Once an Heiress (2 page)

It was an unfair accusation, she knew, even as it flew from her mouth. Yes, she had been betrothed to Charles Handford since time out of mind, but for most of her life, it was simply a fact she’d memorized, along with the color of the sky and the sum of two and two.

There’d been plenty of visits with their neighbors, the Handfords, but Charles was ten years her senior and rarely present. Her earliest memories of him were his visits home from Eton and Oxford, or later, leaves from his lancer regiment.

Their betrothal only became more relevant as her twentieth birthday neared, bringing the planned summer wedding that was to follow on its heels — an event postponed when Charles’ regiment could not spare him, and which was never to be when he died that autumn.

The silence stretched while her father regained his composure. Gradually, the angry red drained from his face. “Now, Lily,” he said in a more moderate tone, “I’ll not be portrayed as some chattel dealer, looking to hoist you off without a care for your feelings. Since last year was your first Season — and you just out of mourning — I did not push the issue. I still wish you to make your own match. The only stipulation I have placed is that the gentleman be titled — either in his own right or set to inherit. Surely that is not too onerous? There are scores of eligible gentlemen to choose from.”

“I don’t wish to marry an
aristocrat.
” She dripped disdain all over the word. “They’re a lot of lazy social parasites, with a collective sense of entitlement, just like that last one — ”

Mr. Bachman’s brows shot up his forehead. “Lily!”

She ducked her head. “I’m sorry,” she muttered, abashed. “My mouth does run ahead of me — ”

“And it’s going to run you right into spinsterhood, if you don’t mind yourself.”

Heat crept up Lily’s neck and over her cheeks.

“Now, dear,” Mr. Bachman continued, “poor Mr. Faircloth certainly
was
here because of your dowry. It’s big on purpose, and no doubt about it. But he also knew what color gown you wore to a ball last week. Do you know the last time I noticed a woman’s gown?”

Lily shrugged.

“Thirty years or more,” Mr. Bachman proclaimed, “if, in fact, I ever noticed to begin with.” He lifted her chin with a finger. Lily raised her eyes to meet her father’s softened expression. “You are an exceedingly pretty girl — ”

“Oh, Papa … ”

“You
are
. The way society works, however, renders it almost out of the question for the right kind of man to come calling, even if he thinks your dress
is
the most becoming shade of blue. Your dowry clears a few of those obstacles.” He took her hand and patted it. “Now, let us be done quarreling and speak of pleasanter things.”

Lily nodded hastily.

She happened to disagree with her father on the issue of her dowry. To Lily’s mind, the “right kind of man” would want to be with her, fortune or no. She thought of her dearest friend, Isabelle, Duchess of Monthwaite. Even though she and her husband, Marshall, went through a horrible divorce — reducing Isabelle to the lowest possible social status — they still found their way back together. Marshall didn’t allow Isabelle’s reduced circumstances to keep them apart, once they came to terms with their past.

For the thousandth time, Lily wished Isabelle was here. But she and His Grace were in South America on a botanical expedition-cum-honeymoon. They’d be home in a couple months, but oh, how time dragged when Lily so needed her friend’s advice.

Fortunately, Isabelle’s sister-in-law, Lady Naomi Lockwood, would soon be in town. She’d written to Lily that her mother, Caro, would be sitting out the Season to remain in the country — a singularly odd choice, Lily thought, considering the dowager duchess’ responsibility to see Naomi wed. Instead of her mother, Naomi would be chaperoned by her spinster aunt, Lady Janine.

Lily would be glad to see their friendly faces. She didn’t get on well with tonnish young women, and there was always the suspicion that men were only interested in her money. Lily often found herself lonely in the middle of a glittering crush.

“Are you attending?” Mr. Bachman said.

Lily blinked. “I’m sorry, Papa, what was that?”

“I asked,” he repeated patiently, “if you’ve decided on a project.”

Lily’s mood brightened.
This
was something she would enjoy discussing. “I have.”

“Excellent!” Mr. Bachman sat in the large armchair behind his desk, the throne from which he ruled his ever-expanding empire of industry. He moved the chair opposite the desk around to his side. “Have a seat, dear.”

Despite the tempest that had just flared between them, Lily felt a rush of affection for her dear father. Since she was a girl, he’d shared his desk with her. When she was young, he’d held her on his lap while he spoke to her about things she didn’t understand then — coal veins and shipping ventures; members of Parliament and government contracts.

At the time, it all blurred together into Papa’s Work. As she grew, she began to make sense of it all.

She understood now that all her life, he’d treated her as the son he never had, heir apparent to the name and fortune he’d made for himself. Never had he indicated any doubt in her capability or intelligence on account of her sex. He took pride in his daughter’s education, and emphasized mathematics and politics, in addition to feminine accomplishments such as drawing and dancing.

Just before they’d come to town this Season, Mr. Bachman presented Lily with a unique opportunity. He desired she develop a sizable charity project. He would fund her endeavor, but Lily had to do the work to bring her plans to fruition. She jumped on the proposal, glad for an occupation beside the
ton’s
vapid entertainments.

Mr. Bachman rummaged through a drawer and withdrew a sheet of paper covered with Lily’s neat writing.

“So, here is the list of ideas you began with. What have you settled upon?”

Lily pointed to an item halfway down the page. “The school for disadvantaged young women,” she said. “I should like to keep it small for now. Girls would receive a sound education, plus some accomplishments that would enable them to take positions as governesses, ladies’ maids, companions, things of that nature.”

Mr. Bachman cupped his chin in his hand and listened with a thoughtful expression while Lily enumerated her ideas for the school. When she finished, he slapped his fingers on the desk. “Marvelous, my dear.”

Lily swelled with pride at her father’s approval.

He took a fresh sheet of paper and jotted a note. “I’m putting my solicitor at your disposal. The two of you can select an appropriate property for purchase. Meanwhile, you also need to secure a headmistress, who can, in turn, hire the staff. You’ll need tutors, a cook, maids … ”

As the plan came together, Lily’s confidence in the project soared. There was nothing she could not accomplish once she knew how to approach a problem.

She kissed her father’s cheek at the conclusion of their meeting.

“Just think, m’dear,” he said on their parting.

“What’s that?”

“When you marry one of those lazy aristocrats, he’ll have scads of free time to help with your work.” He winked and patted her arm.

Lily scowled at his back. He seemed to think a man in need of her dowry would also, in turn, look kindly upon her efforts to care for those less fortunate than themselves. She snorted. Such a man did not exist.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

In the hazy place between sleep and waking, it was the sound of the fat man plodding upstairs, unwittingly leaving his mistress in the company of his rival.

It was the sound Ethan’s pulse made when Ghita appeared in the parlor doorway like a succubus rising from the mist, her slender hips swaying provocatively within the silken confines of her gown. One golden strand fell from her updo, curling against her collarbone like a finger crooked in invitation. In the light of a single candle, huge doe eyes blinked up at him.

Dainty fingers grazed the shoulders of his blue superfine coat before slipping around his neck. “Eeethan,” she crooned. “You have to leave. He’ll find us.” Her Italian accent was gentled by her operatic training and years on the stage. Even as she murmured against his neck, her voice was a song. A seduction.

Ethan brushed the top of one small, high breast. “Let him,” he said, nipping his way across her jaw. “Maybe he’ll learn by example how to properly satisfy a woman.” He dipped into the neckline of her dress and fondled a taut nipple between his first and middle fingers, rolling the bud back and forth. Ghita whimpered and pressed her hips against him.

In reply, Ethan grasped her pert bottom with his free hand and rocked against her mound. Pressure built at the base of his spine. His erection twitched, eager to bury itself in hot, wet flesh.

“Ooh, you must hurry and find a wife, Eeethan. One who is dripping with money, like my Quillan. She’ll be so happy to own you, she won’t care what you do. Then we can be together.”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound roused him enough to bring awareness to his very real, very hard condition. He burrowed his head into the crook of his arm and touched himself. Images from last night flashed behind his eyelids.

Ghita. His desire. His temptation. His friend’s mistress.

He saw her as she was earlier in the evening, across the card table, draping herself over Quillan’s shoulder to give Ethan a view of the tight slit between her breasts. She nibbled her corpulent protector’s ear, all the while treating Ethan to a heated look, telling him without words:
This could be you.

His own hand became the remembrance of hers, stroking through his trousers while Quillan awaited her upstairs. Despite the lust blazing between them, Ethan had not taken her to bed. Ghita was, after all, a professional. A very
expensive
professional.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His memory jumped; his hand fell away. This time, the heavy noise became the sound of Ficken’s winning cards hitting the table with ominous finality. The poseur, with his over-pomaded hair and ill-fitting clothes, turned beady eyes on Ethan. “That’s hate thousan’ ye owe me this month, moi lor’.”

The butcher-turned-professional-gambler’s mangled King’s English made Ethan’s guts roil. He kept his eyes trained forward, refusing to acknowledge the jumped-up East Ender. No matter how much money the man took from the pockets of the aristocracy, he would never be a true gentleman.

Ethan signed the promissory note and passed it to Ficken.

Ghita’s lips made a sympathetic moue. Ethan tried to forget the gaming debts and thought instead about sliding into that pretty mouth. He threw back the remainder of his drink and set the glass down with a resounding —

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Gradually, the heavy sound teased his eyelids open. The swirling pattern in the plaster ceiling of his study started to come into focus. It only spun a little.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and groaned. His cock ached with need and his head hurt like the very devil — so badly he could
hear
the blood thudding in his temples.

No, that didn’t make sense. He hoisted himself up, swinging his long legs over the side of the leather sofa on which he’d fallen asleep after stumbling home in the early morning hours. Except for the sickening new debt and the all-too-brief encounter with Ghita, the details of last night’s disastrous basset game were shrouded in an alcoholic blur.

What
was
clear as the morning sun streaming through the window was the blasted thumping coming from the stair, as though a heavy object was being dragged down. Whatever it was, it hit the landing, and after a moment, he heard the sound of the object dragging across the wood floor of the entrance hall. Mrs. Oliver, the housekeeper, would have someone’s head if the wax finish was scratched by a careless maid.

Slowly, Ethan stood. Last night’s coat was bunched around his right arm, only half-removed. “Pretty bad, old boy,” he muttered.

He peeled the garment off and tossed it in a rumpled ball back onto the sofa. He stretched, arching his back and reaching his arms overhead, his fingers brushing the ceiling. Around his throat, his cravat still trussed him up like a roast duck. He nimbly worked the knot. A sigh of relief escaped him as he scratched the liberated skin.

The noise outside the study increased. More feet tromped up and down the stairs, inconsiderate of the fact that the master of the house had only been abed — or asofa, as the case may be — for a few hours.

Maybe Mrs. Oliver had a bee in her formidable bonnet to undertake some heavy cleaning. He sighed and collapsed into the chair at his desk, then adjusted his trousers to ease the strain of his ebbing morning arousal. No sense leaving the sanctuary of his study; he’d only be underfoot, or find himself with a dust cloth in hand.

A pile of unopened correspondence stood in the middle of the desk. Ethan glared accusingly at the pile, squirming against the cold knot it aroused in his belly by the mere fact of its existence.

He grumbled and snatched a letter from the top of the pile. He cracked the seal.

Thorburn,
he read.

It has now been five months since I loaned you the sum of one thousand two hundred pounds. You promised prompt repayment, and I trusted you to make good on your word. It grieves me that this has not been the case. I must now insist in the strongest terms —

Ethan tossed that one aside. He opened another.

My lord —

I still hold your promissory note for seven hundred pounds, dated 17 January. I hear I am not the only one with your worthless notes. Is this why you no longer show your face at Brooks’s?

It joined the first note.

Letter after letter demanded compensation for debts Ethan couldn’t begin to pay. It seemed he owed personal loans and gaming debts to half the
ton
, not to mention his bills from numerous tradesmen and mortgage payments to the bank.

He dropped his head into his hands. How had it gotten so bad?

Not for the first time, Ethan considered giving up gaming. The cards and dice had been against him since … He gazed out the window, thinking.