Sweet Bargain (14 page)

"Papa," protested Bel, "you must not ..."

"Bel, better an injury to your reputation than a loveless marriage. Can you assure me of a lasting attachment to this man?"

"I ..." She turned to the earl, but the haughty profile offered no hint of his thoughts. If it were only her reputation at stake and not her brothers' safety, not her father's power to do a just act. If only she could speak to Haverly alone. She must.

"Your lordship," said Bel's mother, "perhaps a scandal could be averted if you would agree to accept Bel's regrets and leave the district for a time."

"Impossible," came the reply. His countenance did not soften in the least.

Bel watched him, amazed. He could not wish to marry her. She had heard the description of his lands and titles that had so impressed her cousins. And though his opinion of the Shaws was unjust, her family pride did not blind her to the disparity in rank and wealth. She could not imagine a man of his position making a connection with a family such as hers. She could not make sense of his refusal to end their betrothal.

"Have you set a date?" asked her father quietly.

"No."

"If you are determined on this course, we must insist on an early date," her father said. There was silence. The two men faced each other no more than a stride apart—the earl tall and dark with an unyielding rigidity, Bel's father as tall, but fair and with a weight of dignity in his bearing.

"Is three weeks too soon?" asked Haverly.

"Arrogant ..." began her father, but Bel's mother rose and put a hand on her husband's arm.

"Charles can arrange a special license, I'm sure, unless you wish to be married in Derbyshire," she said to the earl. "Can your family and friends be accommodated here in Ashecombe?"

"I have ... a very small family," he said.

"We will be pleased to receive them, my lord," said Serena.

"Thank you, Mrs. Shaw," he said.

Another silence followed, the two men still standing, awkward now, until Bel's mother nudged her father.

"Sit down, my lord, sit down," said Augustus, sitting himself and taking up his cold tea, staring into it, then putting it aside. "We should do a toast, shouldn't we?"

"No need to on my account, sir," said the earl. "I will take my leave of you, if Miss Shaw will show me out."

"Of course," said Bel. She stood immediately.

A few strained farewells later and they were in the hall. The earl offered his arm, but Bel shook her head. He gestured for her to precede him. She turned on her heel and took two quick steps, but he seized her elbow, forced her to a moderate pace, and then released her arm.

"Are you mad?" she asked in a low voice, turning slightly to catch his reaction.

"Yes," he said.

She spun and stopped in his path, so abruptly that his unchecked momentum brought them chin to cravat. Bel took a deep breath and stepped back, but too late. He was smiling, and his nearness had already started that unsettling quiver inside her she was coming to associate with his presence. She suppressed it, clenching her teeth and straightening her shoulders, but it shook her nevertheless.

"You may be mad, but I am not," she said. "We would be fools to let three kisses and the malice of others trap us in a marriage neither chose to make."

"So?" he said.

"So, we must talk, plan ..."

"Now?" The word, uttered in a low voice, made her study him closely. He appeared composed, but she did not trust the look in his eyes.

'Tomorrow."

"When?"

"I cannot get away unnoticed easily," she told him. "It will have to be dawn or late evening."

"Dawn, then. Where?" he asked, as if he were used to making such arrangements every day.

"The big pool?"

"I will be there, Miss Shaw."

He bid her good night then, stepped around her, and left the house without calling for any servant to assist him.

Slowly she made her way back to the library.
Dawn
. She took a deep breath. It was not so very far away. There was no need to say anything foolish to her parents until she and the earl had agreed on their story. In the morning she would convince him that a marriage between them was to be avoided at any cost—and could be avoided with just a little push.

She opened the library door. Her parents were sitting together on the settee she had shared with the earl. "She is too proud," her father was saying. Her mother answered in low, earnest tones. Then both looked up.

"My dear," said her father, rising and coming to give her shoulders a squeeze, "I suspect your mother and I have been too busy about these Hilcombe folk to notice your attachment for this young man. I know no ill of him, and you shall teach us to know him better."

Bel looked from him to her mother. They, too, thought her over-proud. Then there was no one to turn to. She would sort this out for herself and meet the earl at dawn.

Bel shivered and pulled her brown pelisse more tightly about her. Dew-spangled grass along the lanes had dampened her shoes and her skirts. Her toes, even in sturdy half-boots, were numb, and she paced the narrow pebbled beach to keep warm. She supposed she was early for this meeting with him, but she had been unable to sleep. Gray light faintly revealed the green of the leaves. Mist was rising from the pool and the reeds on the opposite bank. In the birds' song she could hear only impatience. If he didn't come ...

She shivered again and knew it for that other, inner shiver that had nothing whatever to do with being cold. She looked up. Above her Haverly stood at the edge of the wood. And for a minute she half expected him to lift a reed pipe to his lips and play some irresistible melody known only to shepherds. Then he moved. Mist eddied about him as he descended the path and crossed the gravel strip of beach. She put out a hand to hold him back, and he stopped, but not so far away as she could wish.

"Good morning, Miss Shaw," he said solemnly.

The greeting, formal and familiar, broke the spell. "Good morning, Lor—" She stopped. This was awkward. She dropped her hand. It was more than awkward, and she could not recall precisely how she meant to convince him that they should end their false engagement.

"You wanted to tell me that we should not marry," he said.

"I should not have to tell you," she said. She drew herself up, clasped her hands loosely in front of her, and assumed her most reasonable air. "You do not lack intelligence. We are entirely unsuitable for one another."

"Entirely?" He was being deliberately provoking to look at her in such a way, reminding her of those kisses in the garden.

"Certainly we have no respect for one another, and you must agree that respect is a necessary basis for even the most tepid of marriages."

"Did you wish to contract a tepid marriage?"

"Of course not," she said.

"Then are we not suitable? There's no danger of a tepid marriage in our case, is there?"

"We are unequal in birth."

"Are we? I assure you I am willing to produce a
Debrett's
if it will ease your mind about my birth and connections."

"You are ridiculous." She turned and strode to the river's edge. The first streaks of silver lit the surface. None of her arguments were having the effect she had imagined in the safety of her bedroom.

"Then you should marry me for pity's sake," he said, and for a moment she thought his voice was the voice of a lover.

She stiffened her back and resisted the temptation to look at him. "Pity is what you'll get from your family and friends for making a
mesalliance
."

"I have … but one friend, and he's like to say I deserve the worst from you."

"Well, I have many, and ..."

"And they have not all been kind to you. Let me be your friend."

"A friend is not the creation of an hour."

"Let me begin."

"You cannot be my friend and hold my family in contempt."

"I do not hold your family in contempt."

She turned back to him then, met his gaze with a steady gaze of her own, and said, "Then you will release me from our bargain and guarantee that my brothers will be safe from your accusations."

A look of pain crossed his face, and he turned from her to look out over the river. "I did not intend our bargain to injure or embarrass you," he said, "but as it has, let me make amends in the only way a gentleman can."

"But you need not. A man of your power and rank need not feel constrained by conscience to observe such scruples."

"Even a man of rank may want to preserve the character of a gentleman," he replied. He bent and chose a smooth stone from the beach and sent it skipping across the still pool.

"Surely what the people of Ashecombe think of your character need not weigh with you," she suggested.

"I assure you, Miss Shaw, it does not." He turned from the river. "Nevertheless, I cannot release you from our betrothal."

"Then I must run away."

"If you must. But I feel obliged to point out that if you should, as the one who caused you to flee your home I would be obligated to find you."

"Then will you oblige me by leaving the neighborhood?"

"No."

"But you could return to London." His only answer was a laugh. "Or your Derbyshire properties." "No."

"Why do you do this? Do you imagine a marriage to be an amusing interlude, an extended house party ..."

"No." The vehemence of his reply startled her. He drew a deep breath, apparently needing to compose himself.

"Miss Shaw, you cannot avoid this marriage without causing great embarrassment to yourself and distress to your family."

"Lord Haverly, if you insist on our marriage under these circumstances, you cannot expect it to be a ... true marriage."

Even in the gray light she caught the flash of surprise and something else in his eyes. She looked away.

"Very well," he said. "But if you cannot fulfill a second bargain, I will yet hold you to the first."

"You will have your pound of flesh?"

"I will."

Friday evening

My dear Tom,

It is my turn to have news. Shaw House is busier even than the deck of your ship on the brink of battle, and the cause is a wedding. This will be the last letter I write to you as Bel Shaw. Tomorrow morning I take a different name.

You are surprised, I know, but what could be less surprising? When a girl reaches a certain age, she is expected to marry, is she not? And her family and neighbors are not to be deprived of the joys of speculating about her prospects or her choice. So you too must speculate, Tom.

But I will not tease you. The man I'm to marry is Nicholas Arthur Seymour, Lord Haverly. There, I will allow you to be surprised at that and to wonder how I came to accept an offer from our arrogant neighbor. What alliance could be more practical than one between neighboring families? I have settled it all in my mind.

You can imagine how much our betrothal has stimulated talk in Ashecombe. People who have not done sums for years have been trying most earnestly to calculate what pin money I shall have. In truth, Papa refused most of the earl's generosity, to the relief of the earl's solicitor. The man was here for a week and managed to appear appalled at every aspect of country life, though I suspect Auggie and Arthur had something to do with the particular discomforts he experienced, including a bat in the bed hangings.

Not everyone is pleased, of course, at this alliance. From the earl's family there has been no word. Only one male relative will attend the wedding. Auggie is cross with me for marrying the man who "stole our stream." And from Fanny, Louisa, and Ellen, I have had nothing but cold looks. They think the title "Lady Haverly" quite wasted on your unfashionable sister, and in that I agree, for I had a title every bit as fine, given me by my parents.

I shall be mistress of Courtland Manor, and the Ashe, our Ashe, shall be mine to fish again. I shall have a comfortable allowance and do fine things for Arthur, Auggie, and Diana.

I have made my bed and now must lie in it as the saying goes. Only, I do wish, dear Tom, that you could be here to laugh with me and dance with me upon my wedding day.

Your sister,

Isabel

Chapter 14

NICHOLAS ARTHUR SEYMOUR, Lord Haverly, frowned at his reflection in the cheval glass he had added to his dressing room. Even Uncle Miles, had he lived to see this day, would not be able to find fault with the white breeches and the white waistcoat with its tracery of gold sprigs. Nick had only to tie his neckcloth and don his coat and gloves to complete the picture of the elegant bridegroom. Yet every time he looked in the mirror, he had the distinct feeling his bride would not be pleased with his appearance at all. It was the neckcloth that was giving him trouble. He had crumpled three already.

"I've seen men go to Tyburn happier," said Farre, appearing behind Nick and meeting his gaze in the mirror. Farre, too, was dressed for the wedding, for the role of "uncle," a matter of some disagreement between them.

"You look quite lordly," said Nick, holding out a fresh neckcloth. "I could use your help." Farre took the long rectangle of linen from Nick's hand, stepped around to stand in front of him, and began to wind the linen around the stiff points of Nick's collar.

"Chin up, my lord. Let's get this noose around you."

"Farre," said Nick, tilting his jaw up for the older man's help, "don't 'my lord' me. You agreed to come today."

"Not as your uncle," grumbled Farre. "It's a bad idea, your passing me off as family."

"I told Mrs. Shaw you would be there. No one will question it, if she accepts you."

"A dozen folks are bound to recognize me as your man. Then how will things look?"

Nick stared at the ceiling. An army of Shaws would be there at the church to see them married. And just this morning he had been reminded by yet another attack on his stream how little some of them cared to see him wed Bel. It was only fair that he should have someone at his side, someone loyal to him. "If I choose you to stand up with me, what does it matter what the Shaws think?" he argued. "I am marrying Bel Shaw, not her whole family."