Carol Arens - The Earl's American Heiress

Truly, there was not much she would not do for the man she loved above anyone else—but this?

How could she possibly?

* * *

As he walked in the garden late at night, Heath’s steps felt heavy. His fate was nearly sealed.

He was to become betrothed, again.

As much as he tried not to think of Willa it was impossible not to, given the turn his life had taken. He’d always been smitten by her, he supposed. As a boy his heart had swelled whenever she deigned to look his way. He’d grown and given his heart to a few others for a time, but he’d never really forgotten her.

Nor would he now. She continued to influence his life in a way he would never have imagined.

Heath walked slowly about the perimeter of the garden, reliving what had happened.

He shook his head. For once the tinkling of the fountain did not bring to mind his former fiancée’s desperate weeping.

Apparently Cinderella in all her dripping glory had replaced the grim reminder with something delightful. She had become a happy vision in his mental angst.

He didn’t often dwell on Willa’s betrayal, but with another marriage looming, it all came back.

It had seemed a miracle at the time: his Willa seeking him out after so many years. They had become engaged within a week—she was in a hurry to marry him. Not for any tender feelings she had toward him, he’d discovered later on, but because she was pregnant. She confessed it before they wed, so he thought she must have come to care for him a bit. Even so, it was not the fact that she was expecting a child that made him break the engagement. He might have accepted it had Willa loved him. But she did not. He’d been broken for a bit by the way she’d used his affection.

Heath sat down on a bench and watched as wispy clouds drifted across the moon.

While he hadn’t gone through with the marriage, he could not find it in him to cast her out. He’d put her up in an apartment away from everyone she knew, so that her shame would not be exposed. He visited her, brought her what she needed to live in comfort. Oddly enough, a friendship had grown between them during that time, a true one. He wanted to confront the cad who had left her in this state, but she would not say who it was.

One day, when he paid his weekly call, Willa was huddled in her bed, weak and feverish. She admitted to giving birth the day before and walking two miles to Slademore House to give her baby over to the charity there, run by Baron Slademore. As soon as she’d done it, she regretted it. She looked in desperate condition, cursing Slademore in her near delirium. Perhaps he was the culprit and that was why she had taken her child to him and not because it was a well-reputed orphanage? Willa claimed it was not true, but still, Heath had wondered. In the end there was nothing to be done but send for the doctor.

Even now, sitting here on the bench, he felt the cold lump that sickened his belly when the doctor reported that Willa would not likely see the dawn. She’d wept, clutching Heath’s shirt, and begged him to bring back her daughter.

That trip to Slademore House had changed his life in a way that nothing ever had before.

It had surprised him when Baron Slademore—a man respected by the highest members of society—denied receiving a newborn. Perhaps Willa, in her fevered state, had imagined she’d come here. If not, the baron was lying. But why? Was Heath correct and the baby his? Was he lying to keep from being caught out?

In any event, he had to try to bring Willa’s baby home. When it seemed the orphanage had gone dim for the night, he’d gone in search of the child. Luckily someone had left the back door open. Indeed, he’d sensed a presence just out of sight, seeming to lead him down this ill-lit hallway and down another until he came to the half-open door that led to a dark, dank room. He found the baby there, wailing in a strident newborn voice. While there was no nurse present, there were other children sleeping on cots with thin blankets offering scant warmth. It was so different a picture from how he’d seen them treated earlier that day.

He’d snatched up Willa’s child, tucked her under his coat and raced back to the apartment. Willa had held her daughter to her heart for an hour before she passed away.

Baby Willa was the first orphan to be kidnapped by the villain whom the papers named “the Abductor,” and the first he sheltered at the seaside in Rock Rose Cottage.

That had all happened two years ago, and now, suddenly, marriage was in his future again.

“Hello, cat,” he said to the feline twining about his trouser leg. It looked a bit like the one that had spooked him in the dark and led to his meeting with his mystery woman.

“What do you think?” he asked the fluffy creature looking up at him with great, dark eyes. “Perhaps a marriage of convenience is for the best. No secrets, no expectations. No heartache, either.”

No passion, no love. Eyes wide open. The cold, formal circumstances of this union were for the best.

The cat, in apparent agreement, gave a hollow meow and then went on his way toward the fountain.

Earlier today he’d gotten word from James Macooish that he was in London and prepared to present his granddaughter at Lady Guthrie’s intimate gathering a few days hence.

From past experience, he knew that the intimate gathering would be grand rather than cozy. He wondered if his future bride was any more prepared for this meeting than he was.

As vibrant and socially accomplished as he understood Madeline Macooish to be, he could not help guessing that the duchess’s soiree would be different than what the American would be accustomed to. For all that the lady was admired in America, England was a vastly different place. He feared she might be shunned by the other women because she was an outsider. And not just any outsider, but one who threatened to dash their ambition of gaining a titled marriage.

Heath pitied his bride-to-be as much as he did himself. He could not imagine why she had agreed to marry Oliver. It was not as though her family would fail without the money like his would. And not only the family of his blood but those he was now responsible for: parlormaids, footmen, butlers, cooks and farmers. Even the merchants Fencroft frequented could suffer if he failed to keep the estate solvent.

If he could choose the direction of his life, it would not be this.

Heath was far better suited to the bucolic life of the estate. Helping farmers tend the land and the livestock—it was all he’d ever needed of life. He’d been grateful to be born the second son.

None of that mattered now. There was a crown pressing on his head and the legacy Willa had unknowingly bequeathed him burdening his heart.

It hurt his brain to think about everything all at once. He’d rather let his mind wander to Cinderella. He’d come out tonight, half hoping to see her again. Thoughts of her had interfered with his daily duties; they’d even invaded his nighttime dreams.

If he could only see her one more time, discover who she was.

He glanced the length and width of the garden. While he’d been woolgathering, fog had rolled in. The vapor swirled brown and ugly in the light given off by a gas lantern beside the gate.

A movement caught his eye. A woman stood beside the fountain dabbing her eyes with a white apron. He heard her softly weeping.

She was not the lady he sought, but a chambermaid who worked on the third floor. He recalled seeing her hustling about her duties.

Since he could not turn away from a weeping woman, he approached her.

“Miss?” He spoke softly but still his voice must have startled her, because she jumped.

“Oh, Lord Fencroft, sir,” she sniffled. “I beg your pardon for being out here but, but I—”