Mending Him (20 page)

Grand Passion…or epic disaster?

In for a Penny

© 2014 Rose Lerner

Lord Nevinstoke revels in acting the young wastrel, until his father is killed in a drunken duel. Never one to do anything halfway, Nev throws off his wild ways to shoulder a mountain of responsibility—and debt—vowing to marry a rich girl and act the respectable lord of the manor.

Manufacturing heiress Penelope Brown seems the perfect choice for a wife. She’s pretty, proper, and looking for a husband.

Determined to rise above her common birth, Penelope prides herself on her impeccable behavior and good sense. Grand Passion? Vulgar and melodramatic. Yes, agreeing to marry Nev was a rare moment of impulse, yet she’s sure they can build a good marriage based on companionship and mutual esteem.

But when they arrive at the manor, they’re overwhelmed with half-starved tenants, a menacing neighbor, and the family propensity for scandal. As the situation deteriorates, the newlyweds have nowhere to turn but to each other. To Penelope’s surprise, she begins to fervently hope that her first taste of Grand Passion in her husband’s arms won’t be her last.

Originally published Dorchester 2010.

Warning: Contains kisses in the breakfast room, account books in the bedroom...and murder in the garden. Featuring a heroine who’s used to settling, a hero who’s used to getting what he wants without trying, and a love for which they’ll both have to fight tooth and nail.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
In for a Penny:

His image rose again before her eyes. There was, to be sure, nothing out of the common way about him.
A perfectly ordinary-looking young man
, Penelope insisted to herself. He was of middling height, his shoulders neither slim nor broad. His hands were not aristocratically slender—there was nothing to set them apart from the hands of any other gentleman of her acquaintance.

His hair was a little too long, and she thought its tousled appearance more the result of inattention than any attempt at fashion. It was neither dark nor fair, but merely brown, utterly nondescript but for a hint of cinnamon. His face, too, would have been unmemorable if it were not for a slight crookedness in his nose, suggesting it had been broken. His eyes were an ordinary blue, of an ordinary shape and size.

So why could she picture him so clearly, and why did the memory of his smile still make her feel—hot, and strange inside?

But it was his voice that stayed with her the strongest. The timbre of it was imprinted on her ear, and there was nothing ordinary about it. It was rich and mellow, and there was something graceful in the careless rhythm of his speech.

So strongly had she conjured up Lord Nevinstoke’s image that when the door opened, Evans spoke, and that same gentleman entered the room, it was a moment before she was quite convinced he was real.

He was in every particular as she remembered him, save that he was dressed from head to toe in black, and his blue eyes were anxious and grave. She realized that Evans had not announced him as Lord Nevinstoke, but as Lord Bedlow.

She stood without thinking, and her book fell to the floor. In an instant he had stepped forward, bent down and returned it to her. She was conscious that her fingers closed too tightly on the book; he was very close, an odd expression in his eyes. His nearness affected her, alas, just as she remembered.

“Has something happened to your father, my lord?”

He looked away and stepped back. “You are very perceptive. My father was killed Wednesday before last.”

“You mean—the day after I saw you at Vauxhall?”

He smiled. “You remembered me.”

She had been so shocked by his news that at first she had forgotten to listen to his voice. Now she experienced the full effect of the pure vowels and husky overtones; her pulse sped up. “I am so sorry to hear about your father.”

“Thank you,” he said, then stood silent. “Dash it, this is awkward.”

“I own I am a little surprised to see you.”

“I suppose I had better out with it. My father had run into debt before he died. A great deal of debt.”

Penelope’s heart plummeted into her boots. She struggled for composure. “I see.”

“The long and short of it is, I’ve come to ask you to marry me.”

Though she had been half expecting it, the world seemed to stand still a moment. Then it started again, with a stutter. “I beg your pardon?”

“You heard me correctly, I assure you.” He ran a hand through his hair, confirming her impression that its disorder was unfeigned, then took a few steps back. “Do you—do you think we might be seated?”

She chastised herself for a poor hostess. “Of course.” Resuming her seat, she gestured to him to take the chair placed conveniently a few feet off.

Misreading her intention, he seated himself beside her on the window seat and leaned forward, his elbows on his spread knees and his hands clasped.

“I’ve no intention of offering you Spanish coin. I need your money, very much—oh, how much! I don’t know how I’m to manage without it.” His mouth twisted. “I never thought about money till I hadn’t got it, you know. And now there’s candles and black gloves and ink and my sister’s dowry…”

He had begun to tick these off on his fingers as he went; it had the air of a familiar pattern of thought. But he caught himself and shook his hands. “Oh, and a thousand other things I never gave a moment’s thought to. How do people contrive who haven’t money?”

Penelope had never had to contrive without money; she had still been a babe when her father began to make his fortune. But she knew how it was done. “With tallow and small dowries, I’m afraid.”

He flushed. “I daresay I look a regular wastrel to you.”

He did, and Penelope hated insincerity. Nevertheless, the words flew to her lips without her thinking them. “Oh no!”

He gave her a rueful smile. She tried to ignore its effect on her. “You’re a sweet girl. And that was what I meant to say. I can’t deny I need your money, but I still wouldn’t offer for you if I didn’t feel we could rub along tolerably well together.”

His words warmed her more than they should, but that didn’t mean she had lost all sense. “We’ve spoken together for all of five minutes in our lives, my lord. How can you possibly know we could rub along well together?”

“I can tell.” He hesitated for a moment. Then he slid closer to her on the window seat, tilted up her face to his, and kissed her.

Penelope had been kissed before, once or twice. (Not by Edward, of course. He had always been all that was respectful, never giving her more than a chaste kiss on the brow or the cheek.) She had found it awkward, wet, and extremely unwelcome. But Lord Bedlow’s mouth was warm and coaxing against hers. It was not really one kiss, but several in quick succession, and she found herself instinctively responding. It was clear that Lord Bedlow knew what he was about. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and a feeling that was unfamiliar and hot and uncomfortable—at least, she
thought
it was uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure—began to stir in the depths of her body. She ached in places it wasn’t ladylike to think about. For all she still hadn’t decided if the new feeling was uncomfortable or not, she was sure she wanted more.

When he raised his head and let go of her chin, she half expected him to smirk or look triumphant. But he only looked pleased and flushed; his blue eyes, when he opened them, sparkled a little. “And you like Arne’s arias.”

Penelope liked Arne a great deal. She suspected she had liked the kiss a great deal too, but it was civil of him not to point that out. “Still, that is hardly a basis to be considering matrimony,” she said as severely as she could when her pulse was racing and she was blushing all over.

The pleased light died out of his eyes. Turning, he stared out the bow window. “I know it. But I’ve tried everything else.”

She pitied him sincerely. “Have you no other way of making money? Surely you needn’t rush into a marriage that—that cannot be what you wish.” She looked away, conscious of her folly in fishing for a compliment when he would have had to be an idiot to contradict her. “I know it isn’t done, for a gentleman of your class to engage in business, but I remember you told me that you thought it was clever, making money.”

“Well, I am not particularly clever.” His crooked profile was bleak.

She wanted—she hardly knew what, but to touch him, to comfort him.

“And I need money right away, a great deal of it. I’ve sold off my mother’s favorite estate and my father’s guns. I’ve sold half the silver and most of the horses and all the jewels my mother hasn’t hidden under her mattress. I’m putting the town house up for sale tomorrow—but it won’t cover a tenth of the debts. I’ve sold everything I can think of, and it isn’t enough. The only thing I have left is myself.” His self-mocking smile was out of place on his boyish face. “I know it’s not a very good bargain.”

She opened her mouth to tell him that she was very sorry, but it would be the height of imprudence even to consider, et cetera, et cetera—and heard herself say, “All right then.”

“You mean you’ll marry me?” He turned back to her, his face lighting up.

Again her tongue moved without consultation with her brain. “Well—yes.” Even in the midst of her consternation, his smile was contagious; she found herself smiling foolishly back.

“Oh, this is wonderful. Thank you!” With an effort he looked more grave. “I hope I am sensible of—you won’t regret it.”

She regretted it already. Had she really consented? Had she lost her mind? Faintly she said, “Thank you, my lord.” She ought to back out, to tell him she’d made a mistake, that she hadn’t considered—but she knew she wouldn’t. Some part of her didn’t want to.

She squared her shoulders. “I shall do my best to be a good wife to you, even if I’m not the wife of your choosing. I see no reason why two people of good sense and amiable dispositions should not find a tolerable measure of conjugal felicity, even if they are not, perhaps, united by those bonds of affection and familiarity which one might wish.”

He looked a little bewildered by this speech, but he said, “Precisely my sentiments.”

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

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Mending Him

Copyright © 2014 by Bonnie Dee and Summer Devon

ISBN: 978-1-61922-329-5

Edited by Linda Ingmanson

Cover by Lou Harper

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First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: September 2014

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