Joan Wolf (3 page)

There was a brief silence as he watched her, measuringly. She did not care for his look and let go of the post, standing up straight, unconscious of her nightgown and loose hair. “You can tell me the truth,” she said firmly. “Is he badly hurt?”

Nicholas hesitated, but her eyes on him never wavered. “He’s dead,” Nicholas said. “It wasn’t the accident itself that injured him, but the shock of it was too much for his heart. He was, after all, an old man.” He came no closer to her. “Get back into bed,” he repeated. “You have a concussion. You shouldn’t have been left alone. I’ll send Cousin Lucy to you.”

She didn’t answer but obediently turned toward the bed. He was putting his hand on the doorknob when he glanced back, briefly. He was just in time to see her pitch forward, soundlessly, to the carpeted floor. He swore and moved quickly to bend over her. Her eyes were closed, the dark lashes lying still on too-pale cheeks. He bent and picked her up. She weighed hardly more than a child, but he knew that already. He had been the one to carry her upstairs. He put her carefully on the bed and pulled the covers over her, then he went to fetch Lady Moreton.

They wouldn’t allow her to attend the funeral. She had been unconscious for almost eight hours and the doctor insisted that she stay in bed for a few days. When she was allowed up she was very quiet, keeping mostly to her room. Lady Moreton was very kind. Nicholas she hardly saw, except at dinner. She was painfully aware of him when he did appear. He was so large; she was not used to men as big as he was. He spoke quietly enough to her, but there was an atmosphere of contained force about him that made her shy away. It was there in the hard, arrogant line of cheek and jaw, in the graceful, catlike way he moved. In a way she could not explain, she felt he threatened her. But she was also painfully aware that Winslow now belonged to him and that she was there as his uninvited guest.

Those days of almost complete solitude gave her an uncomfortable amount of time to think. Her grandfather, the only anchor left in her life, was gone. She had no clue as to what would happen to her next. All her life Margarita had been surrounded by wealth and the security of a family who loved her. She now faced the fact that she was penniless and dependent on the good will of relations whom she did not know.

She worried about the future but no coherent thoughts would come. The problem, she realized dully, was that she did not greatly care what happened to her. There was a frozen sea inside her where once there had been warmth and laughter and love. She ate, she talked, she answered questions, but it was only the outside shell of her that acted. The core was dead.

Five days after the funeral, the earl’s lawyer arrived from London. Nicholas, the new earl, had awaited his coming with considerable apprehension. He knew that Winslow was his; it was entailed, there was no choice involved in its disposal. But the means to run Winslow, to bring it back from the neglect of too many years, of this he was not sure.

There had been no love lost between Nicholas Beauchamp and his uncle. Nicholas had been conscious all his life that the earl resented him, resented that it was Christopher’s son and not his own who would inherit Winslow. Christopher was home only rarely, and the earl stood to Nicholas in the position of a father, but they never got along. Lord Winslow had not liked Nicholas’s mother, either. He could not forget that her father’s money came from manufacture, even though he was glad enough to see Christopher spend it. When she ran away with the young historian John Hamilton, who had been doing research at Winslow, the earl had felt justified in his opinion of her.

The earl’s insatiable buying of art had been a subtle way to punish him, of that Nicholas was sure. The money that he took out of Winslow he put into his own private collection—a collection that was now world-famous, and which the earl was able to leave as he chose. Nicholas had always been fairly certain that some of the collection at least would be left to him; enough of it, at any rate, for him to put Winslow back on its feet again. But that was before the arrival of Margarita Carreño.

The Beauchamp family had been stunned by the welcome the earl had accorded to Margarita. His determined silence on the subject of his daughter had convinced everyone that he would have nothing more to do with her or anything that belonged to her. But Nicholas had not been so surprised. He never spoke of his mother either, but that did not mean he had forgotten. He feared that the earl might have decided that his own granddaughter would be a worthier recipient of the Winslow Collection than his graceless nephew. The earl had been under no illusions as to what Nicholas would do with the collection once he got his hands on it.

Mr. Francis Sheridan, the earl’s lawyer, did nothing to put his mind at rest. After shaking hands and accepting a Madeira, he said, “Miss Carreño is still here, is she not, my lord?”

Nicholas still found the new title startling, but now he hardly noticed it. “Yes. She took a severe blow on the head during the accident. I haven’t seen much of her, but she appears to be recovered.”

“Good.” Mr. Sheridan studiously avoided Nicholas’s eyes. “I think she should be present for the reading of your uncle’s will,” he said quietly.

There was a pause, then Nicholas answered bleakly, “I see. I’ll have her sent for.”

When Margarita entered the room ten minutes later the two men were standing by the fire, staring down into the flames. There was silence in the room, and they both turned as the door opened and she came in, followed by Lady Moreton. Her cousin offered her a chair, and as she seated herself Mr. Sheridan looked curiously at the girl whose arrival had caused such consternation in the Beauchamp family circle. He saw a small face with skin the color of warm ivory. Her eyes were enormous, brown, and set slightly slantwise under dark, level brows. The nose was small and straight, the mouth surprisingly wide and full. She was lovely, he thought, and very young.

“Thank you for coming down, Miss Carreño ,” he said. “I am about to read your grandfather’s will, and as it concerns you, it will be best if you are present.”

The grave, dark eyes widened a little in surprise. “Concerns me?” she asked. Her voice was very low, but clear and unaccented.

“Shall I go?” asked Lady Moreton.

“You may as well stay, Lucy,” Nicholas said tautly. “The contents will hardly remain a secret for long.” He gestured toward Mr. Sheridan. “Get on with it, then.”

“Yes, my lord,” the lawyer replied calmly, and he took up the papers he had spread out on the desk.

CHAPTER FOUR

My scheme was worth attempting: and bears fruit,

Gives you a husband and a noble name,

A palace and no end of pleasant things.

Robert Browning

Fifteen minutes later he was still reading. The minor details, the bequests to old retainers, had all been taken care of. Mr. Sheridan cleared his throat and said quietly, “This next is what you will be interested in, my lord. ‘I give devise and bequeath my entire art collection, the catalogue of which is attached to this document, to my nephew Nicholas Alexander George Beauchamp.’“ There was a movement by the fireplace, and Mr. Sheridan looked up to meet Nicholas’s suddenly brilliant eyes. “There is a condition, my lord. Your uncle added it only a month ago.”

Nicholas’s eyes narrowed. “And what is the condition, Mr. Sheridan?”

The lawyer looked back at the document.  “This bequest is made on the condition that the said Nicholas Alexander George Beauchamp marry my granddaughter Margarita Josefina Theresa Carreño within two weeks of the reading of this will.’“

“What!” It was Lady Moreton’s voice. “You must be joking. Even Lord Winslow would not be as absurdly autocratic as that.”

Mr. Sheridan was looking at the new earl. Nicholas’s nostrils were pinched and there was a white line around his mouth. He gave a bitter little laugh. “On the contrary, it is exactly like him.”

“I tried to convince him to change his mind, my lord. There is more than enough to provide for the both of you without necessitating this—arrangement.  But you know how he was.” The lawyer sighed. “If you don’t agree to the condition, the collection is to go to the state.”

“The will is legal?” asked Nicholas.

“
It is legal, my lord.”

There was silence as three pairs of eyes turned, as
of one accord, to the small figure sitting so silently in the large armchair. Margarita’s face, still and shuttered, gave away nothing. The lawyer thought suddenly that no girl of seventeen ought to be able to look like that. She turned her eyes toward Nicholas. “Do you need the collection?” she asked simply.

His mouth set in a hard, unpleasant line. “I need the collection. Winslow has been bled dry.” His eyes, gray-green as a forest pond on a cloudy day, were steady on her face. “It appears it will be up to you, Cousin, whether I get it or not.”

“You would be willing, then, to marry me?” Her low, clear, precise voice expressed nothing but polite interest.

A muscle jumped in Nicholas’s jaw. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”

“I see.” She rose to her feet and said, with a lovely dignity, “I shall have to think about this. May I let you know my answer tomorrow?”

She had spoken to the lawyer and he nodded hastily. “Of course, Miss Carreño.”

She nodded to him gravely and walked to the door, which Nicholas was holding for her. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him, a long, clear look. “I will tell you tomorrow,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said evenly. “I heard you.”

Lady Moreton stood silently watching them. She thought Margarita looked very small and helpless next to Nicholas’s great height. The top of her head did not quite come to his shoulder. But the slim back was as straight as a ramrod, the head held proudly on its long slender neck. She passed out of the room with the grace and dignity one usually saw only in older women.   Lady Moreton waited until the door was closed to ask Nicholas, “Would you really marry that child?”

“I don’t have any choice, do I, Lucy? Nor does she, really, as I hope you will make clear to her. I may need that damn collection but so does she. Unless she brought money with her from South America?” Lady Moreton shook her head and he shrugged. “She has nothing, then. If she marries me, she will have money and position and a permanent home. Make her understand that, will you?”

Lady Moreton stood for a minute looking at the face of her younger cousin. It was a startlingly handsome face, with unusual gray-green eyes that were cool and deep and hard to see into. His brows and lashes were brown as was his thick, straight hair. That hair was the only boyish thing about Nicholas. His nose was high-bridged and imperious, his mouth beautifully shaped but with a look of ruthlessness about it that was very evident at the moment. He looked at present just what he was, a very intimidating young man in a temper. “Why on earth did he do it?” Lady Moreton asked him slowly.

He smiled. “He wanted his granddaughter here at Winslow,” he said. “He always regarded me as an interloper.”

His voice was perfectly pleasant, but Lady Moreton found herself saying hurriedly, “That’s not true, Nicholas.”

He shrugged. “Why he did it is not of importance at the moment, Lucy.”

“No, I suppose not.” She walked to the door. “I’ll speak to Margarita.”

What Lady Moreton had to say was little more than what Margarita had deduced for herself. Lady Moreton’s representations were only echoes of Margarita’s own Spanish logic, her impregnable sense of what she called
la realidad.
She had no choice. She must marry Nicholas Beauchamp.

What she didn’t say to Lady Moreton, what she would never admit to anyone, was that she was afraid of him. He did not want her, of that she was certain. And he was too big, too forceful. Life would never be too much for him. His kind of tough competence would deal with anything—even her. He was dealing with her already, as Lady Moreton’s visit demonstrated. And she did not want to be dealt with. She wanted to be left alone. But she had to live somewhere. That was
la realidad.
And he needed the art collection. The following morning she told Nicholas Beauchamp that she would marry him.

It was not a happy wedding. At Margarita’s insistence it was performed by a Catholic priest. Lady Moreton had been slightly shocked, but Nicholas had not cared.

They were married in the late afternoon with Lady Moreton and Sir Henry Hopkins acting as witnesses. Sir Henry was the owner of Twinings, a lovely Elizabethan manor not far from Winslow. He and his wife and Lady Moreton sat down to dinner with the newly married pair, a dinner that was not as awkward as it might have been under the circumstances. Margarita had the rigid Spanish sense of etiquette, and as hostess she rigorously subdued her own very real apprehensions and concentrated on her guests.

Those guests had the tact to leave early, and Lady Moreton too excused herself. She felt a pang of pity as she left Margarita alone in the drawing room with Nicholas, but there was nothing she could do to help the child now.

The two remained in silence for a full minute, then Margarita, seated in a wing chair by the fire, raised her eyes to where he stood by the chimney piece. “What do you want me to do?” she asked simply.

He looked at her for a moment before
he answered, his eyes inscrutable. “Your things have been moved to the yellow room,” he said, referring to the bedroom that adjoined the earl’s, which was now his own. “Go upstairs and get into bed and wait for me.”

Nicholas stayed where he was, his eyes on the empty door. He was angry about this marriage, and although he knew his anger should not be directed toward Margarita, he could not help some of it spilling over onto her. It was not that Nicholas had ever cherished romantic notions about marriage. He was himself the product of a notably unsuccessful union, and the breakup of his parents’ marriage had left scars that were still not healed over. His father, a dashing twenty-eight-year-old naval hero, had married Charlotte Holt, a seventeen-year-old heiress whose family was of the city not the country. He had brought her to Winslow, got her with child, and gone back to sea. He appeared again from time to time, when he needed money to furnish a new ship, but for the most part Charlotte had been left to the companionship of Christopher’s elder brother, the earl, and his unbending, censorious wife.