Lord Iverbrook's Heir (23 page)

“You advised him to marry me?”

“Don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but he’s a determined fellow, Hugh, once he’s made up his mind about something. Says he’s going to abolish slavery, he’ll abolish slavery, all right and tight. Says he’s going to be guardian to his heir, come hell or high water. ‘Easy,’ says I, ‘marry her.’ And here we are. He’s within ame’s ace of being guardian to his heir.”

Mr. Hastings rattled on. He had lost his audience, and Orion was left to pick his own way along the muddy cart track. Selena rode in a daze, stupefied, unaware of her surroundings until they reached the Manor.

She parted from Mr. Hastings politely, and went upstairs with an unseeing look that left him feeling distinctly uneasy.

The emptiness within her expanded until it was hard to breathe. It hurt her throat. Dry-eyed, she mechanically took off her riding habit and hung it in the wardrobe.

Phrases passed through her memory.

“I mean to obtain custody, by hook or by crook.”

“It will be best for Peter.”

“I am marrying you for your family.” She had thought he was joking when he said that.

How easily he had hoaxed her! How ready she had been to believe that he loved her! Confused and humiliated, she pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. It had all been a plot, a scheme thought up months ago to wheedle her into giving up control of Peter. Mr. Hastings had suggested “Marry her,” and the noble Viscount Iverbrook had promptly set about laying siege.

How dare he!

Selena flung on the first gown that came to hand and ran down to the library. It was the work of a moment to pen a note to his lordship, declaring their engagement at an end. A few angry tears fell on the paper; she blotted them savagely, smearing the ink, then folded, sealed, and directed it.

If she put it on the table in the hall, to be taken to the post tomorrow, it might miss him. Jem must ride with it, leaving at once. But no, Jem was needed in the stables since that detestable man had taken Tom Arbuckle with him. It was typical of his unfeeling, inconsiderate ways.

Ten minutes later, Selena was on her way to the village, striding down the lane in a mannish way that would have shocked Lady Anne Russell. Behind her scurried Polly, a last minute concession to the proprieties, who looked none too pleased at being hustled out into the dusk.

Mr. Liddell, landlord of the Royal Oak, was “right flambusticated,” as he later told his wife, when Miss Whitton marched into his inn at the busiest time of day. He left half a dozen farm hands calling for ale and hurried to greet her.

“Evening, miss!” he boomed. “What can I do for you today?”

“Good evening, Mr. Liddell. I want a letter delivered by morning to Iver Place. It’s just this side of London. Can you send your ostler’s boy? I’ll pay you for his time and the horse, and there will be a tip for him if it arrives in time.”

“Right you are, miss.” Selena winced as the innkeeper raised his voice to a bellow. “Alf! ALF! Go fetch Ted here and step lively, mind! If you’ll just step into the parlour, miss, you can give young Ted his instructions and he’ll be off right away. Can I get you anything, miss?”

Selena declined. She and Polly went into the parlour, an oppressively overfurnished room hung with purple velvet, which was Mrs. Liddell’s pride and joy and where the Royal Oak’s rare visitors of Quality were invariably incarcerated.

In a few minutes the stableboy appeared, bashfully wiping his hands on his smock. Selena gave him directions to Iver Place, handed over the letter, and followed him out of the room.

As she paid the landlord, he asked anxiously, “The little master’s not sick again?”

“No, he’s very well, thank you.”

“Ah!” said Mr. Liddell with a knowing look. As she left, she heard him telling his wife in an attempted whisper, “Our Ted’s off to Iver Place, Maisie, with a love letter from Miss Whitton.”

“Isn’t that nice now?” came Maisie’s answer, loud and clear. With heightened colour and an aching heart, Selena hurried home.

Chapter 18

That evening, Selena’s forced gaiety alarmed everyone. Mr. Hastings, afraid that his unthinking words were to blame, was so alarmed that he confirmed his resolve to depart for London in search of his quarterly remittance.

“I owe Iverbrook fifty guineas,” he pointed out, “so I’d best be gone before he returns. You can tell him he will be paid when next I see him.”

“He will not mind!” cried Delia. “I am sure you need not fear that he will dun you. Won’t you stay a little longer?”

“I’ll see you next spring in town, shall I not, my dear Miss Delia? I expect to waltz with you at Almack’s.”

“You will always be welcome at Milford Manor, Mr. Hastings,” said Lady Whitton.

The sparkle in Selena's eyes suggested to him that his welcome in that quarter had been withdrawn. “Thank you, my lady,” he said. “I hope to visit you again. However, I really must leave tomorrow morning. Who knows but that my man of business will send the money back to my father? I have never before waited so long past quarterday to avail myself of it!”

Later that evening Lady Whitton, becomingly attired in a dove grey peignoir and frilly nightcap, tapped on Selena’s chamber door, opened it, and peeped in.

“I think we had better have a little cose, my love,” she suggested.

“Oh Mama, I am by far too sleepy to talk tonight,” Selena answered, yawning hugely.

“In the morning then, dear. Goodnight and sweet dreams.”

Lady Whitton retired to her chamber shaking her head, and Selena tossed and turned for hours before falling into a troubled sleep.

She woke late and went downstairs with dark rings shadowing her eyes. Her mother and sister had already breakfasted, Bannister informed her, and Mr. Hastings and Sir Aubrey had not yet descended.

“I wonder if Cousin Aubrey will put in an appearance today,” she said uninterestedly. “I suppose Mama has told you that Mr. Hastings is leaving?”

“Yes, Miss Selena. And I wish it was the Bart instead, begging your pardon, miss. As do the other servants.”

“I daresay we shall soon be back to normal, Bannister, just the three of us and Master Peter. I’ll take a piece of toast and some tea, please.”

She nibbled her toast without enthusiasm but drank three cups of tea, warming her hands on the forget-me-not painted china and sipping slowly, until she could procrastinate no longer.

“Is Mama in the stillroom?” she asked.

“Her ladyship was consulting with Cook, miss, but I expect she’s finished by now. I’ll send young Polly to find her.”

Polly reported that my lady was now talking to Mrs. Tooting but would join Miss Selena in the drawing room shortly. Selena found Delia there, practising a funeral march on the pianoforte. She looked up as her sister entered and attacked immediately.

“Have you quarrelled with Mr. Hastings, Selena? He said nothing about leaving before you went to Abingdon with him.”

“Of course not.”

“You have such a quick temper, you must have said something that upset him.”

“On the contrary. There’s no need to be in the mopes, Dee, you will see him soon in London.”

“I’m not moping. I’m sure I do not care if I never see him again. I expect he will visit you often when you are married, since he and Hugh are bosom-bows?”

“I’m not going to marry Lord Iverbrook after all.”

“What? Selena, do you mean it? Then I shall have to go to Aunt Ringold. You are the meanest creature, I vow! I daresay Mr. Hastings will never call on Aunt Ringold.” Delia flounced out of the room in a huff, nearly knocking over one of the housemaids, who had come to build up the fire.

Selena huddled in a chair, cold in spite of the blazing logs in the fireplace. The day outside was as bleak as her thoughts. What was she going to tell her mother? That she had gone off half-cocked again and ruined her own life forever? She should have given Hugh a hearing, however despicable he was.

Delia had said that she had a quick temper; it was not true. In general she was calm and collected, dealing with crises on the farm with unruffled composure. It was Hugh’s fault she had been so impetuous recently. She hoped she would never see him again!

Lady Whitton came in, sat down beside her, and took one of her cold hands between her own.

“What is it, dearest?” she asked.

Selena wanted to cry, but no tears came.

“I’m not going to marry Hugh,” she said, speaking with difficulty because of the lump in her throat. “I wrote him a letter. He’ll never forgive me this time.”

“What was it this time?”

“I can’t tell you. Maybe it’s not even true. Only I was so hurt and humiliated I did not stop to think and it’s too late now. Mama, were you so confused and . . . and
birdwitted
when you were in love with Papa?”

“No, love, but our situations are very different. I was a mere girl, living with my parents, and had known your father forever. You are a strong-willed young woman, in charge of your own life, used to being looked up to. Had I considered, I should have predicted a stormy courtship.”

“Well, it’s too late now,” repeated Selena miserably. “I am sorry, Mama, to have let my foolishness disturb you. I shall do very well, I promise, for I always expected to be an old maid.”

“Nonsense, child.” Lady Whitton had more to say, but suddenly Selena could not bear the thought of hearing her words of comfort and reassurance.

She jumped up. “I have work to do, Mama. Life goes on, you see!” With a bright smile, she hurried from the room and went to earth in the library, where she started the same business letter five times before giving up. She ripped her last effort in half and sat doodling on the pieces, wondering if Hugh had read his letter yet and if so, whether he was more angry, or relieved, or blue-devilled. It served him right!

Within the hour, the entire household knew that Miss Selena was not going to marry his lordship after all.

Mr. Hastings was so informed by Dimbury. He hurried his dressing, to the valet’s distress, and raced downstairs to take his leave. His escape was foiled by Delia who, dressed in her prettiest winter walking dress of a cerulean blue the precise colour of her eyes, persuaded him that he had time for one final stroll by the river, in spite of the weather.

When the news reached Sir Aubrey, he also donned his finery with unusual alacrity. For the first time he noticed the absence of his hummingbird waistcoat, which he generally saved for special occasions. In its place he chose one with cherry and white stripes. He had had reservations about it since Dimbury pointed out its resemblance to a barber’s pole, but it matched to perfection the cherry red of his coat. Besides, cherries were indubitably agricultural, so the colour must please his cousin, he thought. He gazed in the mirror, admiring the Waterfall, in which elaborate style Dimbury had taught him to tie his cravat. Still more he admired his guinea gold locks. Carefully arranging one careless curl at each temple, he descended to dazzle Selena.

Dazzled she was. She had as good as forgotten his existence when he minced into the library and raised his quizzing glass to study the inkstains on her fingers. In a guilty reflex she hid them under the desk.

“What can I do for you, Cousin?” she asked coldly.

“Fairest Selena, my beloved cousin, I am come to appeal to you one more time. Your eyes have been opened to the falseness of the high nobility, the unthinking arrogance of the aristocracy towards those but a step lower in the social scale. Allow me to console you. Do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage. I shall protect you from the world and make your happiness my only care. Let us be wed, I beg you on bended knee!”

Sinking to the floor, he almost vanished behind the great oak desk.

“You have been practising,” said Selena as he reappeared, somewhat discomposed. “That speech was a vast improvement over your previous efforts. Do take a seat and stop hovering!” she added.

With a sulky expression he sat down on the hard chair by the desk.

“Well, will you?” he demanded.

“Will I what?” she asked absently. To her own surprise she was considering the advantages of being married to her cousin. In spite of his gypsy mother he was of respectable birth. He was a fool, and a weak one; whatever his expectations she knew she could rule him with ease. His tastes might be expensive but the farm was doing better every year, she was well beforehand with the world, and she would hold the purse strings. He was good-looking (if she managed to break him of his passion for red), titled, and Milford Manor would remain in Whitton hands. As a married lady, it would be easier in many ways to do business, and however much one despised such conventions it would be more comfortable to be a wife than an old maid.

She looked at him, at his eager face, and avid eyes of Whitton blue. Above all, she knew his motives. He would never cast her into confusion, drive her to distraction with jealousy or fury, because she did not care. Nor would he laugh with her, tease her, thrill her with a touch, but Hugh was gone, whistled down the wind, to be shut out of her mind and heart forever.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

He stared at her, mouth open in a witless gape.

“Of course, my own!” he gabbled. “Though naturally impatient for a decision which will decide my fate, I shall await your decision with what patience I can muster. My fate is in your hands, the decision is yours, only the impatience is mine! Or the patience,” he added, confused. Seizing her hand he planted a kiss on her knuckles before she could withdraw it.

“Oh do go away, Aubrey!” said Selena.

Obediently he left, backing out of her presence as if she were royalty. Amused, exasperated, confirmed in her belief that the baronet would adapt with ease to life beneath the cat’s paw, Selena sat contemplating matrimony for a few moments, then went to see Peter.

She climbed the stairs slowly, feeling tired. Peter rushed into her arms as she entered the nursery, and held her tight.

“Mrs. Tooting telled Finny you’re not going to marry Uncle Hugh!” he gasped, anguish in his voice. “Why because, Aunt Sena? Why because won’t you?”

She picked him up and sat down, holding him on her lap. He looked up at her, blue eyes full of tears, lips trembling.