Louise Allen - The Bride's Seduction

‘I am taking an interest, I just could not recall his name. And why is Lord Mortenhoe visiting Charlie?’

‘I have no idea,’ Marina said repressively. ‘A matter of business, no doubt, and no concern of ours.’

‘You mean that one of them owes the other some money?’ Lizzie deduced pertly. ‘Let us hope Lord Mortenhoe owes Charlie, for that would be a great comfort to poor Mama.’

‘We have no reason to suppose Lord Mortenhoe is a card player,’ Marina pointed out, giving up the effort to turn her sister’s thoughts to a more seemly topic.

‘It might be anything,’ Lizzie countered. ‘Racing, cards, hazard—anything. Someone told me Charlie would even bet on which of two flies would land upon a window first. When I am out in society and playing cards I will be like dear Papa and always win. I do not know why Charlie never does.’

Marina contemplated a lecture on how fatally fast it would be to be seen gambling and decided it was pointless just now. There were two more years before Lizzie came out—if the money lasted that long. Time enough to instil some decorum.

‘He is very good looking, is he not?’ Lizzie observed. ‘Is he an earl?’

‘Lord Mortenhoe is an earl, yes. As for looks, I am sure he presents a most amiable and gentlemanlike appearance.’ She was certainly not going to agree that the breadth of Lord Mortenhoe’s shoulders, his classically moulded features or the flexible, deep voice were more than enough to flutter any lady’s pulse. They had certainly fluttered hers, an unusual occurrence in a well-regulated existence. It was a surprisingly pleasant sensation. ‘That,’ Marina added firmly, more to herself than to her sister, ‘is all a lady should be concerned with.’

‘Poppycock,’ Lizzie announced reprehensively. ‘I think how a gentleman looks is very important. After all, fancy being married to someone with bad teeth like Mr Percival or to a man who looks like a codfish.’

Much struck by this, Marina swallowed a laugh and demanded, ‘Whoever do we know who looks like a codfish?’

‘Sir Willoughby Cavendish. Have you not noticed?’

Now it was pointed out, Marina could easily see the likeness. ‘Certainly not. And what are you about, young lady, thinking of gentlemen at all, let alone about marrying one?’

‘Well, I will have to, will I not?’ Lizzie pointed out. ‘A rich one, because of not having any dowry. So it would be nice if he was handsome too, I think.’

Kyte returned the now gleaming Hessians and assisted Justin into them with much play of gloved hands and soft polishing leather.

‘I venture to say, my lord, that your man will be unable to detect the slightest defect. We must be thankful that the Animal did not paw at them.’

Justin had a strong suspicion that Shepton would be distinctly put out that another valet had so much as touched the boots, especially since the finish obtained was so fine, but he smiled and thanked the man. With a final pat at the tassels, Kyte bowed himself out.

His host did not immediately take advantage of their privacy, fidgeting around the room and pouring himself another brandy before finally returning to his seat.

‘I suppose you find it strange that I should decide to sell Knightshaye after all this time,’ he said abruptly.

‘Considering that I have offered to purchase it on at least a dozen occasions since I came of age seven years ago, and first your father, and then you, has always refused to even discuss it, then, yes, you may say I am surprised.’ Justin kept his tone even. He had no reason to distrust the young baron, no reason to suppose that, however rackety his reputation, he took after his father in any way. To project his loathing for the late Lord Winslow on to his son would be both unfair and counterproductive.

‘My father always swore he would never sell to you, and he would never sell to anyone else either, in case you approached them. He told me I must do the same thing. Damned if I know why.’

‘You do not?’ Despite his control, the words sounded sceptical to Justin’s own ears.

‘And you do know? Something to do with a quarrel between our respective fathers, that is all I could ever gather.’ Charlie shrugged. ‘Ancient history now, and whatever it was, I can’t afford to cut off my own nose just to prolong some pointless feud.’

‘Then you definitely intend to sell?’ Justin was conscious of a tightness in his chest and switched his gaze from the face opposite him to the scene outside. Feigning indifference was pointless, but pride forced him to at least an appearance of calm. Miss Elizabeth threw the ball for her brother and an ecstatic hound to race after while Miss Winslow stood gracefully, watching. She had a calm poise, which suggested not only that she was past her green years but that, despite her single state, she had acquired much of the style of a young married lady. He found his lips had curved into a smile; she seemed to have that effect on him.

‘Fact is, I’m going to hell in a handcart,’ his host announced abruptly, startling his attention back.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I drink too much, game too much and, unlike my revered Papa, I lose too much. I’ve tried reforming my way of life, and it don’t last above a week or two, mostly.’ Winslow shifted uneasily in the high-backed chair. ‘But I’m not so far gone I can’t see what effect it’s going to have on the family if I don’t do something about it. So I’ve spoken to the lawyers and what I’m going to do is sell Knightshaye to you, put the whole lot in a trust and that will look after Giles’s education, Lizzie’s dowry and set Mama up comfortably in the Dower House, which is where she’d rather be most of the time anyhow. I won’t be able to touch a penny, even if I wanted to.’

‘An admirable plan,’ Justin said drily. ‘I am honoured by your confidence.’ Odd he had made no reference to Miss Winslow, but perhaps she would be expected to become her mother’s companion. Or perhaps there was a respectable suitor in the background.

‘You do still want it?’ Lord Winslow looked anxious.

‘Yes,’ Justin admitted, suddenly wary. ‘Considering it is my family home and I have been intending to retrieve it for twenty years, you may be confident that I still wish to buy it back from you.’

‘Twenty years? But you must only have been, what, six, seven...?’

‘Eight. I was eight when my father lost Knightshaye to your father in a card game and eight when he...died three months later.’ And he had been ten when his mother died, apparently of no other cause than a broken heart.

‘Why do you question whether I still want it?’

‘Well, I, er... Have you been there recently?’

‘No. I have never been back.’ As the carriage had pulled away, his mother weeping, his father with a face set like stone, he had vowed never to set foot on Knightshaye land until it was his again. But he saw no reason to confide that to the son of the man who had taken it from the Ransomes. ‘Why do you ask? Is something wrong there?’

‘Shouldn’t think so,’ Charlie said with a somewhat suspicious carelessness. ‘Never been there myself. The tenanted farmland’s all in good enough heart—the rents are fine, so my steward tells me. The house is shut up. My father left instructions for its maintenance, so I just told our steward to get on with everything in the same way as before.’

So, the late Lord Winslow had taken Knightshaye entirely for revenge, not because he wanted it for itself. If spite had not been the reason, then surely the family would have used it: it was a far finer mansion that their own small estate. It was as Justin had always suspected, and he knew the reason why, even if apparently old Winslow’s heir did not.