The Spinster's
Stolen Heart
Preview
Prologue
Two Years Previously
The man’s rasping coughs echoed through the too-small room.
“More water, Papa?” Pippa asked, keeping her voice soft and calm. The physician had already told them that the end was near, and that loud voices and sharp words would only distress him.
Phillip Randall nodded eagerly at the prospect of water, and Pippa carefully allowed him to take small sips from the glass beside his bed. As she did so, she noticed a film of dust on the bedside table. The chores weren’t being done. Their last remaining housemaid had reluctantly given her notice only a few weeks ago, and now only a maid-of-all-work remained. And that ƒWipoor maid was also owed back wages.
Back wages which they couldn’t afford to pay. The last of their savings had gone to pay the physician.
The poor girl worked harder than ever now. Before Mr. Randall’s sudden illness, Pippa had helped the maid with the cleaning and cooking, but now she was required to act as a nurse, and poor Joan had all the work to do herself.
Turning pointedly away from the dust, Pippa glanced over at her father.
Phillip had never been a strong man. Tall, thin, dark-haired and blue-eyed like his daughter, he had always been content to live a quiet life in his little country estate. The three of them had led a pleasant and simple little life for as long as Pippa could remember. She couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment that things had begun to change, when the scrimping and saving had begun to start.
Now, of course, they were used to it – turning up cuffs, carefully hemming and darning and patching, doing their own dusting and eating simple, one-course meals. Even then, Pippa hadn’t minded. Why would she need a London Season or new gowns? All she needed were her books, her peace, and her family.
My family is fractured, my peace is gone. How long will the rest of it last?
She put these selfish thoughts from her mind and concentrated on her father.
“How about some food, Papa? Some porridge, perhaps?”
Phillip shook his head dizzily. “Need… I need to talk to you. To you both.”
Pippa glanced over her shoulder at where her mother paced up and down the room. A fire was blazing in the grate, heaped high. It was too hot for the warm spring day, but Phillip felt the cold so keenly now.
Lady Bridget Randall, Viscountess, had her face set in its habitual expression of mulishness. There was something else in her face now, something Pippa was trying her best not to think about.
Grief.
Pippa was no fool. She knew that her parents had had their grievances over the years, and plenty of arguments into the bargain. And yet they loved each other, which was rare enough in the world. Bridget had not spoken of how she felt about losing her husband, and Pippa didn’t dare bring up the subject because of the question which would invariably follow.
What will we do next?
Phillip pushed himself up onto his elbows, clammy sweat standing out on his forehead.
“When I die, my title will pass from me and our family,” he said insistently. “As will the estate. You’ll get a widow’s settlement, Bridget, but it’s not much. And there’s nothing for you, Pippa. No dowry.”
“Pippa is barely twenty-one,” Bridget spoke up. It was the first time she’d spoken aloud since the physician left, taking any hope with him. “She can marry well.”
Pippa said nothing. She’d been doing that a great deal lately. Keeping the peace was harder and harder with each passing day and mostly involved keeping her mouth shut and her opinions to herself.
Phillip winced in pain, closing his eyes and lowering himself back onto the pillows.
“But if she doesn’t…”
“She will,” Bridget snapped, shooting a sharp glance at her only daughter. “You have spoiled her terribly, Phillip, but now it’s time for her to grow up and make some sensible decisions. I’ll see to that.”
Pippa bit into her lower lip until it hurt.
Don’t start an argument. Don’t make Papa’s last hours full of strife and anger. You can argue with Mama later.
“If she doesn’t,” Phillip persisted, “then something else must be done. Bridget, you must go to your brother.”
Bridget stiffened, and the air seemed to rush out of the room. “My brother? The illustrious Duke of Dunleigh? I’m not a Willenshire anymore, Phillip. My brother turned his back on me when I married you. He said I’d demeaned myself. I daresay he and his whey-faced wife will laugh about it when they find out I’m widowed. Them and their pack of sons.”
“And their daughter,” Pippa found herself saying. “Katherine. Her name is Katherine.”
Bridget shot an annoyed look at her daughter. “What does it matter, Pippa?”
Phillip reached out a trembling hand and laid it on his daughter’s. “Don’t be cruel to Pip once I’m gone, Bridget.”
She folded her arms. “I’m never cruel to her, only realistic. It’s not my fault your daughter has her head in the clouds all the time.”
“Our daughter,” Phillip corrected. “Pip, darling, could you stoke up the fire? I’m a little chilly.”
Wordlessly, Pippa got up and moved over to the fire. The heat gushed out from it, washing over her skin as she approached. Even so, she dutifully squatted before it and piled on more of their precious firewood. Behind her, she heard the rustle of skirts as her mother approached the bed. She glanced briefly over her shoulder and saw that Bridget had sat down on the stool which Pippa had just vacated. She was leaning forward, resting her cheek on Phillip’s hand, which lay on the top of the eiderdown.
“You can’t do this to me, Phillip,” Bridget said, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “You can’t leave me. You promised. It was going to be you and I together, right until the end. I threw away everything for you – friends, family, fortune – and I never regretted it, not for an instant. But once you’re gone, what will I have?”
“I’m sorry, love,” Phillip responded, sounding anguished. “Truly, I am. But I mean what I say about reaching out to your brother. Things are going to be difficult for you and Pip once I’m gone, and I don’t believe you understand just how difficult.”
“I’m no fool,” Bridget answered, voice crisp. “I know my life will change.”
“But so will hers, Bridget. You have to protect her. You have to care for Pippa.”
Over by the fire, Pippa hunched over, staring into the flames. The heat made her face flush and itch, but she couldn’t bring herself to move away. She knew that she wasn’t meant to be hearing this.
A fit of coughing suddenly wracked Phillip’s frail body, fluid rattling in his lungs. Bridget gave a cry, backing away from the bed, hands pressed over her mouth.
“Phillip, no! No! I can’t, not without you! I just can’t!”
Abandoning the fire, Pippa threw herself across the room, onto her knees by her father’s bed, and grabbed at his hands. His face was waxy, pale as bone. Pale as death. There was a brightness in his eyes which hadn’t been there before, like the sheen on a fevered brow. His breathing was laboured, rattling horribly.
“I love you, Papa,” Pippa whispered, realising for the first time that she was crying, tears streaking hotly down her cheeks.
“I know, my darling girl,” Phillip wheezed. “Promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“You won’t stop playing your violin, will you? Even after I’m dead, and you have to leave this house and go somewhere smaller. Even when the hard times come, as I know they will. You have such a talent, and I’ve always had such pleasure in listening to your music.”
“I won’t, Papa, I swear it. I’ll play for you now, right now.”
“No, no, darling, it’s too late,” he lifted a trembling hand, patting her cheek. “I know your mother thinks that her brother – your uncle – won’t help you once I’m gone, but I wish you would try. More than that, Pip, I want you to be happy. I want you to find love. It’s not easy to find, I can testify to that, but it is worth it. I swear to you, it’s worth it.”
Pippa was sobbing now, and she could hear her mother’s stifled sobs behind her.
“I promise, Papa,” she managed. “I swear it.”
“That’s my girl. And, Bridget?” Phillip’s cloudy gaze drifted over Pippa’s head, fixing on his wife.
“I’ll never forgive you for leaving me,” Bridget wept.
“Perhaps not,” he conceded, “but I want you to know, Bridget, that you are the best thing that ever happened to me. A blessing that I never looked for. You are the love of my life, and I do not regret a single instant that we spent together. Even the bad times were good times, because they were spent with you. And I want you to help our girl find that kind of love.”
Bridget didn’t answer. She was crying too hard.
At the end of this speech, Phillip gave a long, ragged sigh, and his hand slipped back down to the eiderdown, and lay there limply. In between one heartbeat and the next, the light faded out of his eyes.
And just like that, Lord Phillip Randall died, leaving behind a grieving widow and a penniless daughter.
Pippa knew, even as she wailed and grieved for her parent, that her life would never be the same again.
Chapter One
Present Day
Pippa spotted a small hole in the sleeve of her gown, about halfway up the forearm. She bit back a sigh of resignation.
There was a travelling sewing kit in her bag, of course, but the ramshackle old carriage was jolting around too much to allow her to try and fix it as they travelled. She would arrive at their destination, then, with a hole in her gown.
In case they didn’t already believe that we were poor, miserable relations, we will make it clearer still, Pippa thought miserably.
The carriage was a hired one, and Bridget had haggled down the price until it was something they could afford. They had walked a good deal of the way, and taken a stagecoach another part of the way, but Bridget was insistent that they could not turn up at their destination looking like peasants. At least this way they could stretch out, just the two of them in the carriage, instead of jostling elbows against shouting fishwives and stinking butchers.
Frankly, Pippa thought it would be better for their case if they did. They were coming for charity, after all.
“Sit up straight, Pippa,” Bridget snapped. “And don’t look so miserable. You could be a pretty girl, if you only used your advantages better. I won’t have them thinking we’re gawping countryfolk.”
But we are gawping countryfolk.
Pippa kept her mouth closed and straightened up.
“Do you think they’ll be happy to see us?” she said at last, after a few more minutes of uncomfortable silence. Her backside was horribly sore from being jolted about on the hard carriage seat, and she was desperate to have something to take her mind off it. “My cousins, I mean.”
There was a long pause before her mother responded.
“I don’t know,” Bridget answered simply. “William, the oldest, is the Duke of Dunleigh now. He was always such a serious boy and reminded me so much of his father. If he’s a copy of the old duke, my brother, then we’re in a great deal of trouble, my girl.”
Pippa didn’t need to ask what sort of trouble they would be in.
The months after Phillip’s death had passed in a daze of grief and privations. The next Viscount and his wife had come to take their dues and had reluctantly turned Pippa and Bridget out of the house. It was no longer their house, after all. It belonged to the Viscount Randall, whoever he was. Bridget’s widow’s jointure was thin, and the new viscount did not offer to supplement it. A distant cousin, it wasn’t really his responsibility to care for them, even though he did let them stay for a few weeks in the house. He brought a fortune of his own, it turned out, so the new Viscount Randall would not have to scrimp and save. He kept on Joan, the maid-of-all-work, and took on new servants.
Bridget and Pippa had taken a cottage a little way away from the Randall estate, and then a smaller cottage, and then finally a set of rooms above a shop in the town. Their income barely covered the rent and their food.
After six or eight months of this, Bridget had swallowed her pride and written to her brother, the Duke of Dunleigh, explaining the situation and asking for help.
She received a terse, negative letter in response. No help was forthcoming, and their last hope was gone.
And then news trickled to the countryside that the Duke of Dunleigh was dead. Some sort of riding accident, it seemed.
Bridget was exultant, sure that her nephews and niece would do something for them now. They had missed the funeral, which was a shame, but she was so sure that help would come.
Months ticked by. News came that Katherine had married, and then the three boys in quick succession, and the Willenshire family thrived. No help came.
When their credit was finally turned down at the grocer’s, Pippa came home and told her mother that something needed to be done. They agonized over sending a letter, which might be ignored, and finally, finally, came to a decision.
There’d be no letter, no warning. They would simply go to London and confront the Willenshires at their home.
The closer they got, however, the more Pippa began to worry. They were poor relations, and there was no real love between them and the family. She remembered spending some time with Katherine when they were children, but would Katherine remember? What if they were brushed aside like leaves in the wind?
Lifting her hand to her lips, Pippa began to bite her nails.
“Stop that,” Bridget snapped. She was leaning up against the seat opposite, eyes closed, and Pippa wasn’t entirely sure how her mother knew that she was biting her nails.
She returned her hand to her lap. “Sorry, Mama. I’m just nervous.”
“So am I. But we’ll be there before nightfall, so calm down and try and compose yourself. We don’t want to seem too desperate.” She opened her eyes, sweeping a calculating look over her daughter from head to foot. “Tidy up your hair, can’t you? And when we get closer, pinch your cheeks a little to put some colour into them. You’re white as a sheet, and you don’t want to look like a spinster. You want to look marriageable.”
Pippa bit back a sigh, obediently running her hands over her hair.
She was proud of her hair, which was thick and wavy, coming to her waist, and had a rich chestnut shade. However, it was a lot of hair to manage, especially with no maid or anybody to help her put it up beyond her mother.
At twenty-three years old, Pippa had no more marital prospects than she’d had two years ago, before her father died. The memory of him still made her chest clench. Not a day went by without her thinking of his last words, his last request, and how she’d failed already.
“Pip, I want you to be happy. I want you to find love. It’s not easy to find, I can testify to that, but it is worth it. I swear to you, it’s worth it.”
I’m trying, Papa. I swear, I’m trying, it’s just so hard.
Pippa was pretty enough, but not in a particularly eye-catching way. At the moment, society loved unusual beauties, and women who stood out – ethereal blondes, sleek, raven-haired ladies, women with red-gold hair like goddesses.
With brown hair and blue eyes, Pippa was not exactly remarkable. She was of average height, with a decently featured face, and an ordinary sort of figure. Besides, there hadn’t been much Society for them now that they were plain old Miss Randall and the Dowager Viscountess. At times, it felt as though they were still in mourning, going nowhere and seeing no one.
Stop wallowing in self-pity, she scolded herself. Papa wouldn’t want it.
“Your cousin William might give us an allowance,” Bridget murmured, half to herself. “He can certainly afford it. Ideally, they might even take you out into Society for a Season. Sponsor you, you know. If so, you must resolutely apply yourself and approach the matter with due seriousness. Cast aside any fanciful notions of romance, my dear. It would be prudent to select a gentleman of considerable means and enter into matrimony for reasons of practicality rather than sentiment.”
Pippa pressed her lips together. “Papa wanted me to find love.”
“Your Papa was not practical,” Bridget shot back coldly. “If he had been, he would have left you a dowry and me a larger widow’s settlement.”
A flash of anger went through Pippa. “That’s not fair, Mama. You loved him, I know you did. You and Papa married for love.”
“Indeed, we did,” Bridget conceded. “And now I darn my own dresses.”
There was a taut silence after that. Pippa swallowed hard, trying to calm herself down. She’d found herself all but raging at her mother more times than she could count over the past two years. Living in such close quarters was always a recipe for disaster, and Bridget seemed to have become colder and sharper since the death of her husband.
She’s the only family I have left, Pippa reminded herself. We have to stick together.
She leaned forward, clearing her throat. “Mama, what will we do if Cousin William won’t see us? What if they won’t help us?”
Bridget’s face tightened, and Pippa guessed that her mother had considered this possibility many times over the past few days.
“I don’t know,” she answered bluntly. “This is our last hope.”
Pippa sat back, a shiver of fear going through her. The plain fact of the matter was that they had no home to go back to. Their rented rooms with its hired furniture would not be waiting for them back home. They could not afford to travel to London and pay for their rooms. Doubtless their landlord had already ushered in some hapless new family.
Not that Pippa had been reluctant to leave. The rented rooms had never felt like home, and their rapid fall had been noticed and catalogued by the town. The rector’s wife occasionally brought charity-baskets around for Pippa and her mother, and that was almost too humiliating to bear. They saw the new Viscount and his family in church, and relations between them were strained. The townsfolk made it clear that they thought the new Viscount ought to do something for Pippa and her mother, and the new Viscount had made it equally clear that he disagreed. He had become mulish and resentful under the social pressure and did not bother to hide his annoyance.
No, there was nothing for them back home. Home, as it was, had disappeared entirely.
I wish I could believe that London would be any better, Pippa thought tiredly. If only…
She did not get to finish this thought, because at that instant, there was a resounding crack and the carriage lurched sideways throwing Pippa and her mother hard against the door.
“What in heaven’s name…?” Bridget squawked. “Pippa, do step outside and ascertain what is amiss. Are we perhaps ensconced in a ditch? Inquire of that insufferable coachman what he believes he is about. At this pace, he shall jolt us all into a state of utter disarray.”
There was nothing to do but obey. Pippa climbed awkwardly out of the carriage and discovered that they were indeed in a ditch. The carriage stood at an angle, the front left-side axle dug into the dirt. She saw the problem at once.
“The wheel’s broken,” she said aloud.
The coachman had come down from his perch and was standing on top of the ditch, staring down at the crippled carriage in resignation. He shot her an annoyed look.
“I can see that, Miss,” he responded. “Are you hurt?”
“No, we’re not hurt. But how long will this delay us?”
The coachman sighed, glancing up at the darkening sky. “I doubt help will come anytime soon, and we won’t be setting off again until morning.”
Pippa’s heart sank. “What? You mean we have to stay in the carriage all night?”
The driver shrugged. “I’d suggest you stay in an inn. There’s one just over yonder. Unless, of course, you can walk to your destination.”
“Walk?” Bridget chipped in, climbing ungracefully out of the carriage. “We’re not walking up to my relative’s house like a couple of paupers, our bags on our backs. You’ll take us there, as we agreed.”
The coachman shrugged again. “As you like. But then you’ll need to find somewhere to spend the night.”
Pippa turned to her mother, dropping her voice. “Can we afford an inn?”
Bridget’s face tightened. “Just about.”
“We could walk.”
“No.”
The word was uttered with finality. Bridget turned to face her daughter fully.
“Appearances are everything, and first impressions are crucial. We shall commence our journey as we intend to continue, arriving in a manner befitting proper ladies.” She turned to the coachman. “Will you bring our boxes up to the inn?”
He grunted an affirmation, and Bridget turned away with a sigh.
“Come along, then. Let us make haste before all their lodgings for the night are taken. And for heaven’s sake, repair that tear in your sleeve. You appear quite dishevelled.”
*
It was not a particularly nice inn. The innkeeper looked them both up and down, pursed her lips, and bluntly requested payment upfront. Pippa saw the way her mother clenched her jaw against the obvious insult, and carefully counted out their precious coins to pay. She felt like stepping forward and slamming her fist against the counter.
Don’t you know that my cousin is the Duke of Dunleigh? She would shout. My father was the Viscount Randall. We’re ladies.
She didn’t bother, of course. Calling on the names of rich relations wouldn’t make more money appear in their purses, and the innkeeper probably wouldn’t believe them anyway.
They were shown to a small, dusty room with cobwebs in the corner and a gritty, unswept floor. There was one bed for them both to share, and it creaked ominously when Pippa sat on it. She bit back a sigh and turned her attention to the hole in her sleeve.
“This might serve us better, now I think about it,” Bridget murmured, pacing up and down. “We can arrive in the middle of the morning, as if we were paying a call, rather than at the end of the day like a pair of supplicants.”
“That’s what we are, though, isn’t it?” Pippa remarked. “Supplicants. Poor relations.”
She’d made a mistake. Bridget rounded on her.
“I will not have you spouting such nonsense,” she hissed. “I am a Viscountess, and you are a viscount’s daughter. My brother was a duke, and a rich one. I was a rich woman. When you marry – and you’ll marry well, I shall make sure of it – all will be righted again. We are coming to take our rightful place in Society, and don’t you forget it.”
Pippa avoided her mother’s eye, bending over her sewing.
“I liked our old place in Society,” she muttered.
Bridget pretended not to hear her.
“We shall go to bed early, I think,” she said, half to herself. “And start fresh in the morning. Our fates rest upon the morrow, and all must be executed to perfection.”
Chapter Two
Whitmore Manor, London
“You must attend, Nathan. You cannot withdraw, not for this gathering.”
Nathan bit back a sigh. There was so much work to be done. Ledgers to review, documents to write up, just endless, endless work. He couldn’t concentrate, not with his mother demanding so much of his attention.
“Nobody will notice if I’m not there,” he objected.
“Lord Davenport will notice. He’s a family friend, and it is Amanda’s first Season. She is his daughter, and you’ve known her for years. You must go.”
“I’m not sure Amanda will care if I go or not. I went to her come-out, didn’t I?”
There was a brief silence, and Nathan risked a glance up at his mother. She was, unsurprisingly, frowning at him.
Nathan’s study was a small room, designed with practicality in mind rather than design. He was well aware that his mother hated the poky little space, equally as much as she had when the previous Viscount Whitmore, Nathan’s father, had occupied it.
Lady Rose Whitmore was a diminutive woman, small and bright like a bird. She still preferred black velvet and pearls, as if still in mourning, and her greying hair was kept neatly pulled back. The black velvet aged her more than any wrinkles, and she was still a remarkably beautiful woman.
Nathan resembled his father, with his tall, broad-shouldered frame and pale brown hair. However, his eyes belonged solely to his mother, being large, sharp, and green. He did not consider himself handsome, with a face and figure more suited to striding around a muddy field in all weathers, rather than donning silk and dancing slippers.
“I have so much work to do, Mother,” he tried again. “Lord Davenport will understand.”
“He won’t,” Rose answered with finality. “I must insist that you escort me, Nathan. If you don’t attend, the insult will be too deep to ignore.”
That was a point he could not argue with. Sighing, Nathan replaced his quill pen, leaned back in his seat, and eyed his mother.
“You really want me to go?”
Rose pursed her lips. “You must go, Nathan.”
He sighed again. The Season was coming to an end, at long last. Nathan would have preferred to head to the countryside when London began to fill up for the yearly Season, but his work wouldn’t permit him. Furthermore, his mother would merely admonish him to make an appearance.
“I thought you’d have given up on finding me a bride for this Season, Mother,” he drawled. “I thought I’d been clear.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Do you know what Lord Colin Beckett says about you? The man who’s known you since childhood, and your dearest friend? He says that you throw yourself into work too much, and it’ll leave you a sad old bachelor one day.”
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about me behind my back to my friend,” Nathan responded, a little shaken. “Why should I marry if I don’t wish to?”
“Because if you don’t, you’ll be alone. I won’t live forever, Nathan,” Rose shot back. “Family is the most important thing in the world, and aside from me, you don’t have one. Your work won’t sit by the fire with you and hold your hand.”
I’m too tired for this.
“Very well, very well,” Nathan snapped ungraciously, getting to his feet. “I said I would come, and so I suppose I must. Now, if you don’t mind, Mother, I’d best go and get ready.”
“I’m glad,” Rose said, all smiles now that she’d gotten her way. “I’ve ordered the carriage for six o’ clock sharp.”
He grunted and stepped past her into the hallway. There was a mirror hanging opposite the door to his study, and Nathan found himself suddenly confronted with his reflection. He flinched, and paused, leaning forward to inspect himself.
Nathan had never been a dandy. In fact, he despised the over-reliance on ever-changing fashions one saw in the world these days. Good looks were a piece of good luck and not much else, and really counted for nothing. It was unfair that ladies were expected to market themselves by the blind luck of how their faces were shaped. Now, money was an asset worth having. Nathan recalled all too well the hard days of his youth, when a few bad investments and a run of ill luck had brought the Whitmore family almost to ruin.
Almost.
It had been hard work and perseverance which had brought them back from the brink, and now the Whitmores were a wealthy and well-respected family once again.
If he allowed himself to grow distracted, might they not slip back again? Nathan leaned closer to his reflection. Had that line between his eyebrows always been there? He forced himself to relax his forehead, but the line remained. He rubbed the space with his forefinger. The line remained, etched into his skin.
Shaking off the thought, he turned resolutely away from the mirror and hurried upstairs. If the carriage was coming at six, that didn’t leave him much time to get ready.
I hope you appreciate this, Davenport, he thought sourly.
*
“You shall ask Miss Davenport to dance, won’t you?” Rose asked.
Nathan, who had been staring out of the window and watching the dark scenery flash by, heaved a sigh. “Yes, Mother.”
“And don’t sigh like a dissatisfied child every few minutes.”
“I shall not.”
Rose adjusted her muffler, leaning back against the plush carriage seats. This was their finest carriage, freshly lacquered, with new padding on the seats and a few rugs and furs set aside solely to be used inside. It was a mark of pride for Nathan, keeping the carriage immaculate and up to date. In times gone by, people had pursed their lips in amusement when the Whitmore carriage rolled by, mud-splashed, and lopsided, with squeaky springs.
Not anymore. Not ever again, not if Nathan had anything to do with it.
Even the Davenports had been a little ashamed to own their friendship, in those days.
“You haven’t answered my question,” Rose pressed. “You must ask Miss Davenport to dance.”
“I shall,” he answered, hearing a touch of defensiveness in his own voice.
Stop it. You aren’t a petulant child, so don’t act like one.
Rose seemed satisfied with this and gave him a faint smile.
“Poor Amanda has had such a bad Season,” she added, sighing.
He frowned. “Really? I thought she was quite a success.”
“She was, but the Season is coming to an end, and still no betrothal. She’s quite downhearted. Not even an eligible proposal, from what I heard. It makes no sense, she’s such a pretty girl.”
“There’s always next year.”
Rose threw him an affectionate glance. “You would say that, Nathan. It’s different for ladies. Amanda is nineteen years old, after all.”
“What an advanced age,” Nathan remarked wryly. “Being eight years older than her, I must be positively ancient.”
“It’s different for men,” Rose said, as if that answered all of his questions and left nothing more to discuss. Nathan let the subject drop.
Anyhow, they were almost upon their destination.
*
Davenport House was huge, with cavernous ceilings and recently redecorated hallways. Every noise echoed. With the ballroom packed with people, music, and chatter, the noise was deafening.
Rose was immediately pounced upon by her little retinue of matrons, widows, and dowagers, and they all hustled away to sit by the wall and gossip. Nathan was left alone.
He prowled around the edges of the party, thinking about the paperwork waiting for him at home, and wondered how soon he could leave.
He spotted Lord Colin Beckett – or rather, Colin spotted him – and the man hurried towards him.
Colin was about twenty-five and betrothed to a very lovely girl. He was short and round, with a mop of tight red curls and a perpetual smile.
“I was surprised to see you here,” Colin remarked, falling into step beside his friend. “Did you mother force you out?”
“I think you know she did.”
“I’m surprised she hasn’t hustled you down the aisle so far this Season. Didn’t she want you to marry this year?”
Nathan sighed. “She did, indeed, but I think perhaps she’s finally understanding that I don’t wish to marry. Not yet, at any rate.”
“Well, you’re seven and twenty,” Colin pointed out. “Most men are married by your age or at least giving it serious consideration. Don’t you want to get married?”
Nathan clenched his jaw. “I have too much work to do. What woman wants to marry a man chained to his desk? Once our finances are a little more stable, then I…”
“How much more stable do you want them to get?” Colin interrupted. “There shall always be more work to do, friend.”
“It hardly matters. I have yet to encounter a lady whom I wish to take as my wife, and I have no intention of entering into matrimony merely to satisfy the desires of my mother for a daughter-in-law.”
Colin shrugged. “As you like. Personally, I thought that Miss Davenport had her eye on you.”
Nathan glanced sharply at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“You can’t tell me you didn’t notice, or that Lady Whitmore didn’t warn you.”
Nathan said nothing. Now that he thought about it, his mother had been talking about Miss Davenport a great deal during the Season. He’d assumed it was because their families were so close, and that she was fond of Miss Davenport herself.
Could there have been another motive? It didn’t matter, of course. Nathan was not in love with Amanda. She felt more like a younger sister than anything, and he was quite sure that she felt just the same.
“Upon my word,” Colin murmured, giving him a gentle nudge. “Here she approaches.”
Sure enough, when Nathan glanced up, he saw Amanda pushing her way through the crowd towards them, beaming.
Amanda Davenport was considered a great beauty, and for good reason. She had pale blonde hair, matched with fresh, creamy skin, and a pair of large, expressive brown eyes. Her clothes always suited her perfectly, and she seemed to prefer pale, pastel colours in her gowns, to better flatter her complexion.
“There you are, Lord Whitmore!” she announced, descending on them. She spared a brief smile and nod for Colin, but her focus remained upon Nathan. “I’ve been looking for you all night. I just opened the ball with Papa, of course, but none of the ladies here seem to have your name on their dance card! How can that be?”
He smiled nervously. “I haven’t asked anyone to dance, Miss Davenport.”
“Oh, you poor thing. Well, don’t worry. I shall dance with you. See, I saved you a spot on my dance card.”
She fluttered the card in question in front of him, smiling coyly. Sure enough, there was one space left in her very full dance card. The next dance, the second one of the evening. Everybody got their ‘duty dances’ out of the way in the first set – dancing with fathers, brothers, relatives – and the second or third dance was when the real fun began.
“I see,” he managed. “Thank you, Miss Davenport.”
She seized his arm and towed him away towards the dance floor.
“I can’t bear to see you standing all alone,” she said, over her shoulder. “You are so funny, Lord Whitmore.”
He smiled faintly. “Thank you? And let me congratulate you, by the way, on a fine Season.”
She stopped dead, and he almost walked into her back. Spinning around, Amanda narrowed her eyes at him.
“Are you jesting with me?” she inquired with a hint of indignation.
Nathan felt rather cornered. “N-No, of course not! If I’ve given offence, Miss Davenport, I hope you’ll forgive me.”
She eyed him for a moment more, then sighed and continued her push towards the dance floor. Already, the musicians were starting up the strains for the next set. It would be a waltz, Nathan noticed, to his chagrin. The waltz was more or less established in polite Society these days, but there were a few families who disapproved of it. Up until recently, the Davenports had been among those families, but it seemed that they had changed their minds. Perhaps when it became time to find Amanda a husband.
“It was not a successful Season, and I am not betrothed,” Amanda explained brusquely. “I thought you might have known that.”
“Indeed, but you seemed to be having fun.”
She chuckled, shaking her head benevolently. “You are quite amusing, Nathan. However, it is not a matter of amusement. It concerns the prudent arrangement of one’s future. There were several gentlemen whom I considered with interest, yet alas, naught has come of it. Ah, well.” She shot a quick, thoughtful glance up at him. “The Season isn’t quite over yet.”
He cleared his throat. “Are you sure you should be talking to me of this sort of thing? I am a gentleman, and you a lady, after all.”
She gave a melodic titter of laughter. “Oh, heavens, Lord Whitmore, you are indeed amusing. We’re old friends, aren’t we? I can talk to you as I would talk to an older brother.”
Nathan forced a smile. “Of course.”
Something like relief settled over him. She’d just referred to him as a brother, which meant that Colin was wrong, and she did not have any designs on him. She simply liked him as a friend.
Well, I can be a friend, can’t I?
He had a feeling that Lord Davenport would be happy enough to see his daughter marry somebody like Nathan. Perhaps in years gone by, things would have been different, back when the Whitmores were poor and an embarrassment to the rest of the ton.
But that was then, and this was now. Now, things were very different.
“I’ve never understood this madness for ladies to marry during their first Season,” Nathan found himself saying. They had reached the dance floor and took up their positions for the waltz. Amanda stood entirely too close, fluttering long, pale eyelashes up at him. “Why can’t you enjoy a few Seasons in Society instead of settling down right away?”
“Heavens,” Amanda chuckled, shaking her head. “I can enjoy Society once I’m married, can’t I? That is when the merriment commences.”
Nathan said nothing, but he couldn’t help thinking of all the ladies he’d known who got married, and a year later found themselves with a child and a house to run, a bored husband, and a palpable sense of dissatisfaction. And then, all Society would have to say would be that she had lost her bloom and would immediately lose interest in the girl. It had happened to many famous beauties, women who had the eye of Society upon them for a few glorious months, only to shrink back into obscurity.
It was sad, in Nathan’s opinion. Was that all the women had? A burst of glory, then the drudgery of children and housekeeping for the rest of their lives?
It’s none of your concern, he told himself firmly.
The dance began. Amanda clung onto him, almost as if she were trying to support herself, and kept shooting quick, thoughtful glances up at him.
“And what about you, Lord Whitmore? Not betrothed?” she said at last, clearly keen to keep the conversation going.
“No, I am not in love,” Nathan heard himself say.
“That’s a pity. Miss Emmett is most fervently yearning for your company, I assure you.”
“I… oh. How do you know?”
“Well, she told me,” Amanda shot back, tossing her hair back from her shoulder. “She begged me not to tell anyone, as if it wasn’t already obvious.”
Nathan cleared his throat. “If she told you something in confidence, Miss Davenport, you ought not to have broken that.”
She looked annoyed at this. “It hardly matters.”
“If she told you and asked you to stay quiet about it, then…”
“Oh, hush, you don’t understand how things are between women. Most ladies are such awful gossips. Besides, you aren’t in love with her, are you? Are you in love with Miss Emmett?”
“No, I am not.”
“Of course you’re not,” Amanda agreed, allowing herself a small – and he almost thought, relieved – smile. “How could you be? She’s got all those nasty freckles.”
Nathan shrugged. “I always thought freckles were quite becoming.”
Amanda shot him another annoyed glare. “They’re ugly, Lord Whitmore. How can you think otherwise?”
He judged it best not to argue.
“And her skin is not good,” Amanda continued. “And she’s got hardly any fortune. She’s a dull thing, but I do feel sorry for her, so I keep her as my friend. I knew you wouldn’t care for her, though, and told her so.”
Nathan felt colour creeping up his neck. “Miss Davenport, you shouldn’t be unkind, you know. If she is your friend…”
“She’s not,” Amanda snapped, then flushed. “I mean to say, she is, but we’re both in Society to find husbands and start families, after all. What more would a woman want?”
There was a brief silence after this. Amanda kept glancing up at him, clearly hoping that he would speak, but Nathan could only think of how long was left in the set.
“My Mama keeps telling me that we would make a fine couple,” she said at last.
Nathan flinched. “I have no intention of marrying, Miss Davenport.”
She snorted. “No man has any intention of marrying until he finds the right woman. It’s all strategy, you know, Lord Whitmore. A man as clever as you must understand that.”
On cue, the music ended with a flourish, and the dancers drew apart. Feeling thoroughly rattled, Nathan stepped back and made a neat bow. Murmuring something about finding refreshments, he made to turn and leave. Amanda’s hand on his arm stopped him in his tracks. Glancing down, he found her staring up at him, her expression thoughtful.
“Think about what I said, Lord Whitmore,” she said quietly. “I think it would be best for us both.”
She walked off without explaining any further, leaving Nathan with a growing feeling of unease.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Duke’s Loveless Bargain” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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