The Bargain Bride (3 page)

Littleton cleared his throat. “I am speaking of my granddaughter. I love her.”

“I, ah, see.” West was as in the dark as the old man.

“I care only for her happiness.”

Ah, he was being lectured, or warned. “Quite. I am sure we all wish Miss Goldwaite the best life has to offer.”

“Some of us more than others. Some of us even consider what it is that would make her happy. I don't suppose my son-in-law is hiding in the drapery?” Littleton peered into the corners of the room. “Marcel did not mention Greedy Gaspar.”

“No, Mr., ah, Sir Gaspar was still asleep at the inn when I rode out this morning. He made a late night of it last evening.”

“Most likely with the help of the barmaid.”

Actually it was the innkeeper's wife, but West chose not to report on his prospective father-in-law. Goldwaite's affairs were his own business, the same as Mr. Littleton's . . . and Marcel's. “He will be arriving later.”

“Hmm. Best that way, I suppose.You and Penny can get the thing settled between you without his interference.”

“That was what I thought.”

Littleton leaned forward to stare at West, making him wonder just how much the artist could see. Finally the old man nodded and said, “So you are not as foolish as your father.”

“I hope not.”

A slight smile flitted across Littleton's face, replaced by a fierce scowl that would have matched Marcel's war paint. “If you hurt her, you'll be sorry.”

“That is not my intent, sir, I swear.”

“It better not be. I might not be handy with my sword anymore, but Marcel can use a carving knife to good purpose, and his fists when he needs to. Or I can paint your portrait with warts and fangs and horns and get it hung in a London gallery and printed on broadsheets. You wouldn't like being a laughingstock, would you?”

“No, sir.”

“Don't think I cannot do it. I have great influence in the art world.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Then I can get back to my work while the light is still good.”

What did the light matter? West wondered, but the old man brushed his help aside and made his own way out of the room. West sat back to wait some more.

Marcel brought in a tray with a plate of biscuits and a pot of coffee. West noticed two cups on the tray, but no one came to join him. Since breakfast had been hours ago, West decided to eat without waiting for his hostess. He supposed such insubstantial fare was enough for the frail old man or his scrawny spinster granddaughter, while he would have preferred eggs and steak and ale, but beggars could not be choosers.

When the last crumb was gone, West stared out the window, walked around the library, picked up a book, then put it down and wandered back to the hall to look at Littleton's current works. He might not be any connoisseur, but dash it if he could imagine anyone buying the garish, sloppy pieces. He could not even tell whether they were landscapes or portraits.

Just then he heard a loud noise from the end of the corridor, as if poor Mr. Littleton was falling down the stairs. West rushed through the hall to help, but no one was tumbling to the bottom. Slight Mr. Littleton would not have made that much noise, either. Instead, a woman was clomping down step by furious step in heavy wood-soled boots that were half unlaced. So was her gown, which gaped at the neck. Her hair was wet, with half of it crammed under a beribboned lace cap and half trailing down her shoulders. Her gown was green, her ribbons were yellow and purple, her eyes were blue, and her face was as red as a cooked lobster's. Jupiter, the female had been dressed by the blind artist!

She paused when she saw him, ceasing her teeth-jarring descent. She straightened her shoulders and started to step down as gracefully as one could in unfastened boots.

Ah, West thought, here comes the bride.

When she reached the bottom, he bowed. Miss Goldwaite bobbed her head in the merest expression of civility and manners. West held his hand out to assist her. She pretended to be as blind as her grandfather, stepping past him back down the corridor.

West took a deep breath—at least she smelled of rose water, not turpentine—and said, “Miss Goldwaite, I sincerely apologize for arriving so early.”

She spun on her awkward heels to face him, coming nearly to his chin. Her own jutted out. “Early? Early? Why, you, sir, are late. Thirteen years late, to be exact!”

It seemed that Miss Goldwaite had used up her po liteness by bobbing her head, nor did she believe in sparring with gloves on.

West bowed, acknowledging his sins. “I apologize for that also, although I do not believe you wished to wed at the age of thirteen.”

“I do not wish to wed now, either.”

Which was the best news he'd heard in ages. “I think we should discuss this further, perhaps over a cup of coffee.” Or another brandy.

Instead of stopping at the library, the woman marched on toward the front entry. “There is nothing to discuss.” She opened the door and nodded in the direction of outside. “Good day.”

West did not take the unsubtle hint. “I am afraid things are not that easy. Your father—”

Her face lost the red flush so suddenly West was afraid she was going to faint. He took a step closer, but she squared her shoulders and said, “I will deal with him when he gets here. I am no longer a child. And I will be no man's chattel, no matter how you men write your foolish laws.”

“If I might say that I regret what has happened—”

“You might have said it any time these past years. You have not been a child for ages, either.”

“No, and I should have come, or written. I know. But you were too young to discuss such matters, and then I was in the army.”

“You resigned your commission four years ago.”

“Yes, but I spent—”

“You spent your money on fast horses and loose women. Gambling and wenching and drinking. Do you think we do not get the London gazettes here in the north? Do you think I cannot read, sirrah?”

Not if she was the one who maintained that fine library. He was not going to discuss wine, women, or wasting money. “No, I spent my funds trying to restore Westfield Manor by establishing a farm for horse breeding and training.”

“So you have thrown away the fortune my father paid, and that is why you are here today? I suppose your plans failed when you frittered the money away, the same as your father did. Do you think my father will pay more to see the deed done while I can still provide grandchildren? Well, you are wrong. My father is as clutch-fisted as they come. How do you think he became so wealthy? He won't pay you more. And my money—yes, I have funds of my own, now that I have reached my majority—is tied into trusts so firmly that you will never get your hands on a shilling of it to support you or your high-strung racers.”

Now West was growing angry, that she thought he would take money from his wife, that he was here to wrest more gold from Goldwaite, that his stud farm had failed. He was making a tidy profit selling his horses to the army, not gambling on them to win races. “You mistake my intent. I spent my time trying to recoup the loan—”

“That was my dowry, not a loan.”

He nodded, not arguing semantics. A dowry was not paid until a ceremony took place. A loan was a loan. “I wished to repay the sum to cancel the contract our fathers entered into.”

“Fine. If you do not have enough funds, I will add to that. It will be a worthwhile expenditure.”

The entire time they had been speaking, or shouting, Miss Goldwaite had been edging West closer to the door, almost pushing him out.

West hated to leave her so pale and rigid with rage. “Your father still wants us to wed.”

“If he wants your title in the family so badly, then he can marry you off to one of my stepmother's daughters.”

West had seen the stepdaughters. Oh, Lord. “You are certain?”

“Certain? Lord Westfield, I would jump off Little Falls before I married you. No, I would jump off Big Falls before I joined my future to yours. The past thirteen years have been more than enough.”

She was certain, all right. “Then thank you.” He meant for speaking with him, for the biscuits and coffee, for letting him escape so easily.

“Thank you?” she yelled. “Thank you? For offering to kill myself? For not wanting to marry you?” Now her face grew red again and her blue eyes narrowed to slits. “You insufferable, self-important, swellheaded swine!” Then she hauled her arm back and slammed her fist into his jaw.

West staggered back, half falling out the door, which slammed behind him.

Well, at least she wasn't scrawny anymore.

—By Arrangement,
a chronicle of arranged marriages, by G. E. Felber

 

 

 

P
enny leaned back against the door. She'd fall down without its wooden support, for there was not a muscle in her body not gone limp. She was gasping for breath, her cap was listing over one eyebrow, and one of her shoes had flown across the hall with the force of her blow, but she'd done it. She'd tossed out the rubbish. She'd told him how she felt, and then she'd tossed him. She did it, Penny Goldwaite, the disposable daughter, the forgotten fiancée, the woman without a choice.

Well, she'd chosen now, she thought with pride. And she'd chosen before Westfield, which was even more satisfying. Whether the fortune-hunting scum was here to claim her or jilt her made no difference. She'd struck the first blow.

Then it hit her: She'd struck the first blow. She had actually hit a man. Her own betrothed. She'd never raised her hand to a creature larger than an insect, and now she'd punched a peer. How uncivilized, how unladylike, how good it felt, except for her stinging knuckles. The dastard's skull was so thick she might have broken her hand!

She checked. Her fingers moved, even if she could not yet. She was whole and she was free! Penny kicked off her other shoe, tossed her cap onto the floor, and filled her lungs with clean, fresh air only slightly tainted with the scent of brandy, horse, her own rose water, Grandpapa's paints, and . . . ? Penny wrinkled her nose. And some spicy scent that was manly and exotic and exciting. No, she was merely basking in her victory, not inhaling the devil's own cologne.

She was free, and free to forget all about the slug, his smell and his smile. So what if he was tall and broad-shouldered and even more handsome than she recalled? So what if his dark hair curled onto his forehead in boyish innocence, and his brown eyes gleamed with gold flecks? His smile when he first saw her, despite her appearance, still held remembered sweetness, but his voice was deeper and richer. Mellow tones did not make his words—or him—one bit more trustworthy. Penny had no idea if anything he said was true or sincere, and she refused to ponder over it. Perhaps he had tried to raise the funds to end the betrothal honorably before coming to speak to her, as he had said. Perhaps his horse-raising enterprise was successful. Or perhaps he was here to steal Grandpapa's silverware. No matter, she had now seen the last of Kendall Westmoreland, Viscount Westfield, former fiancé.

Then she heard a rap on the door behind her and felt it vibrate through her skin.

She yanked the door open. “Yes?”

His hand was raised to knock again. “My hat and gloves and riding crop. I left them in the library.”

“Oh.” Sure enough, his hands were bare except for a signet ring on one, a gold band set with a dark garnet on the little finger of the other. There was nothing for it but to let the maggot back in, despite the fact that she had no shoes on and her hair was curling down her shoulders in ringlets. She could tell Westfield was trying to hide a smile when he noticed her further dishabille, so she turned her back and silently led the way to the book room. There was nothing more to be said.

He thought otherwise. As they walked, he asked, “Who taught you to make a fist like that?”

She looked around, surprised at his question. Oh dear, he was rubbing his jaw, where a fist-sized red mark stood out against his healthy complexion. It might even turn black and blue, so he would wear her brand for a sennight. Served him right. “You did. When we first met, and our fathers were closeted in the office so long.”

“I thought I remembered that. You said some boys in the neighborhood were teasing you, pulling your hair. I don't blame them.” He almost reached out to touch those golden curls himself, now that they were drying in tumbled waves down her back. She glared and he rubbed his chin again instead, pretending that was his intention all along.

Penny put more distance between them. “You said I ought to know how to defend myself.”

“Did they ever bother you again?”

“No, but not because of the fist I clenched in front of their faces. I told them I was an engaged lady now, promised to a real lord's son. I said you would come break their noses if they insulted me.”

“At least I was good for something.”

Her silence spoke volumes.

When they reached the library, West retrieved his belongings. While he put on one of his gloves, he asked, “Is it you who filled these shelves with treasures?”

She smiled for the first time since receiving her father's message, pleased with the compliment to her beloved books. “I added to an already extensive collection, yes. The books have been my friends and companions.” She quickly held up a hand. “Not that I am complaining or trying to win your sympathy or make you feel guilty. My life in the country is rich, with running my grandfather's household and helping the less fortunate in the community. Nor am I a mere bluestocking do-gooder. The neighborhood has an active social life with assemblies every month and frequent dinners and dance parties among the local gentry.”