The Christmas Heiress (7 page)

It could not end this way. The thought made her
shaky, filled her with restless anger, made her want
to scream. He had kissed her, he had held her, he
had desired her. How could he not want her?

But apparently the intimacy between them meant
nothing to him. How utterly humiliating. She would
have made him a good wife. He needed a woman
like her in his life. Someone who would challenge
and interest him and make him laugh. Someone
who would search beneath the proper stiffness he
often assumed and bring out the boyish delight.

But it was not meant to be. Edward had rejected her,
thoroughly and completely. How foolish she was to
desperately want something that would never happen.
Oh, Lord, Charlotte groaned inwardly, how would she
ever find the courage to tell her grandfather what had
happened?

And how could she possibly face the earl and
countess? The pressure on her chest increased and
she shivered. She wanted to run from the room,
run from the house, run back to the safety and
comfort of Quincy Court, yet Charlotte felt so frazzled she could barely put two thoughts together.

She took a steadying breath and tried to force
herself to stay calm. Running away was not the
answer. She had to stay and brazen it out, to act as if
nothing was wrong, as if nothing was upsetting her.

She had her pride. It would somehow sustain her.
She would face this calamity with courage and
grace. No one must ever know how devastated she
felt at this moment, no one must ever know how she
had yearned for the affections of the one man who
would not grant them.

Clearly, Edward was gone from the manor. Perhaps that was for the best. At least she would be
spared the humiliation of facing him. How strange
that she could love someone so deeply and hate
him at the same time. Charlotte shivered, and a
feeling like ice traveled up the back of her spine
and settled in the pit of her stomach. She stared
stonily ahead, unseeing, as a plan began to formulate in her mind.

"Tomorrow is Christmas Day," she whispered miserably, but Charlotte remembered that the Chambers sisters had said they would be departing the day after Christmas. She and grandfather could easily
do the same without arousing any undue suspicion.

Two days. She could manage for two days. She
fought to draw in air and promised herself she
would not think about what she had shared with
Edward. She would merely exist, hour by hour.

It was settled. Charlotte sighed heavily and the
weariness of her emotions forced her eyes to close. As
the darkness swirled around her, a painful feeling of
desperate yearning invaded her soul and the need to
release her grief was overwhelming. With a quivering
cry, Charlotte pressed her face to the sleeve of her
gown and wept openly.

She cried for a long time, cried until she had no
more tears. When she was done, Charlotte rose to her
feet. Standing tall, she squared her shoulders, stiffened her spine, shook out the creases of her gown
and stuffed her damp handkerchief in her pocket.

Deliberately ignoring the way her heart was
squeezing inside her chest, Charlotte left the room
with her head held high, determined to never
again allow thoughts of Edward Barringer to bring
her to self-pity.

Six Years Later,
London

December

"The newspapers have arrived, my lord."

Though Edward heard his secretary's voice
clearly, he did not move a muscle to acknowledge
the man's announcement. Instead, he continued to
stand before the fireplace in his posh London business office, staring at the dancing flames as if mesmerized. Yet he did not really see the fire. His
mind, and his vision, were far away, focused on the
incredible turn of events that had suddenly turned
his life upside down.

Several minutes passed. Someone cleared his
throat sharply. Edward finally turned and saw his
secretary, Mr. Crenshaw, standing in the doorway,
his gaze down, his arms filled with newspapers. His
normally pale complexion was suffused with color.

"Put them on my desk, Crenshaw," Edward instructed. "And make certain to tell anyone who calls that I am busy. I want no one admitted to my
office. No one."

"As you wish, my lord."

The clerk bustled out, leaving Edward to wonder
how truly bad the newspaper stories were to put his
normally reliable assistant in such a state of agitation. Why the man had even reverted to bowing several times in a nervous fit before quitting the room.

Exasperation flared, but swiftly died. It was hardly
fair to blame Crenshaw for this current mess, especially because it was a disaster of a personal nature.
Though Edward realized when all was said and
done, it might affect his business empire too.

Giving the desk, and the newspapers atop it, a wide
berth, Edward crossed to the opposite side of the
room. He lifted a crystal decanter, positioned on a
small mahogany table, and poured himself a full glass
of whiskey. Never in his life had he gotten drunk
before noon, but today might be an exception.

Lips set in a grim line, he took a long swallow.
The intense burn engulfed his throat and stomach,
then spread throughout the rest of his limbs. He
finished the drink, then refilled the glass.

Unwittingly, his gaze traveled to his desk. The newspapers lay neatly stacked in the center of the polished
wood, awaiting his review. Swirling the contents of his
glass with a circular motion of the wrist, Edward contemplated those papers for several long minutes,
wondering what they had written about him.

Well, there was only one way to find the answer to
that pressing question. Edward set his whiskey glass
aside and purposefully crossed the room. He reached
for the top paper, snapping it to attention between his hands. His eyes quickly scanned the front page,
though he knew in his heart he was dallying.

The news concerning Edward Barringer, ninth
Earl of Worthington, would not appear on the front
page. It would be on the sixth page, among the announcements of engagements and marriages. And
the more lurid, juicy details of the scandal would be
reported in the gossip column. More than likely as
the lead story.

The scent of fresh ink and paper filled his nostrils
as he turned the pages. It did not take long to find
what he sought:

Mr. George Menton regrets to announce that the
marriage of his daughter, Miss Henrietta Menton,
to Edward Barringer, Earl of Worthington, will not
take place as scheduled this comingFriday morning.

This announcement was only the first part of the
blow. The real dirt was on the following page,
where the sudden elopement of Miss Henrietta
Menton to Mr. Harold Strider was reported. In
amazing detail, considering the pair had just run
off together in the middle of the night.

Edward refolded the paper and tossed it on his
desk. No need to read about the speculation as to
why Miss Menton preferred marrying a penniless
poet instead of a wealthy, successful aristocrat.

However, Edward could not hold back his smile
when he recalled the lines that said, according to a
reliable household staff member, the bride had
managed to take along her entire trousseau-the
very same one that had been created for her marriage to the earl.

He had not realized that Henrietta could be so
practical. Though he supposed in her new circumstances she could hardly afford not to be, for it was
widely known that her new husband was something
of a spendthrift who possessed little wealth. Perhaps this notoriety would aid in the selling of his
poetry, but it certainly would not be enough to sustain the couple for very long.

Edward made a mental note to himself to make
certain his household staff was always adequately
compensated, ensuring that they would never be
tempted to become the "reliable" source for any of
these stories. Though he supposed the lack of pertinent, truthful information never really stopped
the paper from printing a story. Especially one that
featured the misfortunes of the members of the
wealthy and privileged.

Lord what a mess! He had approached the arrangement of his marriage with the same thoughtful, precise attitude he used to run his business. Before he
made a decision, he analyzed it thoroughly, with detached, tempered emotions so as not to be unduly
influenced by sentiment or greed. It was a process that
had brought him incredible success and few failures.

George Menton had garnered a massive fortune
in mining. His family background was humble, yet
genteel. Edward admired his business acumen and
his dedication to both his work and his family. They
had met, ironically enough, after both pulled their
financial support from a mining operation that had
showed signs of failure.

In hindsight, it had been Menton who first suggested the union with his eldest daughter, but he had
been uncharacteristically subtle in his matchmaking attempts. After all, Edward was an earl and men of his
class seldom married outside of it, especially when
there was no financial need for such an arrangement.

Yet Menton had shrewdly realized that Edward
was not an ordinary member of the aristocracy.
With him, anything was possible. And thus the
mutual respect and close business relationship the
two men shared gradually shifted into a social relationship as well and Henrietta Menton entered
Edward's life.

Henrietta was a pretty, slender girl devoid of an
abundance of womanly curves, which was Edward's
preferred style. Though she lacked an impressive
family lineage, he thought she was the embodiment
of female English refinement. She had been raised
with every financial advantage, educated in the
finest boarding schools in Europe to be a lady, traveled extensively to complete and polish her manners, and it showed.

Whenever Edward was with her, Henrietta was fashionably and flatteringly dressed, friendly, yet restrained in her conversation, and modest and demure
in her actions. A dainty English flower, with pale
blond hair, deep blue eyes and a steady temperament.

The ideal wife for an earl.

Yet as he reminisced, Edward recalled several
times after their engagement was announced when
Henrietta's face was shuttered and unreadable, her
manner distracted and withdrawn. He had not
been able to spend a great deal of time with her
before the wedding and he attributed this occasional behavior to her natural shyness. He thought
it would pass once they were married.

Oh, hell, the truth was he had barely thought about her at all. Certainly not as a woman. She was
merely a means to an end, the reward of an excellently negotiated business deal. As he searched
within himself, taking responsibility for his part in
this fiasco, Edward admitted his biggest mistake was
not bothering to take into account Henrietta's feelings and desires.

Edward was looking for contentment and friendship in a marriage. Apparently Henrietta had been
searching for something entirely different: love.
And she had been smart enough to realize that he
would never love her, at least not the way that some
men loved their wives.

Perhaps she had done them both a favor by finding a way out of the marriage. But did she have to
do so in such a public, humiliating manner?

The sound of thunder growling and clapping,
and the bursts of intermittent rain drew Edward's
attention away from his melancholy thoughts. He
returned to the small mahogany table and picked
up his whiskey glass, then went to the windows,
opening the center window a few inches, hoping
the clean smell of the winter rain would help clear
his head.

Alas, it did not, but the cold felt invigorating.

The hesitant knock on his office door was followed by a timid murmur.

"My lord, I do beg your pardon-"

"I said no visitors, Mr. Crenshaw," Edward barked
out in a forceful tone. "And I meant it."

"Don't bite the poor man's head off," a familiar
masculine voice exclaimed. "He tried valiantly to
stop me, but I was having none of it. I told him repeatedly I am not a visitor. I am family."

Despite his mood, which could be described as a
miserable mix of despair, anger and misgivings,
Edward found himself smiling.

"Hello, Jonathan." He went forward to grasp his
brother's outstretched hand and let himself be
pulled into a fierce hug.

"I came the moment f heard," Jonathan whispered.

Edward pulled back and gave his brother another
muted smile. "So, it's all over Town?"

"More or less. "Jonathan removed his coat and a
shower of cold droplets spattered on the floor.
Though it was a task far beneath his duties, Mr. Crenshaw took the sopping wet garment and hung it on
a nearby brass coat rack. Then he wisely disappeared.

"I imagine my enemies are celebrating and toasting with glee over my recent misfortune?" Edward
asked, though he was uncertain if he really wanted
to hear a truthful answer.

Jonathan drew back a pace. "You have far fewer enemies than you may think," he replied. "Those who
truly know you are genuinely concerned about your
well-being, and as for the rest. . ."Jonathan's voice
trailed off, then he shrugged. "They can all rot."

Edward gave his brother a wry smile. The gossip
must indeed be scathing if Jonathan was making
light of it. Still, it was a relief to hear the truth from
someone he could trust. It was also a relief not to
have to pretend to be stoic and uncaring over the
matter.

"I have learned these past few years that men in
business as well as men who enjoy the life of an idle
aristocrat share many traits, among them the ability to find great pleasure at a colleague's misfortune," Edward said with a trace of bitterness.

"You are hardly the first man in the world to have
misjudged a woman," Jonathan insisted. "Nor will
you be the last."

"I might not be the first, but I am surely among
the most foolish to be so publicly humiliated,"
Edward said with a sneer. "Bloody hell, I was nearly
left standing at the altar, thrown over for a man
who has neither a title or a fortune, nor the means
to ever acquire either." He lifted the pile of the
newspapers off his desk and then threw them down
in disgust. "The Times even felt it was enough of a
noteworthy event to mention. Lord only knows
what fun the scandal rags have made of it. I fear I
do not possess a strong enough stomach to read
them all and find out."