with the fox fur collar, as Hyde Park was warmer than expected that morning.

  She should not have instructed her chaperone, Miss Anne Rutger, to remain politely out of earshot.

  And she probably should not have proposed marriage to the Marquess of Blake.

  “P-pardon?” Lord Blake lifted a quizzical eyebrow, standing straight and tall, rimmed in the morning sunlight bouncing off the Long Water behind him. A gentle breeze wound through the surrounding trees, rustling newly-grown, green leaves. “Would . . . would you mind repeating that last phrase? I fear I did not hear you correctly.”

  Belle straightened her shoulders, clasped her trembling hands together, and sternly ordered her thumping heart to Cease this racket.

  Swallowing, she restated her request. “After much consideration, my lord, I feel a marriage between you and myself would be prudent.”

  Lord Blake stared at her, blinking over and over. Belle was unsure if his reaction denoted surprise or was simply the result of the dazzling sunlight off the water behind her.

  Silence.

  Birds twittered. Branches creaked. Leaves rustled.

  Eternities passed. Millennia ended and were reborn.

  Belle gritted her teeth, desperate to bolster her flagging confidence. You are strong and courageous. You can do this.

  In the past, her passivity over the Marriage Matter had nearly ended in disaster. So, Belle had set her sights on a more forthright course—propose marriage herself. Yes, she struggled to talk with people and preferred anonymity to attention, but her current situation was critical.

  She needed a husband. Decidedly. Desperately. Immediately. As in . . . yesterday would not have been soon enough.

  At the moment, however, her mental encouragement barely managed to convince the swarming butterflies in her stomach to not free her breakfast along with themselves. Casting up her accounts all over his lordship’s dusty Hessian boots would hardly nurture his romantic interest.

  At last, Lord Blake stirred, pulling a folded letter from his overcoat. He stared at it, eyebrows drawing down, a sharp “V” appearing above his nose.

  “You sent me this message, asking to meet me here?” He flapped the letter in her direction.

  “Yes.” Belle bit down on her lip and darted a glance behind at her companion. Miss Rutger stood a solid thirty yards off, studiously facing the Long Water. “Well . . . uhm . . . in all truthfulness, Miss Rutger wrote the letter.”

  Lord Blake raised his eyebrows, clearly uncaring of the minutiae involved. “So you are not a gentleman interested in my business venture in the East Indies?” He unfolded the letter, reading from it. “‘I know of an interested party who would be honored to discuss a proposed joint venture. They have asked to meet you along the Long Water,’ et cetera. This ‘interested party’ is yourself?” He returned the letter to his pocket.

  “Yes, my lord.” Belle commanded her feet to hold still and not bounce up and down—the bouncing being yet another effect of those dratted nervous butterflies.

  Lord Blake’s brows rose further. “And you are offering . . . marriage?”

  “Yes, my lord,” Belle repeated, but she had to clarify the point. Apparently, she had no issue with being thought forward and brazen, but heaven forbid Lord Blake imagine her a liar, too. “Though . . . I am proposing a joint endeavor.”

  “Indeed,” he paused. “Marriage usually implies as much.”

  Lord Blake shuffled a Hessian-booted foot and clasped his hands behind his back. A corner of his mouth twitched.

  Was the man . . . amus
ed? If so, was that good? Or bad?

  And at this point, did it matter?

  Belle soldiered on. “There would be significant advantages to both of us with such a match.”

  More silence. An errant draft of wind tugged at his coat.

  “You have me at a disadvantage, Miss . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Heartstone. Miss Arabella Heartstone.”

  “I see.” He removed his hat and slapped it against his thigh. “And why have we not met in more . . . uh . . . typical circumstances? A ball, perhaps? A dinner party where we could be properly introduced and engage in conversation about the weather and the latest bonnet fashions before leaping straight to marriage?”

  “Oh.” It was Belle’s turn to blink, absorbing his words. Oh dear. “We have met, my lord. We were introduced at Lord Pemberley’s musicale last month. We did discuss the weather, but not bonnets or . . . uhm . . . marriage.”

  She hadn’t expected him to recall everything, but to not even recognize her? To not remember their brief conversation—

  “How do you do, Miss Heartstone? It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Lord Blake bowed.

  “The pleasure is all mine, my lord.” Belle curtsied. “Lovely weather we’re having.”

  “Indeed, we are.”

  It did not bode well.

  The butterflies rushed upward, eager for escape.

  “Right.” Blake let out a gusting breath and shook his head, sending his hair tumbling across his forehead. The morning sun turned it into molten shades of deep amber, curling softly over his ears.

  Lean and several inches taller than her own average height, Lord Blake was not classically handsome, she supposed. His straight nose, square jaw, and high forehead were all too exaggerated for classical handsomeness.

  And yet, something about him tugged at her. Perhaps it was the breadth of his shoulders filling out his coat. Or maybe it was the ease of his stance, as if he would face the jaws of Hell itself with a sardonic smile and casual sang-froid. Or maybe it was the way he ran a gloved hand through his hair, taking it from fashionably tousled to deliciously rumpled.

  Mmmmm.

  Belle was going to side with the hair. Though sardonic smiles were a close second.

  Regardless, her decision to offer marriage to him had not been based on his physical appearance. She was many things, but flighty and shallow were two words that had never been attached to her.

  Replacing his hat, Lord Blake studied her, blue eyes twinkling.

  Yes. Definitely amused.

  That was . . . encouraging? Having never proposed marriage to a man before, Belle was unsure.

  “Enlighten me, if you would be so kind, as to the particular reasons why you think this . . . joint endeavor . . . would be profitable.” He gestured toward her.

  Oh! Excellent.

  That she had come prepared to do.

  With a curt nod, she pulled a paper from her reticule.

  “A list?” His lips twitched again.

  “I am nothing if not thorough in my planning, my lord.” She opened the paper with shaking fingers, her hands clammy inside her gloves.

  “Of course. I should have expected as much. You arranged this meeting, after all.” He tapped the letter in his pocket.

  Belle chose to ignore the wry humor in his tone and merely nodded her head in agreement. “Allow me to proceed with my list. Though please forgive me if my reasons appear forward.”

  “You have just proposed marriage to a peer of the realm, madam. I cannot imagine anything you say from this point onward will trump that.”

  “True.”

  A beat.

  Lord Blake pinned her with his gaze—calm and guileless. The forthright look of a man who knew himself and would never be less-than-true to his own values.

  His gaze upset her breathing, causing something to catch in her throat.

  Belle broke eye-contact, swallowing too loudly.

  “Allow me to begin.” She snapped the paper in her hand. The words swam in her vision, but she knew them by heart. The paper was more for show than anything else. She had done her calculations most carefully.

  Taking a fortifying breath, Belle began, “Firstly, you have newly inherited the Marquisate of Blake from a cousin. Your cousin was somewhat imprudent in his spending habits—”

  “I would declare the man to be an utter scapegrace and wastrel, but continue.”

  “Regardless of the cause, your lands and estates are in dire need of resuscitation.” Belle glanced at him over the top of her paper. “You are basically without funds, my lord.”

  “As my solicitor repeatedly reminds me.” He shot her an arch look. “It is why I am trying to fund a business venture in connection with the East India Company, as you are also undoubtedly aware.”

  “Yes, my lord. That is why I am proposing an enterprise of a slightly different sort. Allow me to continue.” Belle cleared her throat, looking down to her paper. “My own family is genteel with connections to the upper aristocracy—my great-great grandfather was the Earl of Stratton—though we have no proper title of our own, leaving my father to make his own way in the world. I, as you might already know, am a considerable heiress. My father was a prominent banker and left the entirety of his estate to me upon his death three years past.”

  Belle clenched her jaw against the familiar sting in her throat.

  Blink, blink, blink.

  Now was not the time to dwell upon her father.

  “Are you indeed?” he asked. “Though I do not wish to sound crass, I feel we left polite discussion in the dust several minutes ago, so I must enquire: How much of an heiress are you, precisely?”

  Did she hear keen interest in his tone? Or was Lord Blake simply exceedingly polite?

  “I believe the current amount stands somewhere in the region of eighty thousand pounds, my lord,” she replied.

  Lord Blake froze at that staggering number, just as Belle had predicted he would.

  “Eighty thousand pounds, you say? That is a dowry of marquess-saving proportions.”

  “My thoughts precisely, my lord.”

  Her father had originally left her a healthy sixty thousand pounds, but she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. Numbers and statistics flowed through her brain, a constant rushing river. She had used these skills to grow her fortune.

  It was what her father would have wanted. Refusing to see her gender as a barrier, her father had taught his only child everything he knew—financial systems, probabilities, market shares—even soliciting her opinions during that last year before his death.

  By the age of sixteen, Belle understood more about supply-and-demand and the mathematics of economics than most noblemen. Knowing this, the conditions in her father’s will allowed her to continue to oversee her own interests with the help of his solicitor, Mr. Sloan. At only nineteen years of age, she currently managed a thriving financial empire.

  She could hear her father’s gruff voice, his hand gently lifting her chin. I would give you choices, my Little Heart Full. A lady should always have options. I would see you happy.

  Belle swallowed back the painful tightness in her throat.

  Now, if she could only land a husband and free herself from the guardianship of her uncle and mother.

  Family, it turned out, were not quite as simple to manage as corn shares.

  Her mother, hungry for a title for her daughter, was becoming increasingly bold in her attempts to get Belle married. She had all but forced Belle to betroth herself to a cold, aloof viscount the previous Season. Fortunately, the viscount—Lord Linwood—had asked to be released from their betrothal.

  But the entire situation had left Belle feeling helpless.

  She detested feeling helpless, she realized. And so she used that unwelcome sensation to suppress her inherent shyness and overcome her retiring personality.

  Belle would solve the husband problem herself. She simply needed to reduce the entire situation to a statistical probabil
ity and face it as she would any other business transaction.

  “Eighty-thousand pounds,” Lord Blake repeated. “Are husbands—particularly the marquess variety—generally so costly?” He clasped his hands behind his back, studying her. “I had not thought to price them before this.”

  “I cannot say. This is my first venture into, uhmm . . .”

  “Purchasing a husband?” he supplied, eyes wide.

  Heavens. Was that a hint of displeasure creeping into his voice?

  “I am not entirely sure I agree with the word purchase, my lord—”

  “True. It does smack of trade and all polite society knows we cannot have that.”

  A pause.

  “Shall we use the word negotiate instead?” she asked.

  He cocked his head, considering. “I daresay that would be better. So I receive a sultan’s ransom and your lovely self, and you receive . . .” His words drifted off.

  “A husband. And in the process, I become Lady Blake, a peeress of the realm.”

  “Are you truly so hungry to be a marchioness? Surely eighty thousand pounds could purchase—forgive me, negotiate—the title of duchess.” His words so very, very dry.

  “I am sure my mother would agree with you, my lord, but I am more interested in finding a balance between title and the proper gentleman.” She cleared her throat. “You come highly recommended.”

  “Do I?” Again, his tone darkly sardonic.

  Oh, dear.

  But as she was already in for more than a penny, why not aim for the whole pound?

  “I did not arrive at the decision to propose marriage lightly. I had my solicitor hire a Runner to investigate you. I have armed myself with information, my lord.”

  Belle wisely did not add that, after crunching all the statistical probabilities, Lord Blake had been by far and away her preferred candidate. She was quite sure that, like most people, he would not appreciate being reduced to a number.

  “Information? About me?” he asked.

  “Yes. For example, I know you recently cashed out of the army, selling the officer’s commission you inherited from your father. All those who served with you report you to be an honest and worthy commander—”