What a Lady Requires (3 page)

Emma waited until Grundy had seen their callers to the front door before rounding on her father. “Papa? What in heaven’s name is going on?”

He leaned back in his chair and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ve brokered your marriage.”

Brokered. As if she were yet another of his business transactions. She was, though, and she knew it. She’d even agreed, at least in theory.

The reality had turned out quite different.

“When I came in here, I wasn’t expecting the younger son.” The very handsome younger son, one who, despite his drunkenness, smelled of sandalwood and not brandy. Until today, when she’d considered her future husband, looks had never entered the equation. She’d gone into the project with a clear head, prepared to do her marital duty like any other young lady her age. This disturbance in the pit of her stomach along with the tingling heat lingering in her palm was never meant to be part of the picture.

“If it is the title you’re concerned about, Lord Sparkmore has declared he will not wed. The earldom will pass to his brother, or at the very least, his brother’s heir.”

She raised her brows. Papa took risks at times, as much as any successful businessman, but the risk was usually calculated. “What guarantee do you have Lord Sparkmore won’t develop an infatuation at the next ball he attends and make some young lady an offer?”

Papa folded his hands over his stomach. “I’ve none at all, beyond his word. I can only rely on his past behavior. At his age, he ought to have done his duty and married by now. If he were likely to change his mind, he wouldn’t take so dashed long to reach a decision.”

“But his brother…”

“What is the matter with the brother? I thought you’d be pleased. I may be a man, but I can see well enough which one the ladies prefer.”

And he would be her preference if she had to base her future on appearance alone. Thankfully, she’d learned at her father’s knee not to base her life on anything so flimsy and fleeting. Any important decision must be weighed, the results foreseen as far as possible, the risks known and accounted for. “He was foxed, and he stared—”

No, she couldn’t admit to her father the man had flagrantly ogled her bosom. Voicing that truth might force her to face an uncomfortable fact. The heat in his glance had only increased the tingle in her palms. Worse, that sensation had spread to deeper, unspeakable, and downright impractical places.

“As a matter of fact, your marriage to the younger brother settles more than one problem.”

“It does?”

“He owes me a great deal of money.”

“That…” She had to swallow. “That is impossible. I’ve seen your books. I’ve been through them and balanced them. I know who owes you and whom you owe. Rowan Battencliffe appears nowhere in your ledgers.”

His ruddy complexion darkened. “I have kept this matter private and funded out of a personal account you’ve never seen. I never reckoned you’d need to know, but there it is.”

She shook her head, even as the floor seemed to tremble beneath her. This must be what it felt like to have someone yank a rug out from under one’s feet. What had she just been thinking about calculated risks? Papa had gone and shot that entire notion into the blue with this revelation.

“It…but it makes no sense,” she said faintly. The day Edward Jennings made no fiscal sense might as well signal the end of the world. “You’re still taking the loss. You’ll be paying yourself out of funds you put up as my dowry. Why not simply forgive the debt and leave me out of this?”

He stared at the ceiling for a moment or two. “I don’t believe I ever told you how it was when I was getting started in trade. It was before you were born, naturally. I didn’t marry until I had the means to support a wife, and there were some lean years at first. You know how these titled folk are—always paying their suppliers as an afterthought.”

“Forgive me, but I do not see what this has to do with me.”

“I am past the point where the loss will harm me.”

Despite her protests, she knew it. A shrewd investment might make up the shortfall within a year.

“Other merchants are not,” Papa went on. “You can reform him. Not so much for my sake, but for the others he owes. Those as may be living hand to mouth. If you can teach him responsibility, we can only hope he’ll pass the idea along to your children.”

One member of the titled class down, how many hundreds to go? As a means of changing attitudes in the upper strata of society, the method was inefficient to say the least. “You want me to teach him?”

“Make no mistake, he is a means to secure a title in the family. Because he owes so much, he’s desperate to lay his hands on some blunt. But if you can turn him around—make him solvent—so much the better.”

Despite his assured tone, Emma felt nowhere near as confident. “And if I cannot?”

“I have faith in you. I’ve taught you all I’ve learned.”

“You’ve taught me all you know in order to wrap me up in a pretty dress like a gift.” Good Lord, that sounded resentful, but she couldn’t help herself. Papa had perhaps indulged her thirst for knowledge and admitted her to a man’s world, but suddenly all that faded before her. “You’ll turn me into a sacrifice.”

“It doesn’t have to be a sacrifice if you don’t make it one.” Papa reached out a hand, but his desk was too broad for him to make contact. His fingers contracted as if he’d liked to have squeezed her arm. “You can have it all if you like. It’s mainly a matter of choosing. And never forget the title. If you do not become a countess within your lifetime, you can be assured your son will be styled
my lord
and go to the proper schools, and command all the respect he could want.”

Yes, respect. And there lay the crux of the matter. Despite Papa’s riches, society still viewed the Jennings family as interlopers. No amount of blunt could buy their way into the higher echelons.

Emma knew, she accepted, and yet her mind homed in on the idea of an heir. As Rowan Battencliffe’s wife, she’d be expected to share his bed until she’d produced the next in line to the earldom. A prickle of heat needled its way down her spine as she recalled the way he’d stared at her breasts.

Papa cleared his throat. “As I said, I thought you’d be pleased. You knew this was the plan all along, and I think it’s come together rather neatly.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Could she sound any less enthusiastic?

“If it’s any consolation, I haven’t promised him your entire dowry. He’ll get five thousand on your marriage and another five when his heir is born.”

“And the remaining ten?” she asked thickly.

“That will be held in trust, and he won’t be able to touch it, ever. As soon as you bear his son, it will be turned over directly to you.”

The special license was smaller than Rowan expected, the paper thinner. Obtaining it had also taken less time than he’d bargained on. When he’d rolled out of bed this morning, the last thing he’d expected was to lose a fortune, gain access to another one, become engaged, and possess the means to wed all in the same day.

Surely legal permission for so serious a step as marriage ought to require longer than the hour he’d spent cooling his heels at the Doctors’ Commons—long enough for the final effects of his earlier overindulgence to wear off. Even as the carriage worked its way down the street, Rowan could barely believe it.

Suppressing an urge to jam the sheet into his caped topcoat, he turned the duly signed document over in his hands. Instead of sending flowers, he could turn up at Lind’s old townhouse tomorrow, vicar in tow, and shackle his leg to Miss Jennings for life.

Miss Jennings. There was something else he hadn’t expected. He was already regretting his initial impression of the young lady. Whey-faced, indeed. Thank God he hadn’t been so far into his cups as to blurt out such an unfortunate descriptor.

Bad enough he’d looked her over so blatantly the color had risen to her cheeks. But nothing so insipid as a blush. Not when her eyes flashed all manner of warnings at him—everything from
Mind how you approach me
to
I’m more than I appear
to
You’d best not set a toe out of line.

Quite a deep shade of blue, those eyes, magnified by her spectacles. The fire in their depths bordered on violet. Tightly wound chestnut hair reflected hues of flame in the candlelight. One of the most impressive bosoms he’d ever had the fortune to encounter. But that wasn’t why he’d agreed to the terms Jennings had cared to set forth.

No, he needed the money, even if she was to manage his finances. At any rate, she couldn’t make any worse a hash of them than he had.

Ten thousand pounds. Eventually. He had to remember that. He could start over very nicely on that sum, as long as his wife allowed him a bit of lead. But something told him managing was a domain in which she considered herself somewhat an expert. Well, they’d just have to see. Expert or no, he wasn’t about to let any female run every last aspect of his life.

“What do you think?” His brother’s question broke into his thoughts and caught him off guard.

“About what?”

“Everything.” Sparks waved an all-encompassing hand.

Everything
might well refer to their carriage, which was trundling down The Strand at a pace a snail might outstrip, or the pall of gray clouds that threatened to unleash a torrent over the city beyond, or all of England for that matter. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be a bit more specific.”

Sparks took his time in replying, as if he had to think about it himself. “My plan. It has set you up quite nicely, has it not?”

“Indeed.” No argument there, even if Rowan had no clue as to why his brother would show himself so generous. “And what has possessed you to claim you’re giving up the title just to make certain I marry a young lady with enough blunt to start me over?”

Literally. Although Sparks wasn’t aware how desperate Rowan’s situation was just yet.

“I’ve done more than claim.” Sparks flicked a dust mote from his trousers. “I am completely sincere in my intention never to marry.”

Which explained how he’d convinced a perceptive man like Jennings, certainly. One didn’t amass the sort of wealth Jennings possessed without a keen sense of how to read others. “Good God, why?”

“Perhaps I’d like my townhouse to myself.”

What on earth? “Your townhouse?”

“Yes. Surely you didn’t expect you’d be living with me after your wedding.”

“No, but…” He couldn’t afford to rent a townhouse of his own, which was why he stayed with his brother in the first place. And Jennings had decided to sweeten the marriage settlement by tossing in their townhouse. Rowan didn’t dare hope Emma would agree to move or rent another place, hang it all. At any rate, the last thing he wanted was to have to explain
why
he preferred not to inhabit the Jennings townhouse.

He’d have to resign himself to living in Lind’s old quarters. He’d have to wake up every single day and confront the reminders of his past sins.

“You know I prefer to take my time and think matters through,” Sparks went on as if Rowan hadn’t protested. “Because I like to ponder situations, people think me addlepated. I’m not. I’d just rather consider all angles before I decide something. And I’ve thought about this a long time. You’ll do better at this whole marriage business than I would.”

“About the same way I’ve done well with my finances?” He settled his shoulders against the squabs and crossed his arms. “How can you think that?”

Sparks held up a hand. It was the most force Rowan had ever seen him use. “By the time I’ve selected a wife who suits me, I’ll be too old to manage getting an heir. So best I skip the business entirely and let you get on with it.”

“But the earldom. What makes you think I won’t bugger the entire estate within a year?”

“That is what Miss Jennings is for. Along with my estate manager, she will teach you to run things.”

“You could have agreed to marry Miss Jennings yourself and been done with it,” Rowan muttered. If nothing else, his brother had proved himself adept at choosing competent people to act in his stead. In fact, he’d just done so again, in a sense—except that would imply Rowan possessed a degree of competence.

And he did, in a way, where it came to fathering children, as long as one overlooked the small matter of the woman involved. Viscount Lindenhurst, for one, certainly didn’t appreciate Rowan’s fecundity.

He shook away the memories of a night where judgment deserted him utterly. Lydia Lindenhurst was most definitely not a subject he wanted to discuss with his brother.

“I suppose I could have,” Sparks said at length, “but you’re the one with the financial difficulties.”

“Yes, well, about that.” Rowan shifted in his seat. Normally the carriage was more comfortable than this. “It’s worse than you know.”

“Really?”

Sparks responded as if Rowan had just revealed the most prosaic of facts.
Our fourth cousin once removed—whom neither of us has even met, by the way—has just been knighted.
Or
I heard from your estate agent that your prize heifer has just given birth to triplets.
Sparks’s
Really?
would have been more appropriate to either one of those statements.

“Really,” Rowan replied without the slightest sarcasm.

Anyone else would have prompted him to supply more information. Not Sparks. He simply folded his hands in his lap and smiled benignly. “Then you ought to be doubly happy about this windfall.”

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve done?” More to the point, his brother ought to realize what a hopeless idiot he was handing his title to.

“What will my knowing change?”

“Your mind, perhaps. You’ll want to rethink this entire scheme. It’s gone, you know. Everything. After last summer, I scraped together a last hundred or so pounds. It was all I had left. A friend told me about an investment opportunity. Couldn’t miss, he said. I stood to make a healthy profit, according to his claims. Enough to start over.”

And today, just today at the club, where Rowan had retreated to bolster his courage before entering that damnable house, Crawley had informed him of his loss. Higgins, the mastermind behind the entire plan, had absconded with all the funds and left for parts unknown. Even Crawley was in deep now.