Willed To Wed

by Wilma Counts

Genres: Historical Fiction; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Angered by her grandfather's will, which links her inheritance to marrying the heir to the adjoining estate, the independent Lady Sarah Longbourne finds herself forced into a marriage of convenience to Matthew Cameron, an embittered and debt-ridden man who mistrusts all women. Original.

Release date: September 1, 1999

Publisher: Zebra

Print pages: 224

Sample

“What in blazes are you doing here so early?” Matthew Carey Cameron, major in His Majesty’s forces, veteran of the Peninsular campaign, and newly elevated peer of the realm, glared through sleep-befuddled eyes at the visitor who casually invaded his bedchamber.

Adrian Whitson, Marquis of Trenville, was impeccably attired in a dark blue coat sporting the unmistakable elegance of Weston. Matthew closed his eyes against the gleaming Hessian boots and snowy cravat—and against the brilliant display of white teeth in his best friend’s broad grin.

“Too early,” Matthew groaned, but he swung his legs out of bed and reached for the large mug of strong coffee offered by his batman, Coop.

“Early? It is past noon already! And you asked me to stop by. I must say, if your appearance at the moment is an indication of what His Majesty’s troops are come to, I fear for England’s safety should Napoleon’s present misfortunes take a turn for the better.”

Matthew grunted. “If that happens, I trust we can count on you soldiers of peace in the foreign office to sweet-talk him into giving up forthwith!” He waved his hand toward the desk. “Those are the papers I had from the solicitor. Do look them over, Adrian. Find me a way out of this infernal situation. As a lawyer and a diplomat, surely you can come up with something. Imagine me—leg-shackled at my tender age.”

Adrian’s disdainful “Hah!” reminded the new earl that he and his friend were of an age, both thirty-one. The marquis, married at twenty-three, had lost his wife in childbirth two years later.

As Matthew shaved, dressed, and brought himself more firmly into the world of human beings with minimal help from Coop, Adrian perused the document and drank the coffee Coop brought him.

“Hmmm. Well-l-l-l ...” Adrian drew the word out dubiously. “This is not my general area of law, but it appears rather tight to me. Your uncle and the lady’s grandfather seem to have had some pretty astute minds at work on this.”

“That is not what I want to hear.”

“Of course, they assumed that the Seventh Earl would be your cousin Robert. But I doubt an unwritten assumption would carry much weight if it actually went to court.” Adrian’s brown eyes twinkled. “Maybe you should just marry the lady.”

“Easy for you to say. You are not the one looking into the barrel of the matrimonial gun. She must be a real antidote.”

“What makes you think so?”

“She must be lacking in appearance, character, or fortune—why else would anyone go to such lengths to get her married?” Matthew ran his hand through a shock of light brown hair. “Why me?” he wailed in mock despair. “Here I am, home from the wars just this week—I should be able to stroll into a ballroom and have my pick of pretty lasses, and what happens? Those bloody wills! I’d rather be back on the battlefield.”

Now prepared to face the day, he dismissed Coop.

“You were managing that ‘home from the wars’ role pretty well last night at the Billington rout. Marriage need not inhibit your style too awfully, old chap.”

“Just as it did not inhibit you, eh?” Matthew’s tone was heavy with friendly sarcasm.

“Different story. But you were drawing them like flies to honey last night.”

“I had forgotten what empty-headed foolishness one spouts in polite society. All those pretty flowers of the ton—schoolroom misses fishing for compliments on their hair ribbons or some such. Females in the demimonde are more honest!”

“Speaking of female honesty—or lack of it—you might be interested to know that Annalisa Poindexter is on the prowl again. Her elderly husband prefers the country, but the beautiful Annalisa has not lost her taste for town. She asked about you.”

Matthew froze as he reached for his hat. Only Adrian would dare bring up her name, and so lightheartedly at that. Only Adrian understood what the lovely Annalisa—she of the silvery blond hair and emerald eyes—had meant to him. Even now, nearly ten years later, the pain haunted him.

“Hmph.” Matthew wished he could ignore the topic. “I saw her when I was back four or five years ago. She seemed satisfied with the position and purse her marriage brought.”

“She should have been. It was a sizable purse.”

“I never understood ...”

“What? How she could forsake your sterling self for all that delicious money?”

“Well, that, too. But why she kept me dangling after her. Two days—two days!—before her wedding she and I were still planning to elope.”

“Perhaps she could not face the prospect of scandal. Annalisa does enjoy her place on the social ladder.”

“She used me to bring Poindexter up to scratch. But there was no need to keep me on a leash once he had offered.” Matthew fought to keep his voice neutral. Good God! Could she still tie him in knots?

“Annalisa thrives on male attention. She needs to feel every man in her sphere wants her. Once she makes a conquest, she moves on. Ironically, her marriage has allowed a certain amount of freedom in that regard.”

“In the end, she certainly fared better with Poindexter than she would have, had she accepted the pathetic offer of a besotted young soldier.”

“Perhaps the young soldier fared better, too,” Adrian said quietly. Matthew did not respond. Then Adrian asked, “Do you recall a cousin of hers named Hamilton Ridgeley?”

“Very well. Used to play too deep for my pockets. Likable chap, though.”

“He still loves a game. He also squires the lovely Annalisa when she seems between . . . uh ... liaisons.”

Matthew chuckled derisively. “So that’s the polite term these days, eh? ... Even as children she and Ridgeley were close. She could always persuade him to do whatever she wanted.” He pointed at the papers still in Adrian’s hand to redirect the discussion. “Well?”

Adrian looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I think I may know your intended bride. Seaverton took his position in the House of Lords seriously. Good friend of Castlereagh and our office. The granddaughter used to act as his hostess. Not such an antidote at all, Matt, old man. Not at all. I remember dark hair and violet eyes, I think. Or were the eyes blue? Maybe gray. Intelligent, though, and well-read.”

“Wonderful! Just what I need—some bluestocking to preach sermons at me on a regular basis. And do stop referring to her as my intended! I tell you, there must be some way out of this broil.”

It occurred to him that this outburst directly contradicted what he had objected to in “schoolroom misses.” He was glad Trenville chose to ignore it as the two set out for White’s.

A few days later, the new Lord Markholme had consulted several notable men of law in London as well as an army of creditors holding notes against his new properties. Their collective judgment was that if he intended to accept the inheritance, he needed to find some way to ensure its fiscal survival.

To obtain a complete view of the situation, he set off for Derbyshire to inspect the main property which he had last seen as a youthful visitor. He invited his friend Adrian Whitson and Richard Hendley, a young lieutenant who served in his regiment, to accompany him.

He would also call upon the lady in question. He expected little to come of such a meeting. Trust a woman again? Not bloody likely!

And certainly not this woman. After all, her mother destroyed the life of Matthew’s favorite uncle, his father’s oldest brother. A very young Matthew, having lost his father, had been devastated when his fun-loving adventurous idol slowly destroyed himself in oceans of alcohol and gaming debts, finally taking his own life. And all because some mindless chit had thrown him over for a sea captain with interests in the West Indies.

Later, Matthew himself had not fared much better. On the threshold of maturity, he, too, encountered a woman who freely gave sweet kisses and promised undying love—even as she negotiated for title and wealth elsewhere. Now he was to welcome some conniving chit to his bed? Not bloody likely! he repeated to himself.

In Derbyshire, the supposed “antidote” had wrestled for weeks with the provisions of wills written by her grandfather and his friend on the neighboring estate. Miss Sarah Matthilde Longbourne knew the details early on, but a recent visit from the solicitor brought the situation home to her as her family now fully absorbed the implications.

“Oh, Sarah! It simply cannot be. Grandpapa is forcing you to marry some stranger?” Miss Emily Longbourne vented shock and outrage in the unrestrained manner of one having only eighteen years.

“He still controls—even from the grave,” said Charles, brother to the two Longbourne sisters.

Sarah willed herself to sit stoically, her hands clasped tightly in the folds of her dress. The late September sun slanted through the library windows, its dancing beams a dramatic contrast to the mood in the room.

“Grandpapa and the Sixth Earl of Markholme wanted to combine their properties. Marriage between the eldest Longbourne daughter and the Seventh Earl was their solution.” Sarah did not want Charles and Emily to suspect her own apprehension and anger.

“But that should have been Robert,” Charles declared.

“Yes.” Sarah remembered fondly the man who had almost become her fiance. “Grandpapa and the Sixth Earl were sanctioning marriage between Robert and me, but neither will specified names and neither was ever changed.”

“Well, it’s just not right!” Emily’s vehemence was the antithesis of Sarah’s calm. “Grandpapa was downright mean not to change his will when Robert was killed.”

“I doubt it even occurred to him,” Sarah said.

“What do you think of this coil, Aunt Bess?” Emily addressed the fourth person in the room. The widowed Mrs. Carstairs had joined her father’s household years before as a surrogate mother to her orphaned nieces and nephew.

“Papa knew what he wanted,” Aunt Bess said. “Unfortunately, he tied up the entire estate on this one condition.”

Charles snorted. “He was stubborn and strong-willed, you mean.”

“He was disappointed neither your mother nor I was the heir he wanted,” Aunt Bess replied gently. “Without a son of his own, he could not keep the Seaverton title and entailed properties in the immediate family, but he did control this estate. The will was his way of ensuring his wishes would prevail.”

After a pause, Sarah said, “Please. Do not refine upon this too much. It comes as a shock to you, but I knew about the wills—though circumstances were different then.”

Emily gestured impatiently. “You cannot just accept this high-handedness, Sarah!”

“You are right, Emily. There is a choice. However, whatever is done will affect not only the four of us, but a good many others as well.”

“Who?” Emily demanded.

“Servants. Tenants. People like Lofton, Mrs. Blodgett, the Johnsons. Rosemont is not just a pile of old stones, you know.”

“Well, it is not an altar requiring a sacrificial lamb, either,” her sister retorted.

Sarah looked at her, startled. Then she laughed. “Oh, dear. Did I sound so very noble? I meant only that what happens to Rosemont concerns many people besides ourselves. And, of course, the situation also involves the new Lord Markholme.”

Emily sniffed scornfully. “Who has yet to see it as necessary even to present himself!”

“He has been on the Peninsula,” Aunt Bess explained.

“Well, he should be here in Derbyshire,” Emily said without regard for reason or calm.

Charles had been quiet during this exchange. “Perhaps if we pool our resources, we could take a cottage somewhere. Surely, we could manage. I might tutor some local boys.”

“And give up your idea of a commission?” Emily turned to him aghast. “Besides, you were never such a grand scholar as to think of becoming a tutor. Better you should become a drawing master with your heavy hand on the crayon, or I a dressmaker, renowned seamstress as I am.”

“Well, what idea do you offer?”

“I think Sarah or I should find a husband with a sizable fortune, preferably a handsome man with an amiable disposition who would fall madly in love with one of us.”

“Men with sizable fortunes are not looking to marry penniless chits—even pretty little blondes like you,” her brother scoffed. “If that is the plan, Sarah might as well tie herself to Markholme after all.”

Sarah immersed herself in the distracting duties of estate, household, and parish as she pondered the “what ifs” of the future. Others would suffer if she chose wrongly.

She also brooded over the particular question of marriage. Her role as hostess for her grandfather and his political friends had proved more interesting to Sarah than balls and soirees meant to facilitate one’s search for a husband. She had long since come to terms with being “on the shelf” when she and Robert Cameron had reached an understanding.

Neither worried that their relationship lacked the passion and intensity of a romance from the Minerva Press. With a marked degree of warm affection, they would “rub on well together.” However, before a formal announcement could be made, the gentle, caring Robert was dead, drowned in a boating accident. His optimistic promises—they would marry and, of course, live happily ever after—had turned to ashes.

Robert’s death left a void in her life. She had lost a dear friend. She did not feel the loss as a lover, but she refused to dwell on that idea. Marriage was no longer an attractive option—and marriage to a stranger was decidedly unattractive.

Now, it was being thrust upon her.

Sarah had loved her grandfather and understood his benevolent despotism. He adamantly refused to purchase a commission for his grandson whom he considered “too young to go haring off to battle.” But he had readily defied society’s conventions to allow his granddaughter to share the estate management. His dictatorial power in life had allowed him to control, but in death, it robbed his family of authority over their own destinies.

Since her grandfather was unavailable, Sarah aimed her anger and frustration at the man who now controlled the situation, a shadowy figure off fighting in Spain. Meanwhile, the family looked to her to decide their shared future. And she—who had long been the one in charge—felt trapped in an indecisive state of limbo. And she hated it.

Several days after that meeting in the library, she heaved an exasperated sigh and said to herself, “Oh, well. All right. I will at least consider this marriage.” There! She had made the decision. So why did she still feel trapped?

From her agent, Mr. Howard, she learned the servants at Markholme Hall expected the new earl and two guests. So, Markholme was finally coming to inspect his lands. Did he also want to look over the prospective bride his uncle had foisted upon him? What kind of man would accept such dictates?

That evening after Lofton had withdrawn from serving tea in the drawing room, Sarah made her announcement.

“The three of you will be interested to know that if Lord Markholme proves agreeable and tolerable, I am prepared to accept the terms of Grandpapa’s will.”

“Yours is the life that will be most profoundly changed, if you do this, Sarah,” Charles said. “For me, you need not make such a sacrifice. I daresay I shall continue to live if I do not become an army officer.”

“Nor for me,” Emily cried. “Girls marry all the time without a season in London. I own I should like the parties and balls prodigiously, but not if my gaiety means Sarah’s misery!”

Genuinely moved by her usually carefree, teasing siblings’ concern, Sarah smiled. “I have no intention of becoming a sacrifice. I did say if Lord Markholme is agreeable and tolerable.... We simply do not know yet, do we? So—please—no more about ‘Sarah’s misery.’ ”

“I wish I could do more,” Charles said. “If only our parents had left us better provided for.”

“But they did not. We must face the facts of the matter, however unattractive they may be.”

Within hours of his arrival at Markholme Hall, Cameron’s presence was known throughout the district and was the instance of considerable nervous apprehension at the adjoining estate.

Sarah arose early the next morning. She had spent a fitful night, beset by doubts and worries, in contrast to the calm self-possession she had shown her family. To prolong the silence and solitude of the night, she decided not to disturb the stable hands for a mount.

Thus it was that, dressed in an old woolen gown of faded blue, a nondescript shawl of darker blue, and wearing serviceable half-boots, she set out on foot for the cottage of her chief tenant farmer a mile and a half away. She carried a basket of herbal teas and medicines, as well as some sweetmeats for the grandmother of the house who suffered a severe case of old age.

Autumn was Sarah’s favorite time of the year. She loved the cold, clear tanginess of frosty air, the crunch of leaves underfoot, the variety of earthy colors, and the occasional smell of morning fires. Walking hurriedly to keep warm, she nevertheless relished the chill. Her cheeks tingled and her breath clouded in front of her, making her feel especially alive. As the sun would wash away the chill, the morning chased away the shadows of her night. Disregarding the dampness that soaked her feet and left the hem of her gown wet and soiled, she cut across a pasture, across the country lane leading to the village, and through a copse of maples and birches to the Johnson place.

Later, she retraced her path through the copse, her basket now containing a round of fresh butter and a jar of honey for the Rosemont kitchen. Deep in thought as she started to cross the lane, her mind did not register the sound of pounding hooves. Suddenly, a huge horse appeared directly in front of her. She threw up her hands in a gesture of self-protection, dropping her basket. The startled horse reared suddenly. Flailing hooves forced her to jump backward. Wrenching her ankle viciously, she fell with a scream into the roadside ditch.

She lay there, momentarily stunned, but aware that the rider had not lost his seat and even managed to control his spirited mount. He leapt from the saddle and was at her side instantly.

“My God! Where did you come from? I did not see you at all. Have you no better sense than to dash out in front of a galloping horse?” The man’s voice carried the force of one accustomed to having others jump at his bidding. His tone immediately rais. . .