A Hasty Betrothal (2 page)

“I acquired a new factory near your grandmother's estate, actually. I don't have time to cater to a wife.” His eyes were dark, stormy, as though a mood had come upon him.

If she was honest with herself, she'd always enjoyed looking at Miles. Almost in the way one admired a violent sunset splashing across the horizon. When she was around him, she felt freer somehow.

As if she too were a myriad of colors spilling into the sea.

“If you are not here for a wife, then you must be here for some other nefarious purpose.” She squinted at him, allowing a bit of mockery in her smile. “Tell me truthfully: Did John send you here to spy on me?”

“Your brother is too busy for meddling.”

“Do not be vague with me, Mr. Hawthorne.”

“Despite my lack of title, I also received an invitation. Does that surprise you?”

“As you are a gentleman, it is not surprising at all.” She stood, suddenly tired of their banter, of the constant irritation that had plagued her from the moment she'd arrived in London. Nay, before that. “I'm in need of fresh air. Do not follow me. If you see Grandmother, please tell her I took a turn in the gardens.”

“Without a companion?”

“Perhaps I shall conveniently snag one on the way out,” she said crossly. She really should keep a companion near her at all times, but what she wanted most was to be alone. Who would bother a wallflower, anyhow?

Miles chuckled, the sound warm and inviting. She steeled herself against any feelings of friendliness toward him.

“You laugh, yet you have never known the restrictions of womanhood.”

“If you mean spending your days reading, shopping and talking, you're correct. I have never known such freedoms.”

“You mock me!”

“Nay, but I beg you to consider the benefits of your station in life. Most have not the comforts you enjoy on a daily basis.”

“I know that,” she said hotly. Who did Miles think he was? Always needling her, acting as though she was some spoiled, ungrateful wretch. “Would you have me sacrifice myself to the cold system of our society? A system that prefers breeding over character, purse over heart? I think not, Miles. Now, if you would be so kind as to bid me adieu...” She trailed off, for Lord Wrottesley headed toward her, a disconcertingly aggressive look to his gaze. “I really must leave now. Lord Wrottesley has called on me twice since we arrived in London. I do not wish to speak with him.”

“Who is he?”

“A fortune hunter.” Without wasting another moment in useless conversation, she twisted to the right, desiring to dodge several patrons, but she caught her reflection in the large mirrors that gilded the ballroom: a pale wisp of an heiress, the strawberry birthmark covering her right cheekbone, glaring out from the whiteness of her skin.

Averting her eyes from the sight, she charged toward a set of French doors she'd seen earlier.

The exit promised solitude. A rest from the noise of congestion, the odor of too much perfume that clogged her windpipe. She dared not glance back to see if Wrottesley followed her.

She prayed he did not. When he had called last Wednesday, it had been the most stifling thirty minutes of her existence.

Grandmother insisted God heard prayers from every soul, and Elizabeth dearly hoped the duchess was right.

The doors shuddered beneath the force of Elizabeth's exit, but the damp earth welcomed her slippers a bit too readily. She sank deeply into the ground and, in her haste, almost fell. Catching her balance, she hurried forward to the garden walk, ignoring the sucking sound her slippers made in the mud. They would be ruined, but she owned at least twenty more.

The scent of rain clung to the air. Lighted lanterns cast eerie shadows upon the path ahead, but the stones promised dryness for her feet and where they led, she would follow. Lord and Lady Charleston's back lawn was a lovely respite, the gardens a comfortable touch for guests. Though situated in London, they'd made good use of their small plot of land.

Oh, for quiet from this dreadful press of a ball. Vaguely it entered her mind that she risked her reputation by entering the gardens alone. Surely a brief rest could not hurt, though. She would return shortly. She reached the stone walkway and heaved a sigh of relief, for her toes squished and the sad, sodden state of her slippers reminded her of her future. Equally dark and muddy.

She should pray. Grandmother exhorted her to do so. Glancing up at the night sky, she saw that the moon hid behind clouds, painting them shades of dark blue and gray.
Lord, please guide me tonight. Give me wisdom for I am beset by worries.

She picked her way down the path, passing a couple sharing sweet whispers on a bench. The lanterns guided her feet to a ribbon-festooned gazebo sitting on the edge of what looked to be a pond. Out here, beyond the maddening noise of festivities, she finally felt she could draw a breath. The air was sweet, humid. Crickets welcomed her, their song harmonious and gracious.

She stepped into the gazebo, and it was as though a weight lifted from her shoulders. The half-circle bench beckoned her to sit and wait out the night. Perhaps a half hour, and then she could beg off the event by claiming malaise. A megrim, perhaps, or blisters from too much dancing. Sinking onto the bench, she watched the shimmering reflection of the now-unveiled moon on the water.

Blessed peace descended. It was only her and the night and God's watchful eye. He had answered her prayer and for that, she thanked Him. She sat for some time, her heartbeat lulled into synchrony with her breaths. She propped her arms on the edge of the gazebo, laying her head down, knowing she smashed the curls Jenna had worked so hard on and hoping her maid would forgive her the transgression.

She did not wish to think of marriage nor her parents. She wanted only to rest here and pretend that their desire to marry her off could be circumvented.

In the midst of her thoughts and the swirling anxiety that never seemed to quit, a twig snapped, cracking the silence.

Her head lifted, her pulse ratcheted. “Who's there?”

More scuffling, another twig snapping and suddenly she realized just how secluded she was. Perhaps no one went missing at balls, but plenty had been ruined. She stiffened as a shadow fell across the entrance of the gazebo.

“Alone, my lady?”

Chapter Two

P
erhaps 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.