A Hasty Betrothal (9 page)

How was such a thing possible? Was it because he knew the little girl's name and history? He cared about the details of the people he hired.

Yet she knew nothing of the servants in her grandmother's household, the place where she had grown up. She had felt ugly for so long, and now she was beginning to realize why.

It was not the birthmark on her face.

No wonder Miles had set forth strictures. No wonder he hesitated to marry her.

She ate the stew, but it went down tasteless.

Perhaps ruination was not such a terrible thing, after all. It certainly beat realizing what a horrid human being she'd allowed herself to become.

Chapter Nine

“W
hat did you do to my granddaughter?” The dowager duchess eyed Miles.

He stopped himself just in time from wiggling beneath her eagle-eyed gaze. He was not a young lad anymore, tearing through her gardens and climbing her trees. Still, when she gave him that look, dipping her face and peering at him through that infernal quizzing glass, he felt like a scrawny, high-pitched child again.

Miles set his quill down while weighing his answer. Rather than having him travel to his own property, the dowager duchess had kindly allowed him to sleep at Windermar. His childhood home was farther away from the mill than her house. They had decided to stay an extra day as he wanted to oversee more changes at the mill. “Is there something wrong with Elizabeth?”

Lady Windermar swept into the chair across from the desk that she'd so kindly allowed Miles to use. Her perfume billowed outward with the expansion of her voluminous day dress. She pursed her lips. She tapped her quizzing glass gently against her knees.

“She's moping,” she finally said, as though the responsibility for it lay directly on Miles shoulders.

Rubbing his eyes, he leaned back. What did one say to such a pointed remark? When he said nothing, the dowager leaned forward.

“You are her betrothed, though I must confess to a certain confusion as to how such an event happened right beneath my nose, without my consent. That is neither here nor there. The matter remains that as her betrothed, it is your responsibility to cheer her up. I've sent her out to the gardens. You must go to her now.”

Miles frowned. Cheering up women had not proven to be a capability of his. He straightened and glared at the paperwork on the desk. “I don't have time.”

The duchess made a sound that resembled a refined growl. He dragged his gaze off the desk to see her standing up, her shoulders squared.

“Young man, I did not ask if you had time. If you care for my granddaughter, which I suspect you do, then you will make time for her feelings. You will consider her thoughts and emotions and you shall treat her as your most valuable friend while in my home. Is that clear?”

Miles rose. “Eminently clear, Your Grace. I shall go to her at once.”

He bowed and rounded the desk. Dread weighed his walk but he found his way to the gardens. The sun hid behind clouds though it was not quite afternoon. Rain might find them soon. The damp weather cooled his heated skin and the regret that had poured over him at the duchess's words.

It was not that he wanted to ignore Bitt or her feelings. He simply hadn't realized she was upset. She'd seemed tired and quiet last night when they arrived. When they broke their fast this morn, she brought a book to the table and hardly spoke to him. He assumed she'd spend the day in the library.

Strolling down the manicured walkway, he scanned the area for her. Flowers grew in profusion, the April weather encouraging blooms to spring up everywhere. The bright, cheery colors and floral perfumes encased him in beauty. It had been too long since he'd walked outside.

“Lovely, is it not?” Bitt's voice came from behind him.

Surprised, he swiveled and found her holding a lush bouquet of flowers, her lips curved in a soft smile. “Besides the library, this is my favorite place.

“I know a bank where the wild thyme blows,

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows,

Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.”

Miles squinted. “Was that a recitation?”

“Shakespeare.” She shrugged and still that sweet smile painted her face. “What are you doing out here? I had thought you working.”

“Even a working man is in need of sunlight and roses.”

“Why, Miles, that is a lovely line of prose.” And now her teeth showed and her eyes flashed up at him, the muted sunlight dimming their beauty not one bit.

A sense of shame rolled over him. He did not wish to tell her the duchess had sent him out to check on her. He looked more closely at his betrothed. Her bun was unkempt, and it appeared as though she'd rolled through a carpet of wildflowers, for bits of grass and colorful petals interlaced with the burnished strands of her hair.

His arms ached, as though filling them with an armful of Elizabeth might ease the pain.

* * *

Elizabeth had never enjoyed being stared at, but when Miles did so, she felt different. Not ugly nor ungainly. She simply felt
seen
. She was suddenly aware of the heat in her cheeks and the succulent scent of the blooms in her hands.

There were emerald shards in his irises, and they glinted in the sunshine. His mouth looked soft and yielding, relaxed, even. Perhaps he did not find her so dreadful, after all. He had shed his overcoat, probably in the office Grandmother let him use, and his breeches were of fine quality. They fit him well, molding to his fit frame. She supposed his mills gave him first choice of fine fabrics. He lacked the pasty quality many gentlemen sported. Evidence of their indoor lifestyles, which was why she'd always assumed Miles spent a good deal of time outdoors. She had not realized just how involved he chose to be with his business, assuming him to be a sportsman because of his complexion. Now she realized he simply enjoyed riding outdoors, whether in the country or in London.

Since his businesses did mean so much to him, he might be interested in hearing what she had discovered.

Once she had witnessed firsthand the environment of his mill, she felt honor bound to change things, or to at least support Miles in his goals.

“Would you care to take a turn about the gardens with me? I had hoped to speak to you today and am relieved to see you out of the office,” she said.

“You are? It was my understanding that you were miffed with me.”

“An understatement, Miles. I was positively perturbed.” She meandered down the path, smiling a secret smile, for time had given her space to consider his actions. “I overreacted. You were right to remark upon my purse, and I was wrong to demean your ambitions.”

Silence behind her. Was he listening to what she said? Feeling the first prick of doubt, she kept walking. A rose trellis waited ahead, interlaced with thorns and blooms. Quite like how she felt when she was around Miles, never knowing if she'd inhale sweetness or be stung by an unseen thorn.

It was all rather disconcerting. She inhaled deeply, but the indignation that had filled her yesterday had seeped away, replaced with a resolve to change things for the better.

“It pains me to think of Becky and Louise and the other children working in cotton mills. Spending their entire lives bent over machines, little knowing the joys of the rest of the world. Like what it means to have an ice at Gunter's, or to stand at the harbor and breathe in the pungent salty air.”

“You have done such a thing?” A trace of laughter filled his words.

She threw back a look, catching the quirk of his lips and the amused flash of his eyes. “Indeed not. But I have read of pirates and smugglers. I have a fair idea of how a harbor must stink.”

She reached the trellis. It arched over her, a tangled weaving of scarlet petals that looked soft as velvet. A perfumed spot on her trek.

“Reading something is not the same as experiencing it.” Miles touched a petal, his large hand incongruous and yet surprisingly gentle as he stroked the rose.

“It can be close,” she said, caught unawares by the motion of his finger.

“But when you read of something, you do not get the full effect.” He turned to her then, and she saw that he was not all humor as she had supposed, that something more drew his brow together. His voice was rough and the hand that had been touching the rose moved to her hair.

She could not move. Everything within her stilled at his proximity. Something like lightning raced through her, sizzling down her legs, electrifying her to this very spot on the ground. It was the oddest feeling, a drawn-out moment when speckled sunlight and rosy hues colored her entire being.

And Miles.

His fingers in her hair. His gaze on her. Grave and remote and something else, something she could not put a finger on, but the unnamed emotion lingered in his movements.

He held out a leaf to her. “Were you rolling in the grass, Bitt?”

And now there was the humor she frequently saw in his eyes. This was the thorn, then, to tug her back into reality and far from the romantic place she'd been swept to, a place where she thought he actually might want to kiss her.

Her lips tingled. Her stomach quavered.

“I would never roll in the grass,” she said primly, summoning every ounce of pride she possessed. She pivoted, marching out from beneath the trellis as quickly as possible. “There are two things I wished to discuss with you. First, your employees' education. They are in need and I'm quite certain there must exist a precedent for establishing a curriculum for the illiterate. Second, the figures in your ledgers are incorrect.”

Disgruntlement sharpened her words, but she cared not one whit. What a foolish girl she was, thinking Miles might actually kiss her when really he was laughing at the state of her hair. She kept marching upward, toward the house, hearing the crunch of Miles's boots behind her but not pausing. There was only room for one on the path, forcing him to stay behind her.

Which she preferred, as she didn't wish him to read the longing on her face, a longing she'd only just recognized.

A
very
irritating longing.

“One thing at a time, Elizabeth. Could you stop walking so we can discuss this?”

“I must get these blooms in water before they die. I'm decorating the dining room table. Usually I have someone else handle the task but I felt up to fresh air.” The house loomed before her. Perhaps by the time they reached it, she could look Miles in the face without her every nerve vibrating.

How had this attraction happened? It was his lack of mustache, she surmised.

He must grow one back, and soon.

She entered the house through a back door, one the servants often used but she made use of it, as well. The walk to the kitchens was shorter this way. She'd hardly entered when a young woman rushed over to her.

“Oh, miss.” The girl bobbed a curtsy. “There's been a dreadful accident with the housekeeper's son. She's having a fit of the vapors and we can hardly calm her. She's in the village, and there's still next week's menu to be planned and all sorts of other—”

“What is your name?” Elizabeth interrupted.

“Macie, my lady.”

Elizabeth handed the flowers to Miles, who stood directly behind her. “Take those to the kitchen, please, and put them in water.” She cast Miles one last look, soaking in the familiar and yet decidedly different angles of his face. He was too handsome for comfort, she decided. “We shall discuss the ledger at supper.”

Gathering her skirts, she addressed the young maid. “Take me to her at once.”

Chapter Ten

M
iles returned to the study, but his thoughts kept straying to Bitt. The muddle of feelings she evoked drove him to distraction, and he was thankful when he received a post requesting his presence at the mill. He borrowed a horse, a young mare whose canter was smooth and quick, and left.

Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen when he passed through the village.

While at the mill, after reiterating his expectations to Grealey, adjusting his workers' schedules to allow for more breaks and fresh air and speaking to Shapely about expenses, he grabbed the ledger. Bitt's words echoed in his mind. She would not have mentioned an incongruity if there was none.

He would look further into the matter because when it came to numbers and reading, there was no one he trusted more than Elizabeth. He meandered back to the estate in the evening. Dinner at eight, he'd been told. He should have time to freshen up and pore over the ledger to find exactly what Elizabeth had seen. He'd return it to Shapely tomorrow.

A sweet English wind scurried across the acres of the duchess's estate. Hopefully the housekeeper's son was not badly hurt. He had not heard news of the injury while passing through the village. Then he'd veered into a forested area, finding a trail he used to ride as a child from his family's estate to see John on rainy afternoons.

And there'd always been Bitt, stowing along for the ride. Trailing her big brother, watching him with wide, curious eyes. He remembered clambering up trees just for the excitement of hearing her squeal in fear and chide him to get down. She had been younger, but that hadn't stopped her from ordering him and John about. Not that she would climb a tree.

She much preferred to read about one rather than do it herself. A thinker, a dreamer but not a doer.

And he was going to marry her.

The knowledge pressed against his skull, deep and irksome. Between John's demand and Bitt's unfortunate situation, he'd been roped into a cage he'd wished to avoid altogether. He pulled on the reins, guiding his mare to the right, onto a grassy hill that led straight up to Elizabeth's house. He comforted himself with the thought that once married, he wouldn't need to see her much.

This afternoon had been risky. Knowing her so well brought an unanticipated affection that could only complicate his life. An image of Bitt beneath the trellis tormented him.

For the briefest moment, an overwhelming urge to place his lips upon hers had raced through him, a mad temptation to taste for just one moment that sweet mouth, to feel his cheek against hers, to hold her close.

Madness! He pressed his heels into the mare's sides and they raced up the hill.

Madness to even contemplate engaging in a relationship with Elizabeth. He couldn't make her happy. He was not husbandly. Furthermore, she already thought ill of him. Nothing good could come of this attraction, of that he was certain.

The wind tugged at his skin, brisk and refreshing and altogether real. Certainly more real than this ephemeral state he found himself in regarding his betrothed. He would just have to do his best to stay away from her.

Ascertain that she was able to fulfill the tasks he set before her, that she could be the kind of wife he needed when life called for it, and then keep far away. The worst thing he could do would be to lead her on. To make her think that they could build any kind of romance together.

Regardless of their friendship, which truthfully was little more than a shared childhood affection, their marriage must remain platonic.

It was his duty to keep their friendship at a comfortable level. Thus, when he entered the dining room that night after freshening up, he was prepared in every way to be distant and calm.

That resolve didn't last. The dowager duchess sat at the long table, her hair piled high and candlelight flickering across her regal features. Miles bowed and took his seat. Bitt was not there.

It was strange how all his plans to keep calm dissolved at the lack of her presence.

“Where's Elizabeth?” he asked in what he deemed an appropriately casual voice.

Her Grace gave him an arch look, her thin eyebrows rising as though he'd asked the most important question of the evening. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He downed his water. A footman instantly refilled the glass.

“My granddaughter will be down in a moment.” She sipped her own drink, eyeing him above the rim. Her quizzing glass was absent, which inspired an intense relief. He'd taken a great disliking to the thing. “Did you cheer her up this afternoon?”

Throat dry, he nodded. Normally he and the duchess got on rather well, but after what felt like a reprimand earlier, he'd been second-guessing himself. How could he have forgotten the responsibilities entailed in courting a woman? All the emotions, the guesswork, needing to find out how she felt constantly and if there was anything he should do to make her feel better.

His relationship with Anastasia had been exhausting. He had hoped for something calmer with Bitt.

“Very good.” The duchess straightened. “Ah, Elizabeth, come join us. We were just talking about you.”

Miles stood as she came in. She sat and Miles followed suit. He tried very hard not to stare, but it was as though an invisible force had taken hold of him. Her hair had been put up in a style that framed her face. Long curls caressed her shoulders. His head told him that curls did not change anything about Elizabeth, yet somehow they made her eyes look large and luminescent. They emphasized the delicate curve of her cheekbone and the charming pink bow of her lips.

To cure his dry mouth, he took another sip of water. “Good evening, Bitt. You look lovely tonight.”

The duchess released a soft sound that sounded like approval.

“Thank you, Miles.” She pursed her lips, glancing at her grandmother. “I was told I must dress wisely.”

“Threatened, you mean?” A faint chuckle escaped him. “I say, Bitt, I'm surprised the tactic worked.”

“As am I.” She scowled at her grandmother but then sent him a gentle smile that did horrible things to his pulse. “How was your afternoon?”

“Productive. We've ordered more windows and arranged the schedule to allow for more moments of fresh air.”

“You are renovating the Littleshire Mill?” Lady Windermar took a serving from the plate the servant held out to her. “It has been brought to my attention that new management has improved the place. Your father would be proud.” Her face took on a soft look, startling Miles.

He took his own portion, uttering a quiet thank-you to the footman who held the platter for him. He had often wondered at his father's relationship with the duchess. It had been an unlikely friendship, strange because in those days the peerage did not associate with commoners. With them both being widowed, perhaps a feeling of more than affection had sprung up between them.

The duchess was lost in thought, her lips tilting at the corners. Miles looked to Elizabeth, but she also daydreamed. She had propped her chin on her fists and stared at some point beyond him. How often he had seen her in such a pose, the crystalline quality of her eyes fringed by dark lashes and her lips slightly parted at the beauty of her daydreams.

The moment did not last long. More food was brought out and they continued eating.

“I have been researching and believe I may have information that will help you update your mills to acceptable standards,” she said.

“Elizabeth, are you instructing Mr. Hawthorne on the correct way to run his cotton mill?”

Her face pinked. “Of course not, Grandmother.”

“A lady's job is to—” A mild cough interrupted her words. She pressed her table napkin against her lips. “Oh, my, I do not feel well.”

At once Elizabeth was out of her seat, going to her grandmother and laying a hand on her shoulder. “Are you in need of your heart medication?”

Miles stood immediately, prepared to help.

The duchess shook her head. “No, no, I shall be fine. Perhaps I shall take my meal in my room.” She waved a hand, her eyes suspiciously bright. “You two continue your conversation. Elizabeth, be sure to let this whippersnapper know exactly what you expect.”

The duchess pushed back from her seat, rising firmly, and Miles bit back a smile at the tone of her voice. She did look as though she were choking a bit.

On a laugh.

She must be delighted that Elizabeth was betrothed, he realized. After all, hadn't she been the one to provide the trousseau for Elizabeth's Season? Or something to that effect? He really did not know what all went into a woman's fashions.

Once the duchess had stridden, and not hobbled, out, Elizabeth and he sat back down to their food.

“That was odd,” Elizabeth remarked.

“Theatrical,” he responded.

They shared a grin, and at that moment, Miles felt a release from the tension that had ridden his shoulders since this morning. Perhaps marital happiness was out of reach, but surely contentment could be attained. A companionable friendship, even. Optimistic, he told Elizabeth the rest of his plans for the factory. “And you may be interested in knowing that I saw Becky and she appeared in good spirits.”

She'd actually been running up and down the hall, not working, but Elizabeth didn't need to know that particular detail.

“I am so very happy to hear that. The housekeeper's son will also rally. He strained his back and bruised his leg in a fall. I ordered him to bed and hired a man from town to temporarily overtake his duties.”

Miles paused, his fork midair. “
You
hired?”

“Why, yes. I run this household, Miles. Did you not know that?”

“It seems I should have. Who will take care of your grandmother when we are married?”

Her brow crinkled. “Why, I was planning to.”

“You will run two households? Three, when we are staying in London?”

Elizabeth set her fork down. “I am perfectly capable of such a feat, should the need arise, but honestly, I was under the impression that you and I were not going to share a household.”

“
Share
is a strong word. We may be in a partnership, but your part of our union is as the lady of the house. You will be expected to do your part.” An uncomfortable tightness invaded his chest once again. Any reprieve he'd felt fled.

* * *

Elizabeth pressed her lips together, repressing the urge to wipe the priggish look from Miles's face. “Really, Miles, there is no need to be quite so dogmatic. I am aware of your plans and how I fit into them. There will be no problems, and I shall accomplish what you have asked of me. You are worrying over nothing.”

“My dear, I never worry.” Struck by an impish urge, he winked at her. “But it's important to me that you abide by our agreement. When you are Mrs. Hawthorne, you will be expected to handle all the requirements of housewifery.”

Bitt blinked, her fork midair. “You sound as though you are worrying. As if you do not trust my abilities.”

“To be truthful, I had no idea you ran this household. Every time I have ever visited, you have been in the library or wandering the estate with a novel beneath your arm.”

Elizabeth's fork clattered on the plate. “I hardly think that you have a right to criticize me when your factories are in such obvious disarray.”

Too late Miles realized he was upsetting her. Taken aback, he set down his own fork. “Explain yourself, madam.”

“Certainly, sir.” She emphasized the
sir
, as if pointing out his lack of title. Or perhaps just his lack. Fingers clenching, he set his jaw.

“Well?”

“Your ledgers, sir, have been manipulated. By whom, I dare not say, though you are well aware of my feelings toward Mr. Grealey. Perhaps you should spend less time sporting and socializing and more time in the offices examining your books.”

Shock rooted Miles to his seat. His mind spun and annoyance built, especially at the way she sat so prim and judgmental in her seat, daring him to be better, to do better. As though he wasn't enough.

At that moment, he could only remember Anastasia. Though her words had been different, the feeling behind the accusations had been the same.

You're not good enough.

It echoed through him, loud and resounding, gouging his ego and prompting a flicker of temper to race through his veins.

“You misjudge me,” he said, forcing the words through gritted teeth.

“Nay, your misjudgment came first.” But her eyes flickered, and uncertainty dashed across her face.

“First, if you believe I spend my time socializing and sporting, then you do not know me at all. I am surprised by you, Elizabeth. I expected better.”

Her eyes flashed. He supposed it was a good thing he sat across the table from her or she might jab him with her fork. Typically, he'd find her temper amusing, but her words had hit their target and the only thing he felt was a raw wound pulsating from her dig.

“Second,” he continued in a stern voice, “I examine the ledgers once a month, much like clockwork. The entries are precise, and everything is as it should be. Perhaps you should reconfigure your mathematics.”

“My mathematics are error free.” Her face had taken on a still look that indicated deep anger.

What right had she to be miffed? He mentally retraced his words and could find no reason for her irritation...oh, except that he'd told her he expected a wife who could handle the household. That could not be the problem. She had no reason to be angry when she was the one who had questioned his abilities. His body was rigid, anger tensing each muscle. This was exactly why he'd avoided the marital state for so many years, when most men rushed into a new marriage after being widowed.

Women! Difficult creatures and impossible to please.

“Don't look at me like that,” Elizabeth snapped. “How dare you assume I spend my days in leisure, flitting about like some kind of spoiled butterfly? You have done nothing but ridicule me since we were children. I am tired of the condescension from you. Yes, I read. I adore reading. Books and imagination are far better companions than real people. Why is that so difficult for you to comprehend? But my choice of pleasure does not mean I neglect my duties nor that I am incapable of living life.” She shoved to her feet, a firebrand if he ever saw one. “You can take your condescension and—”