Читать книгу A Hasty Betrothal - Jessica Nelson - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Perhaps Miles ought to follow Bitt. He sipped his punch while eyeing the dandies who stood a few feet away, laughing within a circle of young misses.

Who was this Wrottesley Bitt spoke of? If he was related to the earl who lived near Windermar...no wonder Elizabeth did not like him. They were a slatternly bunch who were facing a mountain of debt, if he recalled correctly.

Elizabeth’s happiness was important to Miles. He hoped her parents allowed her to choose her marital partner. She was kind and naive. He did not want to see her married for her inheritance. Her husband had to pass muster. A Season carried all sorts of disasters of which she knew nothing. Within that time frame, Elizabeth’s future could be decided forever.

She wanted a marriage of love, she had said.

Well, she deserved one, if there was such a thing. She deserved something like he’d had, once upon a time.

A frown tugged at his lips.

He took another swig of punch to hide his mood from the group with which he stood. The ladies chatted with the gentlemen. One particularly forward lady kept sidling curious glances his way. Prospecting for a future husband.

She did not realize that he was infinitely far from husband material.

Miles’s displeasure deepened. Bowing, he pushed away from the wall and decided to find Elizabeth. She shouldn’t be without a companion.

“Miles Hawthorne.” Elizabeth’s grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Windermar, rapped his shoulder, effectively halting his pursuit.

He bowed. “Your Grace.”

She nodded to him, then turned to the couple on her left. “Venetia and Adolphus, you remember young Miles? And, Miles, certainly you have been introduced to Bitt’s father, Lord Dunlop?”

“A pleasure,” he said, bowing yet again in their direction. He had met them briefly during various stages of his childhood. Like most parents of the ton, they did not overly concern themselves with their offspring until the children came of an age to be married off or taught the family duties. As a result, they’d paid little attention to whom their son played with. Now that he was grown up, however, perhaps they were surprised that the friendship between an earl’s son and a factory owner’s son had survived the years.

Surprised and disapproving.

Lady Dunlop sniffed, and he detected condescension from Bitt’s mother. No doubt due to his being a man of business. For some, the ultimate black mark in the ton. Hiding a wry grin, he turned to the other man beside Bitt’s parents. His shock of white hair framed a narrow face and deeply set brown eyes. He looked familiar.

The duchess gestured to him. “This is Mr. Hawthorne. He owns a factory in Littleshire. His father and I were great friends.”

“Lord Wrottesley.” The earl held out his hand.

“A pleasure,” said Miles, hiding his surprise. So this was Wrottesley’s father. Standing with her family... Did they not know of his debts? The man did possess a reputable lineage and a well-respected title. Though the family had come into hard times, possibly due to a streak of gambling that ran through their bloodlines, a well-matched marriage could fill their coffers once again.

Elizabeth’s future was becoming alarmingly clear. Did John know of his parents’ machinations? Surely he wouldn’t approve such a match for his little sister.

“I would not expect to see someone such as yourself at a ball. Are you looking for a wife?” Lady Dunlop fluttered her fan while waiting for Miles to answer.

“Not at all. Lord Charleston and I are business acquaintances,” said Miles.

Her nose wrinkled at the word business as though it might contaminate her reputation.

Hiding his smile, he gave her a curt nod. “A pleasure.”

Turning to the dowager duchess, he offered her a warmer smile. She responded by putting her quizzing glass to her eye. “Now that you’ve bought the Littleshire Mill, I expect to see you more often. It is between our estates, is it not?”

“I’d hardly call my plot of land an estate,” he said.

“It’s your home.” She waved her glass through the air. “What it is called is neither here nor there. Now, did you find that bookish granddaughter of mine?”

“She went out to the gardens,” he murmured. “I was just on my way to fetch her.”

“Very good. A ball is no place for a lady to wander off alone. And well she knows it.” The duchess sniffed, her powdered cheeks wiggling.

“She will return shortly.” Miles excused himself and continued his search for Wrottesley, but the man had disappeared. He threaded his way twice around the room before concluding that his quarry had meandered into the gardens.

Where Elizabeth had claimed she’d go.

He stepped outside, the humid air clinging to him like a tightly tied silk cravat. The recent spring shower served to muck his boots and hinder his walk through the grass to a stony path at the edge of the lawn. He believed there to be a pond nearby. If Bitt had gone there alone, she’d been unwise, for a young lady should always be chaperoned. She was testing her limits, he supposed, and he could not blame her for it.

He had never known her to shirk duty or behave unwisely in the past.

Wrottesley’s disappearance worried him, though. He strode along the path, his boots clipping the stones impatiently. The chirping of crickets and the full moon created urgency rather than calm. Bitt shouldn’t be out here alone. She ought to know better.

He came to the end of the stone pathway, but there was nowhere to sit here and no sign of Bitt, only a quiet pond adorned with lily pads and the reflection of the moon. He turned, scanning the landscape until he caught sight of a gazebo on the other side of the pond. Movement rippled the shadows around it, and then a high-pitched gasp interrupted the steady song of the crickets.

He bolted forward, pushing through the plants lining the walkway and finding another stone path that lead to the gazebo. His pulse thrummed in hot beats through him, his body strained to reach the sound of that anguished cry. It couldn’t be Bitt, he told himself as he ran down the path, but instinct told him it was her, and that she needed him.

He finally cleared the path and emerged in front of the gazebo. One quick glance told him everything he needed to know. A man’s hands dug into Bitt’s arms. She was kicking his shins.

He pounded up the stairs and yanked him away from Bitt. The man fell away easily, stumbling backward and plopping onto the bench. Miles advanced, his vision hazy and his knuckles aching to connect with the coward’s face.

“Miles, no.”

Elizabeth’s tugging on his shirtsleeve broke his concentration. Her face looked unbearably white in the shadows of the gazebo, her eyes huge and shiny.

“All is well. Leave Lord Wrottesley be.”

Miles dragged in a ragged breath, willing his body to calm so that he might deal with this situation. Not daring to move too far from Wrottesley in case the man attempted to leave, he cast a careful eye over Bitt’s visage. She appeared unharmed, but everything was askew from her hair to her dress. One sleeve appeared to be torn, though he couldn’t be sure.

Scowling, he crossed his arms in front of him. “All does not appear well. Are you hurt?”

She shook her head, and her hand dropped from his sleeve. “Lord Wrottesley was under a mistaken assumption.”

The strength of her words roused Wrottesley from his lethargy on the bench. He lunged upward, face contorting. “Now see here, I only came to check on her, but she attacked my person.”

Miles squinted. Upon closer look, he did spot an outrageously long scratch along the man’s cheek. A sound from Bitt prompted him to look at her. She did not bother hiding her disdain.

“You well deserved what I gave you.” After delivering that arch reply, she glanced at Miles. “Mr. Hawthorne, I would much appreciate your escort to the house, as Lord Wrottesley seems incapable of gentlemanly behavior.”

Wrottesley shot them a withering look. “You will regret your actions tonight, Elizabeth.”

“I did not give you leave to call me by my Christian name.” Her chin notched up in a way that filled Miles with pride, despite the urge still barreling through him to smash Wrottesley’s face to pieces.

He sneered at Miles. “And you...we will see what is to become of you.” The man pushed past Miles and disappeared down the pathway.

Exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, Miles took Bitt’s hand and pressed it between his. Her cold skin filled him with concern. “Are you sure you do not need to sit, my lady? Perhaps find your composure?”

“I’m quite composed. Just take me to my mother, please. I feel the press of a megrim and wish to leave at once.”

“As you will, madam.” He tucked her arm beneath his, only too aware of her small stature. If he had not come outside, there was no telling what Wrottesley might have done to her.

The dread pooling in his gut did not dissipate, even when they neared the house. Before entering, he pulled Bitt to the side and faced her. The familiar lines of her features struck him tonight in a different way. He had the strangest desire to run his thumb along the line of her lips, to press his cheek to hers and feel the sweet warmth of her skin. She stared up at him, eyes wide and trusting. For all her bluster, for the many times he knew he’d upset her, they shared a childhood closeness. He needed to be sure of her safety.

Needed to make certain she was not terrified.

“Whatever is the matter with you, Miles?” She pulled her arm away. “I’m perfectly well.”

“Lord Wrottesley’s actions... I must know—did the man compromise you?”

Even in the darkness, he could see the flush upon her cheeks. “He forced a kiss, but that was all.”

Miles restrained a growl. “It will not happen again. I shall make sure of that.”

“And so shall I. A foolish thing for me to wander alone. I realize that now, but you must not worry for me.” Her gaze softened. “Truly, I appreciate your presence and hope your rescue shall sufficiently satisfy your need to protect me.”

“Your hair is mussed.”

She patted the unruly strands. “It cannot be helped. Thank you again, Miles, and while I feel I should be miffed at you for following me... I cannot help but be grateful you appeared. It was something out of a story, perhaps, and surprisingly expedient.”

The soft light from candles shining from the windows flickered across her features. If she had a husband, this would not have happened. “Very well, if you are not harmed...”

“I truly am not.” Her pretty mouth curved upward. Her hair spilled in wisps from its confines, brushing her high cheekbones. The strands were darker than he remembered. The last time he’d seen Elizabeth was several weeks ago and her hair had been put up. Between childhood and adulthood, the color had deepened to a pretty auburn. Perhaps it became so dark from never venturing outside. She had skin the color of cream and often complained about the sunlight, but he knew her appearance bothered her.

More so than she’d ever admit.

He shifted on his feet, remembering an episode when she was fifteen and he’d been visiting John at Windermar. He’d heard crying in the stables one evening, the quiet kind of weeping designed to mask deep distress. Not one to ignore someone in need, he listened carefully and finally pinpointed the source of the sound coming from behind a bale of hay. He walked over, unexpectedly finding Elizabeth, who covered her mouth in a desperate bid to hold in her sobs. Even now he remembered the pain that had lanced through his chest at the sight of her tears, and the frustration he’d felt when she refused to divulge the reason for her weeping.

Discomfited, he retreated, but he determined to find the cause of her pain. The information came quickly enough from a foolishly loquacious groom who lost both his job and several teeth on the same day. The lad had broken Elizabeth’s heart. Told her he could never love a woman who looked as she did.

Miles had never divulged that he knew what had happened. He would do anything to never see her cry again.

“Enjoy the rest of the ball, for I shall be doing my utmost to leave immediately.” She offered him a saucy wink. Taken aback, he followed her into the ballroom but stayed near the wall, watching as she tracked through the crowd to find her mother. People turned to look at her. Then they looked at him.

Rather odd.

He pushed away from the wall, passing a familiar face as he headed for the doors. “Good eve, Lady Swanson.”

The countess did not glance at him, but gave him her back. A cut direct. The first he’d ever received. How very strange. Surely there could be no rumors already. He tried to remember exactly how disheveled Bitt looked, and how quickly he’d entered the ballroom after her. Casting the countess a befuddled look, he continued to the door, where he gave instructions for the bringing of his rig.

Lord, watch over Elizabeth. God could certainly do a better job than Miles. As for Wrottesley, Miles planned to take care of him.

* * *

Elizabeth rose late the next morning, almost missing the array of food on the sideboard. She meandered by the eggs and finally decided on a generous helping of porridge coated with sugar and fresh cream. Her stomach rumbled. Last night’s dramatics seemed a distant dream, slightly disturbing yet infinitely less important than the demands of her belly. She inhaled the rich scent of sausage as if she had not eaten the very same thing yesterday.

There were a great many toils associated with being an heiress, but having an abundance of food was not one of them. Pushing the events of the previous evening to the back of her mind, she forked two sausages onto her plate and decided to scoop up eggs, as well. Thus fortified, she found a seat at the little table where she’d placed a gem of a book she’d checked out from Hookham’s Circulating Library. The novel promised the wonder of an adventure.

The Arabian Nights.

It was a classic she had not yet explored, but passing the Season by delving into it seemed a pleasurable way to avoid the haute ton. She opened the book, relishing the thick texture of the page and the sweet smell of leather binding that rose to greet her. The endearing scent almost surpassed her desire to eat, but her stomach quickly rebelled against such an inane thought. She managed to hold the book open with one hand and fork food into her mouth with the other.

She was deep in a riveting scene between the merchant and his wife, who were arguing over his laughter, for he’d heard animals talking, when the morning’s gossip rags were slapped over the words of her book.

Startled, she dropped her fork on the plate. She looked up. Mother stood above her, cheeks scarlet and lips pressed tightly together. A most unnerving sight. Elizabeth pressed her napkin against her mouth. Unlike Grandmother, her mother did not give in to fits of emotion. The obvious anger in her eyes torqued a nervous clench in Elizabeth’s belly.

She preferred avoiding conversation with her parents. Four years ago, during her first come out, she overheard them expressing their embarrassment at her visage to callers. It was a conversation that, at the oddest times, repeated in her mind like an unceasing headache. Old, familiar pain palpated within. She tightened her posture and looked her mother in the face.

As usual, Mother’s eyes skittered to an invisible speck upon Elizabeth’s shoulder. Far be it that she must see the shameful birthmark upon her daughter’s face.

She wet her lips. “Good morn, Mother.”

“Read the gossip.”

Elizabeth’s gaze fell to the paper lying atop her book. The front page headline filled her with dread: Heiress Returns Disheveled.

The writer did not name her, but it became obvious as the story progressed that it was about her, Lady Elizabeth Wayland. An heiress returned from Lady Charleston’s gardens disheveled, hair almost undone, followed by a notable factory owner. The writer then speculated that a rendezvous had occurred... Elizabeth tore her eyes away, appetite dead.

Worry raced through her in uneven clops, like a startled horse galloping without restraint.

“You understand how close you are to being ruined, do you not?” Mother slid into the chair opposite Elizabeth. “If this becomes fodder for the gossips, it will damage John’s position in the House, his career aspirations and our family’s reputation. This is disgraceful.” Mother took a shaky breath and Elizabeth wondered how she could breathe at all when a steel vise had tightened around her own ribs, making inhaling almost impossible.

She did not want to marry, but that did not mean she wished to be ruined. Not to mention the damage she might cause to her family’s reputation, sullying all that they’d worked for... She squeezed her eyes tight and tried hard to think.

“Are you sure it is me they refer to? There is no mention of—” the words hurt to emit, but she forced them out “—my birthmark.”

“There will be. Soon enough.”

Elizabeth winced at the defeat lacing Mother’s answer.

Venetia rubbed her brow. “I must ask—are the rumors true? Was there a dalliance with a man last night? Who could it be? Is that why you claimed a headache and practically forced me to bring you home early?”

Elizabeth pushed her plate away. “Dalliances are the furthest thing from my mind. Trust me, I want nothing more than to return to Windermar and take care of Grandmother. This Season is a farce. I’m an heiress, not a fatted calf.”

“Elizabeth.” A sharp edge tipped her mother’s tone. “Every young woman deserves a home of her own, children and a stable future. Accept your responsibility as the daughter of an earl, the granddaughter of a duke. We will have to decide what to do with this.” She tentatively tapped the edge of the paper as though it were a hot plate. “Your father must be told at once.”

Her lids fluttered as if the colossal import of the situation weighed upon her. “Have you perhaps considered Lord Wrottesley? He has expressed interest in you.”

Elizabeth flinched. “He is the last person I’d ever marry. Besides, he is a fortune hunter.”

“You do not know that.”

“I suspect it.”

Mother sighed in a way that suggested Elizabeth was a great drain on her energy. “You cannot afford to be picky now. I shall speak to your father. Perhaps we can arrange terms.”

Elizabeth swallowed back a retort, for she knew no way of escaping the rumors that had forced her into this situation.

Despite her brave words to Miles, she found that deep within, she truly could not subject her family to such a scandal. A betrothal might put the gossip to rest, but could she put aside her own happiness for the sake of her family? Every fiber of her being shouted no. Martyrdom lacked appeal. Especially with Lord Wrottesley.

Who else would want to marry her, anyway? A reclusive heiress with an unsightly birthmark?

She was going to have to give up her dreams of love because of one foolish action. After returning from the gardens, she’d entered the ballroom, gone straight to her mother and they’d left immediately.

Who would have spread such tittle-tattle about her? Perhaps a man out for revenge? A man who had discovered a way to put his greedy hands on her money?

Wrottesley.

She shuddered. Had he succeeded in ruining her?