The Heiress In His Bed Read online

  “I know,” said Alex. “I sent her a wreath. I sent a wreath for a woman I never knew.”

  “Really? I didn’t know you and Southwood were such good friends.”

  “How do the Ramplings get on without any money?” he asked abruptly.

  “Tolerable,” said Perdita. “I believe Lord Southwood has granted them a small annuity, and the Duke of Fanshawe let them have the house for next to nothing. The son is in Parliament, you know—one of the duke’s pocket boroughs, I shouldn’t wonder—but Lucy and her Mama are too poor to go to London for the Season, like the rest of the people you will meet at my ball.” She sighed. “For propriety’s sake, I shall have to invite them. I do hope Lady Caroline has the good sense to decline.”

  “I’ll open the ball with Miss Rampling, if you like,” Alex offered.

  “She isn’t likely to attend without her mother,” said Perdita. “Or want to! She’s quite thirty, you know, and a confirmed spinster. An old maid! An ape-leader!”

  “Yes, thirty is a very awkward age for a female,” Alex agreed. “That’s when the crow’s-feet start. From there, it’s all downhill.”

  “Some women are handsomer at thirty than they are at twenty,” Perdita said indignantly. “Unfortunately, Lucy Rampling is not one of them. She’s so thin, and so plain, and so dull. She’s no conversation at all! I do believe her only friend in the world is our governess.”

  Alex’s lips twitched. “Miss Trent? Is she still kicking?”

  “Not our governess,” Perdita said crossly. “My children’s governess. I don’t think Miss Shipley could manage the twins without poor Lucy’s help. I feel so sorry for her.”

  “Why should you feel sorry for Miss Shipley?” Alex asked, pretending to misunderstand her. “Surely my niece and nephew are not as bad as that.”

  “To be sure, they are angels,” Perdita said. “I meant Miss Rampling. She never complains, of course, but it must be hell living under the same roof with Lady Caroline. She hasn’t a penny, nothing to tempt a man.”

  “How sordid,” said Alex, closing his eyes again. “I wish you hadn’t told me.”

  They arrived at Cross Mere well after dark. Lord Cheviot was pleased to see his wife; even more pleased to learn that her time away from him had enriched them both; and, if he thought it odd that his brother-in-law was to be encamped at Cross Mere for some duration, he was at least not unwelcoming.

  At breakfast, Alex announced his intention of riding over to Gambol Hall to pay his respects to the Ramplings. Perdita saw no need for such solicitude; Miss Rampling visited them nearly every morning, and it would be a punishment to visit Gambol Hall only to find Lady Caroline its sole occupant. Lord Cheviot was completely indifferent to the matter, and shut himself up in his library as soon as he possibly could. The six-year-old twins, Henry and Eliza, confirmed that Lucy was expected at Cross Mere, and so the matter was settled.

  “May we go out to the Folly and meet Lucy?” Eliza begged her mother. Like many pretty, well-behaved young ladies, Elizabeth Cheviot had few ideas of her own. Fortunately, her twin was there to put her up to all sorts of mischief. Today, Henry planned to let the bull out of the pasture. It would be fun to see Lucy run while they watched from the safety of the Folly.

  Perdita frowned at her children severely. “Should you not be in the schoolroom by this hour? Miss Shipley will be wondering where you are.”

  “No, she won’t,” said precocious young Henry. Like many naughty boys, he was unduly attractive, with his mother’s bright blue eyes and thick chestnut hair. His angelic appearance enabled him to get away with all sorts of high crimes and misdemeanors. “She is in bed today with a sick headache.”

  Perdita sighed. “How tiresome,” she complained. “But I daresay Lucy will give you your lessons. Very well. You may go out to meet her, but do not go any farther than the Folly,” she called after them as they ran from the room, Henry in the lead. “It’s only three miles to Gambol Hall, but the park there is excessively woodsy. It won’t do for them to get lost.”

  “Do the Ramplings keep a carriage?” Alex asked, with a slight frown.

  “Dear me, no,” said Perdita. “If they were to accept my invitation to the ball—heaven forbid—I should have to send my carriage for them. So tiresome!”

  Alex’s frown deepened. “Does Miss Rampling come on horseback?”

  “I daresay the duke keeps a few saddle horses at Gambol Hall, but they are wasted entirely on the Ramplings, I assure you. Lucy doesn’t ride. Well, she rides, but she doesn’t jump, which amounts to the same thing when one is in the country.”

  “She walks here?” Alex said sharply. “Three miles here and back, nearly every day?”

  “Yes, but you must not tease her if there is mud on her petticoat,” Perdita told him sternly. “There is mud in the country, you know. It cannot be avoided. You should take a walk yourself,” she urged him. “The fresh air would do you good. You remember the way to the Folly, of course?”

  Alex did, but when he reached the place, there was no sign of the twins. Miss Rampling, however, was just coming across the field. She had removed her bonnet, but, as soon as she saw a male figure awaiting her at the Folly, she put it back on. It was a plain straw bonnet. Her dress was gray and plain. Alex was struck all over again by how physically insignificant she was, how easily overlooked. Her eyes were gray. Her hair was brown. She had neither beauty nor fortune. She wasn’t even clever, or, at any rate, she lacked the quick wit so prized by Society. Plain good sense and sweetness of temper were all the qualities she possessed, and these were of no value in the fashionable world.

  “Mr Devize!” she exclaimed. Recognition was immediate, her surprise at seeing him evident, but try as he might he could detect no signs of any deeper feeling on her part. His own heart was pounding so loudly he was afraid she might hear it. At times such as these, etiquette was a most welcome crutch.

  “Good morning, Miss Rampling,” he said, giving her a bow.

  “Good morning. I did not know you were expected in Hampshire,” she said, her smile open, warm, and friendly. “You are visiting your sister, I collect?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “May I suggest we go into the Folly?”

  Lucy blinked at him in surprise. “What? Why?”

  “Because the bull has got out of the pasture,” Alex replied, taking her firmly by the arm, “and it’s coming toward us now.”

  This Folly had been built in the form of two towers with a parapet joining them. Like a miniature castle, it straddled the lane between the Cross Mere and Gambol Hall properties. Alex pushed in the wall of the nearest tower and a door opened, a single large slab of stone operating on a pivot. Inside, there was nothing but a set of stairs leading up to the parapet. Moss grew on the walls, and there was a smell of damp.

  “I am obliged to you, Mr Devize,” Lucy said when they were safe.

  The twins appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hullo, Uncle Alex. Hullo, Lucy. You should come up and watch the fun. Toby and John are trying to catch the bull.”

  “Presently,” said Alex. “Let us catch our breath.”

  The darkness and closeness of the space made Alex feel less inhibited. “Miss Rampling,” he began a little shakily. “You must forgive me for not coming to see you sooner.”

  “There is nothing to forgive,” she said gently. “We were foolish to think we could remain friends after so much had passed between us. I fully comprehend your feelings, sir. I only hope my presence in Hampshire will not prevent you from visiting your sister as often as you like.”

  “You do not understand my feelings at all,” he replied bluntly. “I did not visit you because I thought you were dead.”

  “Dead?” she repeated blankly.

  “Well, first I thought you were married. Then I learned you had died.”

  Bewildered, Lucy could only shake her head.

  “Did you not tell me your family expected you to marry your cousin, Lord Southwood?” he demanded.

  “My m
other desired the match very much,” Lucy admitted. “However, Cousin Alfred had very different ideas. I am sorry you thought I was dead. I confess I thought I had lost all claim to your friendship and regard when I…When the matter ended.”

  “You mean when you refused my offer of marriage.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you ever regret that you did so?” he asked sharply.

  “No, of course not,” she said softly. “My only regret was the loss of your friendship.”

  “You have not lost my friendship,” he assured her. “Indeed, my feelings for you are unchanged. I never cared for anyone else. I never wished to marry anyone else.”

  “Please don’t,” she said quickly. “To renew your addresses to me would only cause pain to us both. I can no more accept you now than I could then.”

  “Then I shall be silent on the subject forever,” he threatened.

  “Thank you,” she said, so gratefully that it provoked him to retaliate.

  “You realize, however, that I must marry someone else,” he said coolly.

  “Of course,” said Lucy. “It is your duty, Mr Devize. You are the heir.”

  “Then it would not pain you to see me marry?”

  “To be sure it would not,” she said stoutly. “To see my good friend secure a lasting happiness could only give me the greatest of pleasure.”

  “Then there is no reason to delay the matter,” he said angrily.

  “No, indeed,” Lucy agreed.

  Abruptly, he offered her his arm. “Shall we go up to the parapet to watch the fun?”

  Chapter Seven

  Having glided into Portland Place with relative ease the morning before, Julian was astounded by the horrendous traffic on Oxford Street Friday afternoon. Without the pocket watch he had pawned, he could only guess at the time, but he was reasonably certain that he was late for the opening bid. The hackney in which he was traveling had been at a full stop for what seemed like an eternity. Abruptly, he flung open the door and jumped out. Tossing a coin up to the driver, he sprinted off toward Portland Place.

  In the City, he walked everywhere, and so was reasonably fit; all the same, he was heaving for air when he burst into the sitting room of Mrs Dean’s house. Chairs had been set up for about two dozen bidders, but Julian did not look at them. He saw only the tall, black-haired girl brushing out the little white dog that stood on the tea table before her. She was wearing a blue dress, translucent muslin over white satin. Blue ribbons were threaded through her black hair. He thought he had never seen anything so beautiful in all his life.

  “Five thousand guineas!” he gasped. Falling forward, he clutched his knees and struggled to catch his breath.

  “You’re late, Mr Devize,” Viola informed him. “The bidding stands at fifteen thousand pounds.”

  “Fifteen thousand, five hundred,” Lord Simon Ascot drawled, turning in his seat to glance at Julian. No longer in uniform, the Guardsman was attired in correct evening dress, as if he had just come from a ball or the theater. Julian dearly wanted to kick him.

  “Very generous, Lord Simon!” Mrs Dean called from her place at the back of the room. “Lord Barrowbridge?” she lilted, calling to an elderly gentleman seated in the front row. “You are outbid, sir!”

  “Sixteen thousand pounds,” said the Earl of Barrowbridge, clutching the silver knob of his walking stick. He was not only old, but old-fashioned, too. His was the only powdered wig in the room. In his pink velvet coat heavily adorned with braid, he looked rather like a footman.

  Some of the other gentlemen, evidently out of the bidding, shook their heads in amazement. “For God’s sake, Simon, ’tis only a female,” said a slim, red-haired man seated next to Lord Simon Ascot.

  “She’s worth it, Sir Myron,” Viola said.

  Sir Myron laughed. “You almost make me believe it, you little vixen.”

  Lord Simon flashed Sir Myron a warning look. “Seventeen thousand pounds!”

  “Seventeen thousand,” Julian said, almost at the same time.

  Lord Simon looked annoyed. “You cannot bid the same, stockjobber,” he snapped.

  “My bid is in guineas,” Julian answered coldly.

  Sir Myron chuckled. “What say you, Lord Simon? If the bitch is worth a pound, she must be worth a guinea.”

  “Lord Barrowbridge?” Viola smiled kindly at the old man. “Are you out, my lord?”

  “I can’t do it,” said the old man, hanging his head. “I’d like to, my dear, but I can’t.”

  “Could you ever?” Sir Myron wondered aloud.

  Lord Barrowbridge planted his malacca cane in the carpet and pulled his soft, pudgy body up onto his bony legs. “I would have adopted you,” he told Viola sadly. As he bent to kiss her hand, his backbone cracked loudly, eliciting laughter from Sir Myron. “So beautiful…What a terrible waste. I cannot bear to watch this spectacle a moment longer.”

  So saying, his lordship hobbled past Julian and out the door.

  Viola stared after him in confusion. “Poor old thing,” she said softly. “Why, it’s almost as if he believes that I’m the one being auctioned off instead of Bijou!”

  There was a startled silence. Then Sir Myron began to laugh. No one seemed inclined to join in his hilarity, however. Julian looked down at his feet, unable to look at the girl as the humiliating truth dawned on her. This was exactly the scene he had hoped to avoid.

  “She doesn’t know?” Lord Simon’s curt voice cut through the air like a knife. His cold green eyes sought out Mrs Dean, who was seated at her desk at the back of the room. Her rapture had climbed with every bid, and she was scarcely aware that she was being addressed until Lord Simon stood up and repeated his question.

  The look of wrath on his harsh features brought her to her feet. In her lace cap and shawl, she looked almost respectable. “My lord? What is the matter?”

  “You did not tell Miss Andrews the truth,” Lord Simon accused her. “She believes this auction is for that ridiculous little dog! You told me that was just to confuse the law.”

  Viola clutched Bijou protectively. “What is the truth?” she demanded.

  Sir Myron laughed, Mrs Dean dithered, and Lord Simon looked furious, but no one answered her. “This is infamous!” Lord Simon said after a moment.

  Mrs Dean began to make excuses. “I have debts, my lord! Crippling debts! How else am I to pay them?”

  “You were selling me?” Viola gasped. “To these gentlemen? For what purpose?”

  “For pleasure, of course,” Sir Myron drawled. “It’s what you were made for, my girl. Didn’t your mother ever tell you that?”

  “My mother!” cried Viola. “How dare you!”

  “And now we shall have tears,” Sir Myron predicted. “Tears and hysterics.”

  If he had not said that, Viola might indeed have burst into tears, but, fortunately, his contempt reminded her of who she was. She drew herself to her full height. “I don’t suppose,” she said coldly, “it would do a bit of good to tell you how ashamed I am of you all. And you, Mrs Dean! I knew you were a vulgar woman, but I never thought anyone could be as bad as this. Your own niece! How could you? Mr Devize!”

  “I am here,” said Julian, on his feet.

  Mrs Dean strode to the front of the room. “I did you a favor, you parson’s prig,” she snapped. “I could have sold your quim a hundred times these last three days! Oh, you wouldn’t have liked that, Miss Mary! You should be on your knees thanking me.”

  “I will see you in the dock for this!” Viola replied.

  Mrs Dean lifted her hand to slap her face, but several gentlemen intervened. Lord Simon got there first and caught her arm. “There will be none of that, Mrs Dean,” he said harshly. “Miss Andrews, please believe me when I tell you I had no idea you had not been told the truth. I thought you knew. I believed you to be a willing participant. I would never—”

  “Willing participant? In my own slavery and humiliation?” Viola’s eyes raked over him. “I see! You tho
ught I was…You thought I was…”

  “A whore?” Sir Myron helpfully supplied the word she could not bring herself to say.

  Unable to contain her fury any longer, Viola struck Lord Simon across the face as hard as she could. “You are not a gentleman,” she said, wincing as pain shot through her hand. “You are no better than an animal. You are a disgrace to your regiment, sir!”

  “Are you going to let the bitch get away with that, milord?” cried Sir Myron. “The bidding stands at seventeen thousand guineas. Bid again. Come, Lord Simon, I’ll lend you some money, if you like.”

  Lord Simon pressed his hand to his cheek and worked his jaw. His mouth tasted of blood. “I don’t think Miss Andrews wants me to bid again,” he said ruefully.

  “Never mind what she wants,” Sir Myron said comfortably. “I find the struggles of a virgin stimulating in the extreme, especially when the girl pretends not to like it. Come, let us pool our resources. Together we can outbid Fanshawe. We’ll toss a coin for first rights.”

  “Sir Myron, I do believe you are drunk,” Lord Simon said stiffly.

  “What sterling company you keep, my lord,” Viola said coldly. “This auction is at an end. I shall go with Mr Devize.”

  “You will?” Julian said, startled.

  “Miss Andrews! Are you sure?” Lord Simon asked, almost as surprised as Julian.

  “I am quite sure, Lord Simon,” Viola answered. “I certainly shan’t be staying here with Mrs Dean! No, I shall be quite safe with the Duke of Fanshawe, for, unlike yourself, Lord Simon, he is a gentleman!” She turned to Julian. “I’m going upstairs to pack my trunk, Mr Devize. Immediately I come down, I shall want to quit this house forever.”

  Head high, she swept from the room, carrying the bichon in her arms.

  When she returned some forty-five minutes later wearing her coat and hat, only Julian remained with Mrs Dean in the sitting room. Julian was pacing the floor. “Here she is,” said Mrs Dean, rising from her desk. “Now give me my money, Mr Devize.”