The Reluctant Heiress Read online

  “Oh, er, yes, that is, very sorry to hear about your grandmother and all. Know you will miss the old ... I mean, I know you will miss her.” Richard shifted uncomfortably under her clear-eyed gaze. Sometimes Sarah saw entirely too much, and sometimes it made a person most uncomfortable to be with someone who was awake on every suit

  “Yes, I shall miss her. It is very kind of you to call.” Sarah continued to regard him inquisitively.

  Richard shifted uneasily. There was no avoiding it. She knew there was something in the wind. “Well, you see... I mean, the fact of the matter is that you are alone now ...” Richard ran a finger inside his neckcloth, which had suddenly become exceedingly tight. Where was his sister now when he needed her? It was all very well to put him up to this, but he was the one that had to go through with it, come up with the words as Sarah sat there calmly waiting and watching him struggle. Come to think of it, why didn’t Sarah help him out? She was so damnably clever, she probably knew exactly what he was thinking. After all, she was supposed to be his friend. A friend would never let him flounder like this. Richard drew a deep breath and plunged ahead. “The thing of it is, I thought you might like to get married.”

  There was dead silence while Sarah looked blankly at him. “Thought you might like to marry me, that is,” Lord Tredington continued helpfully.

  Lady Sarah’s lips twitched, and for the first time in weeks she actually wanted to laugh. “Rosalind put you up to this, did she not?”

  Richard, looking mightily uncomfortable, nodded sheepishly. “But she could not have made me do it, mind you, if I did not think you were a great gun, Sarah.” Then, seeing her devoutly skeptical expression, he added hurriedly, “It is not the money. You know that I don’t need the money.” The skeptical look deepened. “What I mean is, I shall always be under the hatches, but I shall live the same way whether I have money or not—been doing so for years,” he concluded cheerfully. “I just thought you might be wanting a ... you might be lonely what with Lady Willoughby gone and all.”

  Sarah smiled fondly at him. For all his wild and reckless ways, Richard truly was her friend and, until the arrival of her grandmother, he had been her closest friend. Lord, the adventures the two of them had had! They had been forever returning home muddied, with clothes torn, the constant despair of nurses and grooms. “Thank you, Richard. It is very kind of you, but you do not really wish to get married, you know.” It was with great difficulty that Sarah restrained herself from bursting out laughing at his heartfelt sigh of relief. “And, what is more, neither do I.”

  “You don’t?” Lord Tredington sat bolt upright.

  “No.”

  “I thought all females were desperate to catch some poor fellow in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “Not I.” Why would I want someone who thinks he has a right to tell me how to live my life when I am having a perfectly good time doing precisely what I please?” There was a defensiveness in Sarah’s tone that made it apparent to even the most unsuspecting of listeners that she had been forced to voice this opinion many times before.

  “Why should you?” Richard was much struck by this. There was a moment of silence while he considered this surprising bit of information. He should have known Sarah would see things the way he did—she was a regular Trojan and always had been. He sighed. If only other females saw things as sensibly as she did, he would not half mind associating with them, but most of them were like his sister, all smiles, dimples, and fluttering eyelashes with motives so deep and dark and hidden that a fellow didn’t have the least idea of them until he found himself in the middle of doing something he didn’t want to do. At the thought of his sister a gloomy expression descended over Lord Tredington’s brow. “But Rosalind, she will never...”

  “Leave Rosalind to me,” Sarah responded soothingly. “I shall make her see that we just do not suit.” And I shall stop her meddling in my affairs once and for all, she muttered fiercely to herself.

  Chapter Five

  However, poor Richard was not to be so lucky. Rosalind, more than familiar with her brother’s lack of stamina where such things as duty and responsibility were concerned, was lying in wait for him. She had contrived to deliver instructions to the housekeeper, Mrs. Dawlish, and to Nettlebed in the vicinity of the library so as to be aware of her brother’s departure, and she immediately sent Nettlebed to summon Richard to the drawing room almost before he had closed the library door on Sarah.

  “Well, Richard, am I to congratulate you, then?”

  Lord Tredington, looking extremely conscious, laughed uneasily. “Oh, we decided that we should not suit after all.” He spoke with an air of bravado that he was far from feeling.

  “You what!”

  “Sarah said that we were far too good friends to be man and wife, besides which she does not wish to be married.”

  Rosalind’s finely penciled brows snapped together, and her lips pursed in a dainty pout. Such signs of displeasure had been known to send strong men to their knees, but suddenly Richard was tired of it. His sister had been telling him what to do for years, and it was invariably something that she, not he, had an inclination for. The air of bravado that he had struggled to assume suddenly became real as Richard continued, “And I should not try to persuade her to do otherwise if I were you, Roz. You’ll catch cold at that. Sarah knows what she wants and what she does not want. She will not thank you for meddling in her affairs. If you want a fortune, go find someone else’s. Sarah deserves every bit of hers, and she has every right to dispose of it as she wishes.” And without further ado, he turned on his heel and headed for the door, leaving his sister staring after him dumbfounded.

  Equally surprised by this show of independence was Lord Tredington himself. The effects of the quantities of liquor he had consumed to bring himself to the sticking point were wearing off, and he began to reflect seriously on the entire episode. He was amazed at his own temerity. It had never really occurred to him to resist his sister’s demands before, for he had always been fearful of the consequences. Now he could not get over how simple it had been. Of course now, having set himself up against her wishes, he was bound to continue or she would make mincemeat out of him.

  In a way, Richard would rather miss having her tell him what to do; after all, in some ways, life had been easier with her making all his decisions. But if he were to show himself weakening after this little display of assertiveness, it would be all over for him. She would make his life truly uncomfortable with her demands. That’s what comes of sobering up, my boy, Richard muttered to himself as he descended Cranleigh’s imposing staircase to the gravel drive where a groom was walking his horse up and down. You start taking responsibility for your own actions and there’s no telling where you’ll end up— Richard threw a leg over his mount and took the reins. You need a drink, my lad, before all this clear thinking gets you into trouble. With that thought to spur him on, Lord Tredington clattered off home, leaving behind him two women wrapped deep in thought.

  Sarah sat for some time staring out of the library windows at the green expanse of lawn. She had always loved Cranleigh. Indeed, it was more her home than it was Harold’s, for she had spent far more time there than her brother had, and she cared a great deal more for all the people on the estate than either he or Rosalind did. Now, however, she felt as though she no longer belonged. Harold was back for who knew how long and with him Rosalind who, as always, was bound and determined to have things her own way. This was only natural; after all, she was the Marchioness of Cranleigh. However, being mistress of the estate did not give her the right to dictate to her sister-in-law. Sarah had attained her majority. She was in command of a fortune in her own right, and as far as she could see, was perfectly justified in disposing of this fortune in whatever manner she pleased, provided she did nothing that truly threatened anyone else’s welfare.

  The corners of Sarah’s mouth curved into a mischievous smile. What a novel perspective that was. Upsetting as Lady Willoughby’s death had b
een, it had freed her in a certain way, with no one else for whom she truly cared to consider, Sarah was at liberty to live as she liked, within reason, of course. And all of a sudden, the idea of running her own establishment seemed like a perfectly practical idea.

  Sarah knew that Rosalind did not much look forward to Sarah’s presence among them anymore than Sarah looked forward to Rosalind’s. The servants, though they deferred to the marchioness, usually did so only after consulting with Sarah. Harold was constantly frustrated because she refused to pay any serious attention to his never-ending prosing, and she was equally frustrated at being expected to do so in the first place. A move to a house of her own would solve a myriad of difficulties, and Sarah knew just which house she wanted.

  For some time Ashworth, a small manor house not far from Cranleigh, had stood vacant as the last in its direct line of owners, a reclusive spinster who never went about much, had succumbed to old age. It was rumored that the property had gone to the wife of a wealthy baronet in Yorkshire who had not the least interest in the house or the land. For her part, Sarah had always loved the Jacobean manor house with its many fancifully twisted chimneys and diamond-paned windows. Its location also appealed to her, set back far from the road amongst a grove of trees, with lawns sloping off toward the marsh and, in the far distance, a strip of blue that was the sea. The house itself was nowhere near as large or imposing as Cranleigh or Tredington Park, but the rooms were well proportioned and laid out in such a way as to make the place appear both gracious and comfortable.

  Yes, the more she considered it, the more Sarah was enamored of the idea, and a plan began to formulate. To quiet the inevitable objections of her brother and sister-in-law and stop any possible gossip concerning this eccentric behavior, she would ask Miss Trimble, her former governess, to join her as a companion. Sarah knew that this estimable lady had gone as governess to the family of a wealthy manufacturer near Birmingham and sorely missed not only the lush Kent countryside, but the luxury of teaching a pupil who was not only well behaved, but genuinely interested in learning.

  That decided, Sarah went immediately to her desk to pen a note to Miss Trimble and to the solicitor who handled Ashworth and its affairs.

  Meanwhile, in the drawing room the Marchioness of Cranleigh herself was subject to some startling and unsettling revelations. Ever since she could remember, she had been able to dominate her younger brother, or at least direct him as much as it was possible to direct someone whose behavior was as blithely erratic as Lord Tredington’s. This was the first time he had ever even questioned her superior intelligence, much less refused to do her bidding. For someone who had spent all her adult years ordering the men around her according to her every whim, this was indeed a most upsetting state of affairs. However, even more distressing were the implications of her failure to accomplish her goal of keeping Lady Willoughby’s fortune at the disposal of the Marchioness of Cranleigh.

  All her life Rosalind had struggled to keep up appearances while Tredington Park fell into decay around her, her father, and her brother, both of whom remained undismayed by their pecuniary difficulties and both of whom continued to make mice feet of their inheritance at every mill, every race meeting, and every gaming table within a fifty-mile radius of Tredington Park. Rosalind had barely been able to find the wherewithal to give herself a Season, but, having inherited at least some of the family disregard for insolvency, had managed to order a good deal of her wardrobe on credit built on the strength of her matrimonial aspirations. Even the most hard-headed among London’s modistes had been certain that a young woman with a face and a figure such as Rosalind’s was bound to contract a brilliant marriage.

  It had come as something of a shock to Rosalind to discover that the unfortunate financial situation and ruinous propensities of the Tredingtons was such common knowledge among the ton, and it was even more of a shock to learn that her suitors, no matter how smitten they were with her charm and beauty, retained enough sense to avoid committing themselves to filling the bottomless pockets of the Tredingtons.

  Knowing that she had only one Season in which to accomplish her goal, Rosalind had begun to feel quite desperate as the Season came to a close. The idea of returning to Kent without having snared any one of the wealthy and eligible bachelors everyone expected her to was more than her pride, let alone her financial circumstances, could bear. Then, on her last evening in town, she had looked down from her box in the theater and spied Harold. She knew what she had to do, and her campaign to become Marchioness of Cranleigh had begun the very next day.

  To be sure, it had been difficult to give up hopes that her more dashing admirers would rescue her from life at Tredington Park. After enjoying flirtations with some of the ton’s most accomplished bucks, conversation with the stolid and self-important Harold had been boring in the extreme, but it had to be done. The one saving grace was that the Marquess of Cranleigh, in addition to possessing an ancient and well-known title, a significant estate, and a respectable income, stood to inherit a vast fortune from his grandmother. Focusing on the thought of all that wealth, Rosalind had steeled herself to accept his clumsy caresses, to bear with his overweening confidence in the infallibility of his opinions, and to smile in spite of the inevitable comparisons she knew people were making between her dull husband and the scores of fascinating men who had paid court to her.

  Rosalind had borne it all with such grace that no one had guessed how it galled her to be seen with someone who had only his own high opinion of himself to recommend him, and she had set about with such energy to remedy her situation that within the space of a few months she and Harold were back in the metropolis where she was more feted and admired than ever before.

  The Chevalier d’Evron and the Earl of Burnleigh had done much to compensate for the numbing dullness of her husband, but even they had not offered the consolation that Lady Willoughby’s fortune had. With more than ample resources at her demand, Rosalind knew she would never have to fear obscurity again. Possessing exquisite taste and style, and supported by limitless pin money, she would always be a leader in the fashionable world. A woman in command of sufficient wealth could remain dazzling far longer than one of more moderate means.

  Lady Willoughby’s will had dealt a blow to these hopes and dreams, but Rosalind, accustomed to a lifetime of living beyond her means in a style which she could not necessarily afford, was nothing if not resourceful, and she had quickly developed an alternative plan to participate in Lady Willoughby’s estate. Of course Richard and Sarah would have been the chief beneficiaries of that plan. Sarah was so unassuming and unprepossessing that she never spent anything except on books and horses, neither of which would make the least dent in her inheritance even if she were to purchase an entire library and a stable full of thoroughbreds. Richard was more expensive, but far more easily influenced than Sarah, and Rosalind had had great hopes of being able to relieve him of much of what would become his should he marry Sarah. But now even this hope was dashed by the younger brother who had heretofore been guided by his sister in all the important aspects of his life.

  Rosalind very rarely gave in to despair—a most unproductive emotion—-but at this moment she felt very nearly like doing so. She dropped her head in her hands, sighing dispiritedly. What was she to do? Never in her life had she felt so alone. Richard and her father had never been terribly concerned for her welfare, or anyone else’s, but they had at least offered the support of a common heritage. Now her father was gone, and Richard had betrayed her. Harold was no help; he was such a dolt that he constantly required her guidance. Rosalind had never possessed any female friends—competition in the marriage mart being what it was—and Sarah, the only woman who did not appear to care for such things or to envy and dislike Rosalind for her beauty, disliked her for other reasons. Oh, she was civil enough, but the marchioness knew that her sister-in-law disapproved of her; she even knew that Sarah had guessed how easily her brother had been maneuvered into a marriage where all the a
dvantage was on the bride’s side. Ordinarily, Rosalind did not give a fig for Sarah’s poor opinion of her, but at this moment, when she felt so bereft of any comfort, it was just one more cause for distress.

  Sarah! Rosalind, her face brightening with a sudden happy thought, raised her head from her hands. Of course, Sarah should pay for the maintenance of Cranleigh and every other expense connected with it. True, Lady Willoughby had been contributing to the upkeep of Cranleigh before, but Sarah could be made to pay for that and everything else—new furnishings, refurbishments that Rosalind had been planning, and a host of other expensive projects. After all, she was the one who enjoyed all the advantages of living there. Why should Harold, who spent the majority of his time in London, have to support it from his own pocket? As Marquess of Cranleigh he was, of course, entitled to the income from the estate, but the expense of keeping Cranleigh habitable was a considerable drain on his finances and one from which he benefited very little. Yes, that was at least a partial solution to the unfortunate consequences of Lady Willoughby’s foolishness. Freed from the enormous costs of Cranleigh, the marquess and his lady would have a great deal more to spend on themselves. It was so beautifully simple, Rosalind wondered that she had not thought of it before. Considerably cheered by her own cleverness, she rose, first to go in search of her husband, and then to begin plans for entertaining guests. Faced with the prospect of extra income and the attentions of the Earl of Burnleigh and the Chevalier d’Evron, Rosalind felt equal to anything and quite like her old self again.

  Chapter Six

  It was a considerable time before a propitious moment arose for Rosalind to broach the subject of Sarah’s contribution toward Cranleigh to her husband, but at last she was able to speak to him as he was going through his correspondence one morning in the library. At first, Harold, rigid upholder of the established order of things, would have none of it. “Give the care of the estate into the hands of a woman?” he huffed indignantly. “That sort of thing just is not done, my lady. I am Marquess of Cranleigh and Cranleigh belongs to me, not to Sarah, whatever else she may have inherited,” he finished peevishly,