The Bachelor's Bargain (25 page)

He felt suddenly at a loss. He had no idea how to achieve such a pinnacle in life—nor even how to pretend he had. Worse, a curl of envy gripped his chest as he thought of the man who one day would capture this woman’s heart and share her faith, her passion . . . her love.

“You told me you want everyone to believe I adore you,” Anne said softly. “Then you must wish for us to feign a marriage of love, as my parents truly have. I cannot go on pretending— especially not in the face of my own mother— unless I know something of the depths of your heart. You heard my dreams. What are yours?”

“I have told you already. My dreams are neither romantic nor ethereal. I have only practical goals, those I can achieve through physical effort and the application of my own intellect. I want to save the Chouteau dynasty from financial ruin. I want to establish a mercantile trade with America and France.”

“Then you wish to make something from nothing. As do I.” To his surprise, she reached across and touched a curl that had fallen onto his forehead. “Commerce from bankruptcy. Lace from silk thread. Something from nothing.”

As her fingers brushed the lock into place, a shock of desire shot through Ruel’s chest. But it was not merely a physical yearning. With the depth of her understanding, Anne had touched his heart.

“Something from nothing,” he echoed, suddenly finding it difficult even to speak. “There, my Lady Blackthorne, we have discovered what we have in common.”

“But I abhor your lace machines.” Drawing away, she sat up straight, her shoulders squared. “Your scheme is a wicked one, sir, and it will harm those I care for most deeply.”

Reality descended again. He gritted his teeth. “You despise my scheme only because you view life in too narrow a manner. You must open your eyes wide and look ahead. The world is on the threshold of great things. There is power in steam—power we have barely begun to harness. I believe that one day London will grow into an enormous city with factories and commerce at its hub. England perches on the verge of world dominance. Our nation has the potential to become a mighty empire.”

“England? I trust you jest with me now, sir. England is nothing more than a tiny, foggy island populated by shepherds and fishmongers.”

“Anne, the world waits at our doorstep. America . . . you should see the untouched treasures there. France . . . and India . . . and China. Even Africa! One day, they will all be woven together by the threads of commerce. I want to be a part of that.”

“You want to make a lace out of the whole world.” Her face broke into a smile. She spread wide her arms as though holding a length of the finest Honiton. “Here is England with her roses and misty moors. Here is China with little footbridges and peonies. India with mysterious temples and twining cobras. Africa with coconut palms and jewels. And America—”

“Wildflowers and oak trees and mighty rivers.”

“Threads twine and swirl from each continent all meeting at one central motif: the crest of the Chouteau family.”

He grinned. “A bit grandiose, is it?”

“Grand, not grandiose. I hope your dream comes true for you.” She touched his arm. “But, Lord Blackthorne—”

“Ruel.”

“Ruel . . . when you have harnessed the world with your threads of commerce and woven your empire with machines of steam, I pray you will not forget all the common people who can dream of nothing but the next loaf of black bread they hope to eat.”

“People who live in small stone houses and teach at lace schools?”

“All who survive by the labor of their hands. Those whose livelihood is threatened by your machines.”

Unable to resist her, he stroked his thumb down the side of her cheek. “I shall never forget you, Anne Webster. I cannot think how you came to haunt me in the first place.”

“You stole my lace.”

No,
he wanted to tell her.
You stole my heart.

But such a thing could not be true, could it? Ruel had never believed he possessed enough heart to matter one way or another. He had never received much love in his life, and he knew he had precious little to give away. So why did this common creature with her almond-shaped eyes and her saucy mouth fill his thoughts night and day? Why did it tie his stomach in knots to contemplate the reality of someday releasing her into the arms of a Nottingham farmer?

“I must go now, Lord Blackthorne,” she said softly. “Our tea is completed, and I cannot speak with you in peace. You stole my lace, and I fear you did little to allay my poor mother’s fears. You dream of the whole world, whilst I dream only of a home and a family of my own. What you want, I cannot give you. And what I want, you cannot give me.”

“Is that true?”

“It is. And what is worse, the longer you stare into my eyes, the more I begin to forget how very much I dislike you.” She stood. “The more I forget how truly abominable you are, the more I want you to kiss me again as you did in the garden. And the more I want you to kiss me again, the more hopeless my future becomes.”

“Anne!” He rose and caught her around the waist.

“Good afternoon, Lord Blackthorne,” she whispered, pulling away and running toward the door.

To Anne’s utter surprise, one Tuesday morning Miss Pick-worth reported the most monstrous lie ever printed in
The Tattler
. A terrible falsehood about the Marchioness of Blackthorne and her new husband—yet it was the exact plan Ruel had whispered to Anne only three nights before as she made her way along the corridor to her bedroom. How news of this stratagem had come into Miss Pickworth’s hands, she could only guess, for she had told no one but Prudence Watson and her two sisters.

Anne knew that
The Tattler
was avidly read by everyone in London who could afford to purchase it. The newspaper was then taken in hand by the household staff, who secretly perused each word before carrying it to the dustbin. And finally the vegetable and fishmongers plucked the printed pages from the refuse and used them to pack their wares—but not before eagerly gathering around someone who could read to them all the secrets the aristocracy would least want anyone to know.

Miss Pickworth, the anonymous columnist who reported the affairs of Society and answered heartfelt petitions from her faithful readers, penned the most enthusiastically devoured words in the entire newspaper. No woman worth her salt would set out in her carriage for Hyde Park unless she knew what Miss Pickworth had reported about her neighbors that morning. No man would step foot into his gentlemen’s club without the knowledge of who had done what and with whom in London that week. This doyenne of civilization’s real name was anyone’s guess and everyone’s speculation. Miss Pickworth was feared and reviled and fervently embraced by one and all.

Prudence Watson, living once again with Sarah and her husband at Trenton House, raced across the green park of Cranleigh Crescent that Tuesday morning and slapped a copy of
The Tattler
on the tea table in front of Anne.

“Look at this!” she cried. “See what Miss Pickworth has written about you! How did she know? Who could have told her, for I promise you that neither my sisters nor I breathed a word to anyone!”

Anne picked up the newspaper, but before she could begin reading, Prudence snatched it away again. “‘By all accounts merry as well as married,’” Prudence read aloud Miss Pick-worth’s alliterative prose, “‘the Marquess and Marchioness of Blackthorne mean to depart our Society at the summit of the Season. In an enchanted European excursion they will enjoy dining along the Danube, ascending the Alps, and sunning on the seacoasts of southern Spain.’”

Anne set her spoon on her saucer. “
He
must have put out the information. The marquess.”

“‘Beginning in Brussels,’” Prudence continued reading, “‘the contented couple will favor fashionable Flanders with their esteem and elegance. But will they flee in favor of farther shores, or will they choose to commingle with their comrades in an effort to encounter England’s most enigmatic and elusive enemy?’”

“What does Miss Pickworth mean by that?” Anne asked. “What enemy of England could be considered an enigma?”

“She is talking of Napoleon!” Prudence cried, dropping onto a chair and taking her fan from her reticule. “Anne, have you not taken note? This year’s Season is quickly disintegrating as more and more members of the
ton
book passage for Europe. And now you will join them.”

Anne took a sip of tea before responding. She knew Ruel had not shared the full scope of his scheme with her, and this new information concerned her deeply. “Why is everyone rushing off to the Continent?”

“Because that is where all the excitement is happening! Napoleon was declared an outlaw two months ago, and as you know, all the sovereigns of the Continent have agreed to join forces against him. No one in our Society wants to miss out on the possibility of a thrilling campaign.”

“Aristocratic London wishes to participate in a French war?”

“Not participate, silly goose. Observe! Everyone is talking of how gripping it will be if Napoleon throws his army against us!”

Gripping? Anne could hardly believe Prudence’s words to be true, and yet she had heard such whispered rumors herself more than once. It was a fact that she and Ruel were not the only couple making plans to depart England for France. Even his parents, the Duke and Duchess of Marston, were expected to journey there eventually. In early September, Sir Alexander was scheduled to wed Gabrielle Duchesne, daughter of the Comte de la Roche. The duke and duchess would travel to Paris for the happy nuptials, and then all the family would return to England together for the start of winter and the foxhunt season.

“Do you not want to see our men in action?” Prudence asked. “All the officers in their handsome red coats! Oh, it will be simply too magnificent!”

“But, Prudence, you are talking of battles and bloodshed.” Anne shook her head. “I cannot think why anyone would hope to witness such violent conflict.”

“I should wager you dread encountering our Society more than the French soldiers.” Prudence fanned herself. “But you must take comfort on that account, Anne. Sarah commented to me how brilliantly you have deflected the wicked barbs aimed in your direction and reduced them to brief snide remarks. And Mary says you have befriended several of the young wives who have not yet skipped away to the Continent.”

“It is impossible for anyone to say I have friends in London,” Anne said. “You and your sisters are my only true confidantes. Oh, Prudence, I dread the thought of separating from you.”

“Then you may set your mind at ease.” Folding her fan, the young woman smiled coyly. “I am to accompany you to France!”

“Truly? But you have said nothing to me of this.”

“Sarah and I discussed the situation at length, and of course Mary gave her opinion. We all agree it would be unwise for you to be abandoned to the company of your husband and his companions with no one to defend you. You are too naïve to maneuver through the traps and obstacles the
ton
may lay in your path while in France. And you are still very much in danger from the marquess. Sarah wrote to him yesterday, and he sent a message by return post. He has welcomed me to join your party.”

“You will come? Oh, Prudence!” Anne threw her arms around her friend. “Then God has indeed answered my most heartfelt prayers. If you and I are together, nothing can overtake us.”

Shortly before the marquess and his companions were to depart for Brussels, Anne returned from a round of paying calls to discover a note on her dressing table. Picking up the letter, she recognized the dark, bold script at once. It was dated that morning and had been left unsealed.

“My darling Anne,”
Ruel had written.
“I shall be visiting
several of my properties in the country during the next two
days, as I told you last night. How dreadfully I shall miss
you!”

Anne frowned. Properties in the country? The marquess had not mentioned anything of the sort the night before. In fact, they had dined at opposite ends of an enormous table in a long, mirrored hall at the home of Lord and Lady Something-or- other. Later, she had been compelled to dance with so many different men she had hardly laid eyes on her husband. This letter was clearly not intended to be private. The marquess expected its contents to have been read and spread about by the household staff. She studied the note again.

“In preparation for our journey to the Continent,”
he continued,
“I have had your trunks sent out to various clothiers. I hope
you do not mind, dearest. I took the liberty of ordering a substantial
number of new items for your wardrobe. I am sure you must
be pleased.”

Pleased? Anne hardly needed new clothes. She already had more gowns than she could wear in a year. What on earth could this mean?

“Your trunks will be returned to you locked, but please do not
fret. I do so wish to see the surprise on your lovely face when you
discover what I have selected for you. The thought of the light in
your eyes will keep my heart in eager anticipation of the moment
when I shall hold you in my arms once again. Until then, do
think of me often and remember how very much I adore you.
Your loving husband—B.”

Anne stared out the window. Properties in the country. Clothiers. Locked trunks. It must have something to do with his scheme. But what?