The Bargain Bride (4 page)

“And none of the local beaux caught your fancy? None of your dance partners or dinner companions measured up?”

How could they, compared with him? She picked up a book from the desk and flattened its pages open, as if she were going to read it as soon as he left, which could not be soon enough.

When she did not answer, he gestured toward the high shelves. “I suppose you are far better-read than your possible suitors.”

“You sound surprised. Did you think I was an unlettered, ignorant country lumpkin? I had governesses and tutors, and a year at Miss Meadow's Select Academy.”

“I did not know what to think, honestly.”

“Or you did not think.”

He spread his fingers, smoothing the soft leather down each finger, then smiled at her. “I believe we have settled that issue comprehensively. I acted wrongly, perhaps for honorable reasons, although that is not sufficient excuse. I can only apologize again. I truly am sorry, Miss Goldwaite, for any ill I caused you.”

Men did not apologize easily, Penny knew, especially proud men used to having their own way. She could do no less than accept his apology, which did not mean she had to forgive him. “And I apologize for having struck you,” she said graciously, which did not mean she meant it.

Before putting on his other glove, Westfield asked, “Have you never done anything else you regretted?”

Yes, she'd let him back in, him and his heart-stopping smile. “I did not say I regretted punching you, only that I was sorry. There is a difference.”

“And in my own defense, let me say that I never knowingly caused you harm. I did not know your circumstances. I should have made it my business to find out how you were situated; I see that now. I can only plead youth and the war, and abysmal ignorance. Our fathers made the arrangement, so I suppose I was waiting for them to finalize the wedding plans. After my father died and I never heard from yours, I simply assumed you had found a gentleman of your choice to wed. A wealthy man, one your father would approve. I was going to return your funds as soon as I was able, and all would be well.”

Perhaps someone else had hit him earlier, Penny thought, and scrambled his brains. “How could I encourage another man's attentions when I was already promised to you? I was honor-bound by our betrothal from seeking another beau.”

“There is that again.” He studied his other glove before putting it on, the fact that he had not felt constrained by the contract a palpable presence between them. His mistresses and society misses might have been in the room, except none of them were interested in books. She had come a hairsbreadth away from impugning his own honor, but West could not fault her for that. He cleared his throat and tried to sound cheerful. “Well, you are no longer bound. Have you a gentleman in mind?”

Now she laughed, but without humor. “Eligible bachelors are not thick on the ground in the country. Little Falls is not Almack's, you know, and I am no longer a blushing debutante. No one here considers me an heiress, either, only an eccentric old maid, which is just as well, for I would not wish to be wed for my money. Besides, Father wants a title. Rich men with peerages seldom look to bankers' daughters.”

“But your father is a knight now. And you are an attractive, intelligent woman. Surely in London—”

“I am not in London. I meet my father and his family in the Lake Country for a summer holiday. Grandpapa and I travel to Bath in the winter.”

“Bath is better,” he said, relieved. “Lots of chaps go for the waters, some with their ailing relations, of course, but some of my officer friends stop in Bath to recover from various injuries. Or you might try convincing your family to go to Brighton for the summer. A younger crowd vacations there.”

Penny had never thought past this day. “Perhaps,” she said.

The viscount must have heard the doubt in her voice, for he smiled again and said, “You are free, little butterfly. Go spread your wings.”

“As you will? Blithely celebrate your release from bondage?”

Now he did reach out to lift a bright curl. “Not so blithely. Perhaps I will feel a bit of regret.”

The practiced rake might be saying that to make her feel better, Penny knew. It did.

He did not release her curl, just stared into her eyes. “Perhaps I will feel more than a little regret that I never got to know you. But now we are both free to make our own choices, find our own paths. That is better, isn't it?”

“Much better,” she answered too readily to be polite. His nearness was disturbing. “That is, we shall both benefit from the end of this unfortunate experience.”

“Shall we seal the end of our betrothal with a kiss?”

A kiss? Gracious, he really was a rake. She was well out of the engagement. “I do not believe that is at all proper.”

“No, I suppose not.” He lightly touched his lips to hers anyway. “Farewell, my onetime bride-to-be. Be happy with your independence.”

Penny would be happy if her legs could hold her up. She really ought to hit him again, she thought. Or kiss him again so she'd know how a practiced womanizer did it—for future reference, of course.

He was smiling, the devil, knowing his effect. His confidence gave her the strength to smile back and say, “Yes, now I can go find my own Prince Charming to wed.”

“Like hell you can,” came a loud voice from the open doorway. “You are marrying Lord Lustful, for good or for ill, and not a moment too soon, it seems. And you, sir, unhand my daughter. The wedding ain't taken place yet.”

“Father?”

“Sir Gaspar?”

Penny's father stepped into the library. “Who were you expecting, King George? Although I had to be as mad as the king to let Westfield ride ahead. But I suppose no harm's done, an engaged couple and all.”

“You are mistaken, Sir Gaspar,” West told him. “We were saying good-bye. There will be no wedding.”

“Like hell there won't.” He looked around for a place to put his hat. “Havey-cavey household altogether. I always said so. I sent a note to expect me and what do I get? No butler, no footman, no chaperone for my daughter.”

“I am too old for a chaperone, Father.”

“Not by the looks of you.” He peered over his spectacles at her bare feet, unfastened gown, and disordered hair. “Your mother would be ashamed.”

“It is not what you think,” Penny insisted.

“Miss Goldwaite is totally innocent,” West said.

“When the gal's cheeks are rubbed red from your beard and she looks like she's been dragged through a bush backward? Deuced hard to think anything but you were anticipating the wedding vows.”

“There will be no wedding, Father.”

Sir Gaspar finally set his hat on the desk. “Are you telling me you behave like a wanton with any stranger who walks through the door?”

“Of course not.”

West was growing irritated at the older man's stubbornness. “You insult your daughter, sir.”

“Hmph. I wasn't the one pawing at my betrothed.”

“I wasn't—”

“I'm not his—”

“I need a drink. Does the old man still keep that fine brandy?”

West brought him a glass and the decanter, much less full than it was when he arrived. Sir Gaspar sank into one of the leather armchairs and took a deep swallow of the brandy. “I needed that, just getting through the hall.”

The man most likely needed it after a night with the innkeeper's wife, but West said, “The paintings are somewhat of a shock, aren't they?”

“That and finding my daughter dressed like a Covent Garden convenient.” He shook his head. “Thought she'd cause a dustup, but I can see you handled the gal right. I guess you were smart to come a-wooing on your own. Not surprising, a fellow with your reputation with the ladies.”

West almost snarled, “I did not come a-wooing and I did not handle your daughter.”

Sir Gaspar snorted.

“Well, not in that way. We have agreed we do not suit, so there will be no wedding.”

“Hah. You, miss, go make yourself presentable while Westfield and I settle a few details.”

Penny crossed her arms over her chest. “I am not leaving. It is my life you are discussing.”

“Well, I ain't talking while some buck ogles my daughter's ankles. And assets.”

More red color flooded Penny's face, and she was glad her arms were making certain her gown stayed almost modest. There was nothing she could do about her bare feet or her hair. “Fine, I shall go.” She glared at both of them. “But you are not to talk about me or my future until I return.” To make sure they did not have the opportunity, she told her father, “Speaking of propriety, you ought to pay your respects to Grandpapa, if you are going to drink his wine.”

“Suppose the old loon is off painting, or whatever he calls it nowadays.”

“He calls it art.”

Sir Gaspar snorted again. He grimaced, but got to his feet.

When they were both gone, West eyed the decanter. Then he eyed the door.

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

 

 

 

W
est did not take either of the coward's ways out. His pride would not let him run, for one thing, and lending his sober support to Miss Goldwaite was the least he could do under the circumstances, for another. Besides, Sir Gaspar returned quickly, mopping his brow, muttering about immorality, and finished off the brandy.

West was curious to see how the two strong-willed Goldwaites were going to deal with each other. Miss Goldwaite could not very well plant her father a facer, but she seemed as adamant as the banker. West's jaw still ached, and his self-esteem still suffered from her sharp words, proving the female could defend herself, but the knight appeared deaf, dumb, and blind to anyone else's opinions.

As curious as he was to see the outcome—and to ensure that outcome did not involve leg shackles—West was even more curious to see what Miss Goldwaite would look like in what her father considered proper female attire, if she owned any such apparel.

He was not disappointed. Miss Goldwaite looked every inch the lady now, with her hair neatly braided into a coronet atop her head, like a golden crown. Well, he had to admit he was disappointed in that. He'd looked forward to seeing her glorious blond curls rioting around her face and shoulders again. Now only a few ringlets were permitted to caress her cheeks.

She wore a gown made of costly watered silk, perfectly fitted if not in the latest London style. The lower waist than he was used to became her, showing off a willowy figure. The lower neckline than the green sack she'd had on earlier became her more, showing off a well-formed bosom for such a slender female. He quickly raised his glance.

The shimmering blues of the gown made her eyes appear luminous, especially reflecting from the chain of round-cut sapphires at her neck, any one of which could have purchased another mare or two for his breeding stock. Her hair was the sun, her eyes were the sky, and her lips were rosy dawn. Her complexion had lost that hectic choleric color—which her father's red cheeks now bore—and instead had the clarity and glow of fresh cream. Altogether, she reminded him of a clear country morning, except for the expression on her face.

If she was not careful—or if no one made her laugh—Miss Goldwaite could end up looking like the bulldog banker who fathered her, with her mouth permanently turned down and scowl lines etched between her eyebrows. If not for that, and the fists she kept clenched at her sides, his former fiancée would be a diamond of the first water. For now she was merely stunning, unless his opinion was formed by surprise at the transformation a careful toilette made.

No, West told himself, the woman was attractive in herself, and intriguing for the emotions that she did not try to hide. The usual well-bred London miss kept her expression bland, afraid to cause wrinkles, and afraid to show any kind of passion lest she be considered loose, flighty, or difficult. Miss Goldwaite was difficult, all right, but her father—or any other red-blooded man—could not fault her appearance. She even wore satin slippers on her feet.

West went toward her, to lead her to the chair opposite her father's, whispering, “Don't let him intimidate you. I will be right behind you.” He took up a position at her back, his hand resting on the leather cushion an inch from her shoulder.

Before Sir Gaspar could start the rant he was nearly choking on, a footman wheeled in a cart and Miss Goldwaite was busy pouring out tea and filling plates. As soon as the servant left, while her father's mouth was full of the cook's best strawberry tart, Miss Goldwaite began. “Father, no matter what you say, I shall not marry Lord Westfield. We have decided together that we do not suit.”

West had to smother a laugh at that. Was that what they decided, when she bashed him? Still, he admired her tactics: attack while the enemy was distracted.

Sir Gaspar choked on a bite of pastry, then gulped at his tea. He looked at Westfield, ignoring his daughter. “That so? What about what
we
decided?”

“We had not come to any conclusion. You threatened to challenge me to a duel; I agreed to come meet with Miss Goldwaite.”

Penny set her cup down. “A duel, Father? At your age? With your poor eyesight?”

Sir Gaspar huffed. “Nothing wrong with my age, and I've got my spectacles, haven't I? And I wasn't going to let him pick swords, no matter if it was his choice. A duel's how gentlemen settle differences, don't you know. Otherwise I could hire a ruffian to beat him up in an alley.”