by Darcy Burke
Richard’s breath caught. If this didn’t work, his whole plan fell apart. Howard had been easy to convince. He loved one thing—money—although what he did with it all Richard didn’t know. Miriam was liable to be much more skeptical.
And Livingston Walsh, the prize who could give his dream wings? He would poke and prod into every detail before committing a single farthing. Cent, rather. This was America, not England.
He must succeed. His brother might have a plan for charity, but Richard decided then and there that he’d go back to England on his own terms or not at all. He had yet to reply to his brother’s astonishing letter. The one he was composing in his head went something like:
Dear Edward,
Or shall I call you Lord Briarcliff?
I will take you up on your offer. I am coming home an independent man, with a bride whom adores me almost as much as I adore her, an outcome I believe will please you.
Most sincerely,
Richard
PS: Keep your charity.
He would never write it, of course. Any missives between him and his brother must demonstrate his newfound humility. Arrogant sarcasm was Old Richard, not Reformed Richard. Besides, he hadn’t yet secured Miriam’s hand. The lady in question regarded him with serious gray eyes.
“I need to see a prospectus,” Miriam said.
“What is a prospectus?” Richard inquired with genuine confusion.
Marian laughed. “It’s a description of the business. What you hope to accomplish, how you propose to accomplish it, and estimates of the money required to achieve the goal.”
“Oh.” Richard had never considered business as a logical concern before. In England it was something one avoid unless one absolutely needed to engage with it. It suddenly occurred to him that the time he’d spent dodging creditors had materially impacted their livelihoods. He had taken things from people on the basis of his good name and then failed to repay his debts. His father, time and again, had stepped in to save him from ruin.
It made him sick to think what he might have accomplished if he had tried his hand at politics or charity work instead of trying to impress a lot of foolish, aimless gentlemen.
“I will get you one,” he promised. Even if he had to write it himself. “In the meantime, tell me more about Cliffside.”
Miriam’s hand found its way into his again. Their tea went cold as they talked. By the time he noticed the change outside the windows, afternoon had stretched into evening.
“Miriam,” he said, “I need to speak with your father. Before I do, however, I want to know… would you marry me if I asked you to?”
You’re playing into Lizzie’s hands. Howard’s words echoed through his mind. Richard shook them away. He wasn’t. Miriam was worth protecting and he meant to do it the only way he knew how. By marrying her and taking her away from the danger.
“Yes,” Miriam whispered. “In a heartbeat. Yes.”
She was in his arms. Richard couldn’t remember standing, couldn’t remember reaching for her, but her body was pressed close against his. Her clean feminine scent beguiled him.
“I wish you would come and stay with us in the country,” she breathed against his cheek. “I don’t know how it happened, or why, Richard. Every moment I spend away from you is pain greater than I can bear.”
Her words sent a shiver up his spine. He didn’t deserve her affection yet having it had awakened an insatiable hunger for more. Needing a woman for more than her body felt uncomfortably raw and tender.
“I cannot give you this week, but I can promise you a lifetime,” Richard whispered. His own words unmanned him. They made him weak. To stop himself from speaking further he kissed her. Miriam arched artlessly up to meet his embrace. Her lips were damp silk sliding over his.
Mrs. Kent again interrupted. “Ahem.”
Richard let his hand slide down her body in a long, slow, descent. Her perfect breasts flattened against his chest. His palm curved at the indent of her waist. Mrs. Kent coughed as he reluctantly let Miriam go with a daring skim over her hips. For the first time in weeks, Richard experienced real arousal. His cock was extremely interested in getting her naked, as soon as possible. They wouldn’t be the first couple to anticipate their wedding vows.
“Mr. Walsh wishes to see you,” Mrs. Kent declared in a tone of pure judgment.
“Then, I had best not keep him waiting.”
Miriam giggled. “I cannot believe this is happening. I wished on a star for it when we were at the beach together.”
“Tell me what you wished for,” Richard winked and cast a sidelong glance at Mrs. Kent. She frowned like a thunderstorm. “When we are alone. Some secrets are best kept from audiences.”
Mrs. Kent, overhearing, conveyed her disapproval by clattering the tea service as she gathered it on the tray. “Mr. Walsh has been exceptionally patient with your extended visit this afternoon. Go and see him.”
Richard reluctantly parted from Miriam and made his way through the gloom to the front portion of the house. He found Livingston in his study, boots propped on the desk, pistol within easy reach.
“I ought to have shot you when you kissed my daughter.”
“No one could have blamed you,” Richard observed. “Least of all me.”
The gruff man chuckled. It sounded like rocks clattering down a cliff, gathering speed as gravity pulled them to earth ever faster. “Close the door.”
“To spare the women the sight of my blood on your floor when you shoot me for what we both know I’m going to ask?” Richard responded archly. Firearms were a normal part of life in New York. Even in London it had been unwise to venture out at night without them. It was the thought of one being used on him that unnerved him. When Livingston threw back his head and laughed, Richard’s anxiety eased.
“I don’t want to like you, but I do,” Livingston declared. His boots hit the floor and he sat up in his wooden chair. “Have you cleared this with Miriam?”
“I told her that I was planning to ask you for her hand. She was very happy,” Richard responded, eliding the truth. In England, it was customary to approach the bride’s father first. Here, there were different rules. Richard didn’t know what the expectations were. He acted based on his understanding of Miriam’s close relationship with her father balanced with her own, fiery spirit of independence. For once, it appeared he’d hit the mark.
“No father looks forward to the day when his daughter turns her affections to another man,” Livingston observed. He reached for a decanter of amber liquid that sat on his desk and poured two glasses. The man pushed one across the scratched surface.
“Thank you, but I don’t drink.” The words were out of Richard’s mouth before temptation could speak for him.
“That isn’t what I’ve heard,” the man said. “I’ve heard you’re something of a sot. How do I know you’re not putting on a show for my benefit?”
“I suppose you don’t.” Richard’s hands shook. The amber liquid beckoned like a familiar lover promising solace. Like Lizzie, if he would only bend to her will. As that was impossible to contemplate, Richard wove his fingers together in a semblance of prayer. Let me get through this without succumbing to temptation. “I have not had a drink since meeting Miriam. I won’t deny it hasn’t been easy. You’re not making it any easier.”
Livingston Walsh peered at him with new respect. “If you say so. Don’t like to see good whiskey go to waste.” He tipped it down his throat. “Now then, I understand you’re going to ask me something.”
“With your permission, sir, I’d like to ask your daughter to marry me.” Richard dared to lean back in his chair, matching the older man’s posture. Relief and pride at speaking his mind eased the knot in his midsection that he didn’t know had been there.
Since becoming sober Richard had discovered a number of Gordian knots tying up his emotions in ways he’d never contemplated.
“What qualities do you bring to the table, other than a worthless title and questionab
le sobriety?” demanded Livingston Walsh.
Richard hadn’t seen that coming. He fixated on the empty glass, thinking how much easier this would be if he’d tossed it back like a man. He swallowed and tasted the memory of many draughts before. Alcohol was part of what had brought him under Lizzie’s spell. Richard couldn’t go back to that life. The only way through this was total honesty.
“I am heir to nothing, lord of no one. What I have is a thousand dollars in the bank, a family with a vast fortune, and a business plan.”
“Is that so?” Livingston echoed. Richard couldn’t tell if he were sneering, skeptical, or both. “You’re a man of many surprises, Northcote.”
“We have both surprised one another this afternoon,” Richard observed. “I’m to bring a prospectus to Miriam for review. She has a better head about these things than I. It will take time, but I am hopeful that this joint venture will allow me to provide for Miriam in comfort, even a measure of luxury.”
“Hm,” was all Livingston said. “Most men get their start in business much earlier in life. Not to insult you, Northcote, but you are not a young man.”
“True enough. Then again, most men don’t grow up with their every need catered to by an army of servants in England, either. I would never have considered going into business had I not come to America.” The precise circumstances of Richard’s departure from his home country were best left undiscussed. Why did he bring it up voluntarily?
“You mean after you killed your father?” Livingston didn’t need a pistol to aim right at Richard’s heart.
“Yes. It was an accident, but still my fault.” This particular admission nearly choked him to speak aloud. Bile rose in the back of his throat as Richard recalled the horrific night when he had knocked over a candelabra and set fire to the drapes in his father’s townhome. The building had been engulfed in flames within minutes. Without his brother Edward’s quick thinking, lives would have been lost in the blaze. As it was, his father had been recovering from an aneurysm brought on by Edward and Harper’s spectacular elopement. Although the late Earl of Briarcliff had been rescued from the flames, he had not survived the night. Guilt plagued Richard as if he had swallowed a nest of snakes. He could assist a thousand slaves to safety and never feel as if he’d atoned for his part in his father’s death. It didn’t mean that he shouldn’t cut them short and see to his new duty, though. “I don’t know how you found this out. I’ve only told a few people.”
Howard. Lizzie. Richard would bet his life it was the latter spreading rumors about him, trying to keep him under her control.
“I’ve made inquiries about you. You are a conundrum, Lord Northcote.” As if taunting him, Livingston poured himself another glass of amber liquid and sipped it slowly. The faint scent of burnt peat teased Richard’s nostrils. He felt his resolve crumble. But he could hardly accept now, when he had already refused. He’d look like the worst sort of liar.
“How so?” Richard asked. He was not much of a mystery. Everything about his life added up to the fact that Richard was the evil son who had killed his father. All his shameful actions in England had been motivated by concern for his family’s legacy. Richard had spent fifteen years believing with every fiber of his soul that his brother was dead and that he would be the next earl. Edward’s incredible return had shattered Richard’s world, and he’d behaved like an ass trying to make it otherwise. He had behaved like Lizzie. Selfish to the core. Heedless of who he harmed as long as he got the title which he believed he deserved, damn the rules of primogeniture.
“You have a passable reputation among New York’s finest families,” Livingston drawled. Clearly, Livingston Walsh was too rough-mannered to make the cut. Like Howard, he was a self-made man. Livingston had marginally more polish than Richard’s friend. “In fact, several men speak highly of your track record for delivering returns.”
Thank Howard for that. Richard was not above taking credit if it benefitted him, however.
“What if I want to invest in your new venture?” Livingston asked lazily. A flint-spark of hope lit in Richard’s chest.
“I am happy to share the prospectus with you as well,” Richard replied with all the nonchalance he could muster. There was no prospectus, which meant he had to write one with Howard. His friend’s caution rang in his ears. Do not involve your future wife.
Howard had said nothing about the lady’s father, however. What a neat circumvention of the problem.
“Miriam has a good eye for investments, though I fear her judgment will be clouded in your case.” Livingston grimaced. “She has been impossible to live with ever since I ordered you off our property. I have never seen her so moody.”
Richard stifled a grin with great difficulty.
“You have my permission to marry Miriam. I ask only two things of you. The first is that you care for her health as religiously as I have. Mrs. Kent has saved her life on many occasions. She stays with Miriam.”
“I swear upon my life I shall do everything within my power to keep her among the living,” Richard swore.
Livingston nodded, satisfied. “Secondly, you must never take her away from me. Miriam is my only family. I want Miriam close by, no matter what old age I achieve. Lord knows I’ve already lived a sight longer than I deserve to.”
“Done,” Richard lied. Taking Miriam to England might be far as measured in physical distance, but he reasoned it was closer than the grave. Richard no longer trusted any land where Lizzie walked free.
“Last thing. I won’t have my daughter sailing across the sea unmarried. You’ll have a ceremony here.”
“I had hoped for Miriam to meet my family before we made our union official,” Richard protested with all the diplomacy he could muster. In his mind, the marriage would take place after he had established his business and secured the title his brother dangled in his letter.
“If you want to marry Miriam, you’ll do so under my watch. Mrs. Kent stays with her. Those are my terms.” Livingston rocked back on his chair legs and tipped the last of the whiskey down his throat. He slammed the glass onto his desk and dropped the chair back to earth in a simultaneous loud bang.
“Done,” Richard agreed, scrambling up. “I shall make the arrangements.”
Damnation. Resisting the temptation to touch Miriam all the way to London was going to be hell. There was one way to keep his promise to her father. Richard would marry Miriam, but he refused to take her innocence until he had more than his stubborn, flawed heart to offer her. He was not Lizzie, and Richard was done trying to claim things he did not deserve.
Chapter 15
Two weeks passed in a whirlwind of preparation. Miriam studied the markets to discover which commodities had the best possibility of profit in England. They identified tobacco and cotton as the surest options for a successful start. Importing tobacco meant they had to go through London and pay hefty excise taxes. Despite this, Howard and Miriam insisted that for the first shipment they ought to stick with sure sales. There were the matters of insurance and customs and taxes and putting together a crew. Richard wrote and rewrote the prospectus a dozen times before he, Howard, and Livingston all signed it. All the Thetis needed was the right captain at her helm and a proper outfitting to make the voyage.
Miriam bit her tongue at being consulted but excluded from the partnership. Richard saw how it cost her to remain silent.
“I have no head for money, Miri,” he told her during one hasty afternoon visit to her father’s office. Miriam had returned to the city for a day to secure new items of clothing for her wedding and for their journey overseas. “Would you manage the finances for me? I trust your judgment better than my own.”
“How will that work?” Miriam scoffed.
“The same way it does with your Stock Exchange account.” Richard dreaded the day of their fast-approaching wedding. Once word got around that he and Miriam had married, Lizzie would undoubtedly come after him to take control of his wife’s funds and spend them on her behalf. “
I shall set up accounts with your name listed to manage it all. If you give me an account to spend from, I promise not to touch the rest.”
Miriam’s eyes widened. “You trust me with the money?”
“Yes.” For one thing, the arrangement limited how much Lizzie could extract from him. “I’ll have it written into the marriage settlement.”
Miriam’s eyebrows knit with confusion. “We don’t typically do that here.”
Ah. “Of course. Well. Given our new business venture I feel it might be a good idea to arrange one, don’t you?”
To Richard’s vast relief, Miriam agreed.
There was also the matter of securing a warehouse on the other side of the Atlantic. Richard wished he had better insights to guide them. Instead he was having to count on his network in England, a dubious proposition at best considering most of the people he’d known socially were either chronically debt-ridden or aristocrats who wouldn’t go near a trade deal for any amount of profit or both.
“We shall find a buyer for our wares,” Richard promised with more confidence than he felt. “I’ll see to it. There are tobacco divans springing up all over the city like mushrooms after a rain,”—although he didn’t know how the establishments went about purchasing their goods—“and I shall ask my brother if he knows of any acquaintances that might be interested in securing quality woven cotton. My sister-in-law might be of some help there as well.” Not that Harper owed him a single kindness after the way he’d treated her.
This morning, he had secured tickets on a comfortable ship leaving prior to Howard’s Thetis. Their plan was to arrive before the ship and secure warehouse space, in hopes of selling their goods quickly. Richard planned to use the first few weeks of his homecoming to make connections with merchants. He refused to consider the temptations he faced as his old friends tried to lure him back to his former flawed ways. There was always a newly minted lord with more money than sense to buy drinks.
“Don’t be too reasonable,” grumbled Howard. “The point is to make money, not lose our shirts. When will you see Miriam next?”