The Bride Price (2 page)

“The season ends next week. Everyone will be leaving London soon. Two weeks from today a tournament will begin that will progress through the summer. Ten tasks. Each with a monetary reward. Competitors will vie for the ultimate prize that includes a viscountcy and a fortune.”

Sebastien tried to relax into the chair, but his back remained stiff.

The duke continued, still agitated. “The King has sanctioned this tournament. The winner will have the backing of all involved. Entry into all events for one year. Membership to all the right clubs. A seat. The rest of the tide is up to the winner to sway.”

Sebastien had no idea what showed on his face, but he desperately hoped it was as little as possible.

The duke took a deep breath, and a well-rehearsed calm returned to his features. “A title, money, a wellborn bride, a platform to start. All ingredients that can launch a determined man to success.” The duke drank his brandy, but his eyes never left Sebastien’s.

Sebastien said nothing, shocked, his insides charged with anger and something wild. Power. The offer was inherently one of power.

But his mocking, destructive nature was never silent. “I have money. What use have I of a title, a seat, a wife, and some land?” Besides power and temptation…

“What about your mother’s land?”

The emptiness froze again. “What about it?”

“I’m giving it away. To the winner of the tournament.”

Loathing, fierce and deep, ran through him. Worse than before. Steaming and coiling in his gut, searching for an outlet.

Iron pride clashed with longing. Roseford Grange was the only thing for which he had ever begged. The duke had purchased it from the lien holder when Sebastien was sixteen just for that reason.

A taunt, a way to keep his bastard son in line.

It hadn’t worked yet. But then the duke had never gone so far.

Sebastien took a deep breath, shoving the anger and hatred below an icy barrier in his mind. He tapped his fingers on the chair’s arms, thinking, coldly plotting. The duke smiled in a satisfied manner, telling Sebastien that he was not successfully hiding his emotions.

He examined the man across from him, looking for weakness. “A wellborn bride? Some poor chit coerced into being the prize for a bunch of bastards or third-born sons?” The shifting of the light on the duke’s eyes confirmed his guess on the
participants. “Who is the girl? Why even include her? Better to have the choice once the winner hits the bosom of the
ton
.”

“Lady Sarah Pims.”

Ah. The girl was passably attractive, if you could separate her from the wallpaper, and an heiress, but possessed of a temperament that made the sconces on the walls seem interesting. He wasn’t quite sure he had ever heard her string two words together, no less two sentences. No worthy suitors, at least to Lord Cheevers’s exacting standards, had lasted long this past year, her first out after her mourning period, and her father, the earl, was said to be at wit’s end. Too, he was a crony of the duke’s.

“The Tipping Seven, is it? Or have you finally increased your number to ten?”

The duke’s stare hardened. “Yes, it is mostly our crowd.”

The Tipping Seven formed a formidable faction despite their blackened past. They could do exactly as promised—open society to whomever they willed. And with the King involved…

Sebastien rubbed his lips against each other. Sponsorship was everything. His own state in society proved that.

Roseford Grange…

The duke would refuse any offers to buy the property, even at twice the price. He had refused every time Sebastien had asked. It was a sign of weakness now to even bring it up. A show of his hand, even though his cards were in plain view.

The duke must desperately want Sebastien in
the competition if he was offering his trump. That alone was nearly enough to get Sebastien to refuse.

But the prize…what it entailed…what he could do with it…the revenge he could take…

“A title with papers? Full sponsorship? And deeds to all lands up front and awaiting turnover?” He wanted a solid lock on the deed to Roseford, one that the duke couldn’t pull away from.

“And an heiress. All or nothing. Consider the winnings the bride price.”

He couldn’t care less about some twit of a girl that Cheevers couldn’t get rid of another way. She was a means to an end. He shrugged.

“I want to review the documents.”

The duke’s lips curled. Triumph shone in his eyes. Sebastien was a game to his sire, and he’d known it since his disillusionment had begun. “I knew you would. Come.”

The duke abandoned his half-drunk brandy and signaled to a man at the front of the club. Sebastien rose and followed him from the room, but not before he smirked at the rage in his half brother’s eyes as he watched them leave together. Harrow had been a hell for both of them, forced together at school, so close in age.

If those papers promised what the duke implied…not only would he finally gain his mother’s land, but also a title and the inherent power associated. He brushed the sleeve of his coat. A past taunt rang through his ears—
That expensive material can’t hide the lack of quality beneath
,
Deville
.

He smiled darkly and stepped through the door.

Lady Sarah Pims, the only daughter of Earl Cheevers, is reported to be off the mart. Though, Dear Reader, we don’t know to whom she has been paper bound. As she is a meek, biddable girl, one doesn’t as much interact with her in the ballrooms as pass her by for the more interesting potted plants in attendance…

“P
roject? Is this how you define the sale of your daughter?”

“Watch yourself, Mrs. Martin.” Lord Cheevers tapped an authoritative finger on his desk. “I’m doing what every parent should. I’m securing her a husband. A strong one.”

The oppressive feel of the Brown Room closed around Caroline Martin. The muted golds and dark earthy woods of the earl’s study all combined to create a sort of world-weary and high kingdom that she could never breach. Caroline walked to the edge of the heavy mahogany desk, a barrier titanic in size and nature. “A strong one? You have no idea who will even win this competition.”

“I dislike your tone.”

She was a tenant on the land. A mere nobody, but for the fact that their families were distantly related—and more recently favor bound. It allowed for more familiarity, but she still trod dangerous ground.

She took a deep breath, ran a hand over her tight blond bun, and asked more calmly, “What if the man who wins is the lowest sort of blackguard?”

“Oh, that is unlikely to happen. The winner is likely to be one of four men.” He made another notation in the ledger in front of him. “Three out of the four are good choices.”

“Three out of—” Her voice strangled. “And the fourth?”

He waved a hand. “An outside chance. Besides”—his eyes stayed on his ledger—“whoever the winner, the prize will be immense enough that he will become a prize himself, whatever his previous faults or station. Sarah will finally make a worthy match.”

“She could make a worthy match if you but give her time.”

He threw down his pen. “Worthy? She showed me what type of match she’d make during the season. Likely run off with the first fortune hunter who gave her notice. I daresay your disastrous marriage would look a picnic, and you barely qualify as gentry. A similar mistake in the
ton
would be beyond embarrassing for the family.”

She bared her teeth, forcing her wince away. “You do her no credit.”

“She does herself no credit. How I could have raised such a spineless weakling—”

“She is not spineless!”

“—it was obviously her mother’s fault.”

Caroline narrowed her eyes. “Stop this tournament. There is still time to do so.”

He flicked back sandy blond hair streaked lightly with silver. Gray eyes narrowed in irritation. “I will not. And even if I wanted to, it is far too late now. The King has given his blessing. The London papers have started reporting.”

“You could have the King rescind it.”

The crackle of paper sounded as his grip tightened. “You overstep yourself, Mrs. Martin. I thought you had become a better model of behavior.”

A drumbeat of fear thumped in her belly, but she drew herself up. “You will not dissuade me from this way of thinking. You can still have the tournament. But if you nullify Sarah’s role, perhaps she will find a suitor on her own while the games are in progress.”

“Absolutely not. This is to her benefit. And to mine. You don’t think the men participating would be clamoring for her hand otherwise, do you?”

“You were hardly encouraging her to seek third and fourth sons and
bastards
during the season.” She pinned him with the most ferocious stare she could muster. “Her first season out of mourning, if I need remind you. She was quiet for a purpose. Besides, many a smart woman waits to see the new crop of suitors.”

“The new crop will be much like the old, and Sarah will still be too lackluster to take advantage.
Their eyes slip right past her.” Caroline heard a gasp and saw a brown head duck away from the door. Turning back to the earl, she saw that he had noticed it too, and she gripped her fingers tighter.

“Girl, come in here.”

Lady Sarah Pims slowly emerged from behind the half-closed door, brown head tilted down; if she weren’t a lady her shoulders would be drooping and her feet dragging.

“Should have known you were lurking about behind Mrs. Martin’s skirts.”

“Yes, Father.”

He walked over to her and lifted her chin. “You will make the best match of the decade. Celebrated, with a husband powerful enough to move the world. My daughter. A gem. A father’s fondest wish.”

The look of longing on Sarah’s face was almost enough to make Caroline weep.

“You will participate in this tournament with nary a word of defiance, won’t you? Be the good daughter of which every father dreams?”

Her friend’s throat worked. “Yes, Father,” she whispered.

“Good. Mind Lady Tevon. She is here to help. Now go outside and close the door.”

As soon as the lock clicked into place, he turned abruptly and stalked back to his desk. “Being biddable is a good trait in a wife. Where she got her meekness from…”

He shook his head, and she bit her lip to keep from unwisely responding with exactly where that meekness stemmed.

“The only way she will make a good match is if I choose one for her.” He sifted through the papers on his desk, mind already made. “As the prize of this tournament, she will be the gem of her age group.”

“But the winner…what if…” The memory of Sarah’s downturned eyes and distressed brown hair spurred her on. “Give her another opportunity to make a brilliant match on her own. Next season. Let me accompany her. All she needs is a boost in her confidence.”

The earl’s cynically amused eyes met hers. “You can’t possibly believe that I will sponsor
you
for society? Someone who ran off with a stable hand because she was in
love
?
Mrs
. Martin.” He snorted. “Someone who acted against the express wishes of her parents? Someone barely related to this family?”

She molded her fingers into fists, not allowing his words to cut more deeply than they already had. There was nothing she could do about the past. She could only look forward. And that meant helping Sarah. “No. But I can remain in the background assisting Lady Sarah—a silent chaperone. I do not seek a season, nor the attention of society.”

He looked her over, a snide perusal. “And you think that by standing at Sarah’s side the beaus will flock to her? Even with your severe hairstyles and unflattering dresses? More likely that every widow hunter and rake will flock to you instead, looking for exactly the challenge you present. And we will be back to the beginning, except with a year wasted, and in an even worse position.”

The color drained from her face. The last thing Caroline wanted was to be in society’s eye playing the widow-and-rake game, but the image of Sarah…“Let Sarah have a
choice
in whom she weds. She is your daughter. I won’t ask anything of you ever again. You owe it to us, my lord.”

“Owe you?” He raised a brow.

She touched the locket around her neck and looked him straight in the eye. “Owe Papa, at the least.”

Every line around his eyes creased in anger. “No, Mrs. Martin. I fulfilled any debt when I covered for you after that debacle of your own making.”

He thumped a hand on top of a stack of books. “Sarah will do her duty. And you are not to interfere, do you understand?” He observed her silence for a moment, and the steel he was noted for reflected silver in his gaze. “Furthermore, you will assist in making this tournament a success and do anything I require.”

When she didn’t respond, his eyes narrowed. “I will ship you off to another estate, if I need to. I’d rather you stayed here and kept Sarah in line. She has always been best with you for whatever godforsaken reason. But if you put one toe out of line, I may just decide to take away everything. The village celebrations, your house, your monies, your access to Sarah.
Everything
. Do I make myself clear?”

She could hear her own breathing. “Perfectly.”

“Good. I have need of you at Roseford Grange tomorrow. Be by in the morning. You are dismissed.”

The earl bent back over his figures, his plans,
his empire building. The earl’s heir was on the continent, fulfilling his last bits of education. Not that George would have gone against his father, but she could have used some help.

Caroline marched from the room, her own plans forming. She gathered the shrunken form of her companion outside the door and continued toward the east wing. “There’s nothing for it, Sarah. We will have to work from within the tournament.”

“Caro.” The nineteen-year-old girl gripped her arm. “You shouldn’t have argued with Father.”

“Your father needs to be challenged every once in a while. Sometimes I think that is the only reason he allows me such liberties.” But she had to be careful of going too far. She had read the threat in his eyes. The seriousness there. He might indulge her due to their entwined pasts, but that would last only so long.

“But—”

“Not here.” The servants watched them, bowing to Lady Sarah as they moved toward Sarah’s rooms.

As soon as they were safely ensconced inside with a pot of tea, Caroline tucked a blanket around her friend’s legs. Six years’ difference in age had firmly established their hierarchy of need, no matter the distance in social standing or family connection.

“We will need to look closely at each participant. Determine who is worthy and who is not.”

“Does it matter?” Sarah leaned her head back against the chair.

“Of course it does! They can’t all be bad, right?” She tried not to inject the uncertainty she felt.

Sarah shook her head.

“We will just have to cull the Anthonys from the list.”

Her friend forced a smile.

“I never liked him from your letters,” Caroline said loyally, disliking the man she had never met. “He is the one lacking, not you.”

“He was a lovely poet.” Her friend’s eyes sought the window. “He particularly liked to compare my skin to all manners of attractive things. Roses, lilies, dahlias. Once he even used a turnip to describe my lips.”

Caroline set out a cup of milk and a few lumps of sugar, trying to hide a smile at Sarah’s attempt at a jest. “Artists are a strange lot. And poets—always trying to find something to rhyme with rutabaga. It would have driven you mad.”

Sarah’s smile curved into something more genuine. “Yes, well, I won’t have to worry about rogue rutabagas anymore.”

Caroline returned her smile and tried to keep things upbeat. She could always hope that Anthony, the unreliable fortune hunter, showed up to the estate for the games. She had all manner of nice surprises for a guest of his ilk. “You can plant rutabagas on your new properties. Roseford Grange is part of the prize, and I hear it is a lovely piece of land. Perfect as the country seat for the winner, and not overly far from here, so you can visit on a regular basis.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, the Duke of Grandien is including the estate as part of the prize. The earl wants me to visit it tomorrow and sketch the manor. Will you come?”

Sarah smiled, the edges of her eyes still taut with stress. “Yes, if I can part from Lady Tevon, my new chaperone, I most definitely would like to do that. I need to keep a positive perspective.”

Caroline fiddled with her cup. “Do you think we could petition the King?”

The lines around Sarah’s eyes grew. “No. The King sees the whole competition as an incentive to make sure one of his godchildren is married well.”

She took a deep breath before continuing. “I saw him a few days past. He has signed a document promising the winner a viscountcy. After the competition ends, he’ll have the letters-patent drawn up and—” She waved a hand in a fatalistic manner. “I tried to beg him to revoke his blessings, but you know how I freeze up so terribly. He just patted me on the head and said the games were designed to weed out the unworthy. Only a true gentleman could win.”

“A true gentleman.”

“Yes.” Sarah tugged at the bow on her dress, mangling it further.

A man who was good at shooting, boxing, gaming, and wenching could easily fulfill the terms of a “true gentleman.” Not the type of man who was generous and understanding, courteous and patient. A man like Sarah needed. Someone who could bring out her gentle spirit and appreciate her kindness.

“This competition will bring the winner a fortune, not just from me. That’s part of the reason the King agreed to it, outside of his ties to the group. The monetary rewards are a joint offering from all the men sponsoring the tournament, and it ‘promotes good English stock and fun.’ The winner will be”—Sarah waved her hand again, then dropped it to her lap—“celebrated and titled.
Prestigious
. A connection Father covets, like every other man of the
ton
.”

“Yes, but—”

“Father is so
pleased
,” she whispered.

“Well, that is hardly—”

“It’s so hard, Caro.” Fingers wrung the blanket. “Your parents loved you unconditionally, even when you went against them. But it’s so hard to please Father. And the diamonds fairly sparkled this year before they were snatched up. There were so many on the mart at the beginning of the season. I thought myself a fairly decent catch before I left, especially with your confidence behind me. But the competition…I was just lost in the shuffle. And without you—”

Sarah’s voice lowered. “You know there is no way for me to make a powerful marriage otherwise. I need Father’s help. I’m just not—”

Caroline tipped her chin up. “You are a wonderful woman, Sarah. The right man will see that.
You
need to see it.”

Sarah bit her lip, tears shimmering in her eyes.

Caroline steepled her fingers on the table, anger at the
ton
and at the earl battling with the need to comfort Cheevers’s daughter. “We’ll just have to run away, nothing for it.”

She grabbed a pen and a piece of paper from a neatly stacked pile. “Find some handsome prince for you. Perhaps a solid businessman for me.”

Sarah choked.

“Shall we go to France?” She tapped the table. “No, too continental. India?” She wrote it down. “Plenty of tea, but too dangerous.” She crossed it out. “Spain?” She pretended to think on it. “Too hot.”

Sarah cracked a smile and resumed sipping her tea.

Caroline leaned back in her chair. “America? Too colonial, I think.”

Some of the tension left Sarah’s shoulders.