Forever Mine (The Forever Series #2) Page 8

  After how he’d tossed her over for her sister, it had been hard duty to forgive him, but she had. After her sister had died and he’d been widowed, she’d moved into his home, had raised his rude, incorrigible daughter, and had taken over the running of his life.

  She was so proficient that he hadn’t had to wed again, and of course she’d expected him to eventually wed her as he should have from the start. He hadn’t though so it meant she’d shouldered the burdens of a wife, but had never received any of the benefits.

  The miserly oaf had never even paid her an allowance, and when she needed a new dress or other personal item, she would pinch pennies from the household accounts until she’d hoarded enough to buy it herself.

  She’d been treated so badly by him, but there was no remedy. Her parents were deceased, and they’d bequeathed her no money. She was completely at Herbert’s mercy.

  Their meal had been awful. Priscilla had been curt and condescending to their company. Herbert had been bored and pretentious, and their guests had been insipid and tedious. Their fetching daughter had constantly peeked around the dining room, as if calculating the costs of the furnishings in order to deduce if Herbert was as wealthy as everyone claimed.

  Only Miss Barrington had been pleasant. She had a sweet knack for conversation, for making people feel welcome. Gertrude resented her for it.

  “Will you marry that girl?” she asked Herbert. “Be truthful with me for once.”

  “I haven’t decided,” he said, but with Herbert she could never predict if he was being candid.

  “What will happen to me? Have you considered my situation?”

  “Your situation? What about it?”

  “Don’t be a dunce, Herbert. If you wed, what is it you envision for my future?”

  “Oh,” he murmured, the problem finally becoming clear. “You’re concerned about your role.”

  “Precisely. I’ve supervised everything for two decades. Am I to be set aside? Is that it? Will you allow a sixteen-year-old to take my place? How can you want that?”

  “Yes, yes, I see how that would be difficult for you. Hm….”

  Herbert was brilliant at managing his company, but his mind was always on business, and he never fussed with paltry domestic matters. In that regard, he’d given her total control, and he refused to be bothered over any issue.

  Even Priscilla’s upbringing was her entire responsibility, with Gertrude supposed to mold her character and behavior which she’d never been able to accomplish. He was simply too busy to listen or intervene.

  “If you marry,” she pressed, desperate for him to focus, “will you toss me out in the street? After all my efforts on your behalf, is that to be my fate?”

  “No, I would never toss you out.”

  “So…what will transpire? With your bride in residence, I couldn’t stay here. She wouldn’t let me.”

  “You could…ah…retire to the country.”

  “To Bolton House?”

  “Yes.”

  At least she wouldn’t be living in a ditch. “I don’t understand this sudden need to wed.”

  “I must sire some sons, Gertrude. You know that.”

  “I thought you were naming Kit as your heir. I thought that was the plan.”

  “Kit—as my heir? Don’t be ridiculous. He has no head for business.”

  “Instead, you’ll count on a young girl to spit out babies until you have a full stable?”

  “If I’m lucky.”

  “Am I to have no opinion about it?”

  “About my siring a few sons? No.”

  “Why was I here all these years?”

  “To…help me after my wife died?”

  “Did you ever—for a single second—consider that I might like to be your wife? I’ve proved I have all the appropriate skills, and I’ve definitely put up with you long enough.”

  It was the first and only time she’d ever raised the subject. She’d been too afraid of what his answer would be.

  “Consider you as my wife?” He looked stunned. “No. And besides, you’re much too old to give me what I require.”

  It was the cruelest comment ever, and she could have shouted at him, but what was the point?

  “Fine,” she fumed. “Marry a debutante. See if I care.”

  “If you care? Why would you?”

  He was the most obtuse man in the kingdom.

  “Let some ninny run the place for you. Just don’t come crying to me when you find out you’ve shackled yourself to a child and you can’t even talk to her because you have naught in common.”

  “Who talks to his wife? A bride is necessary for other things and talking isn’t one of them.”

  She marched to the door, anxious to get away from him, but she could never truly escape. She had no option but to allow him to treat her however he pleased.

  “Don’t forget we’re off to the country on Wednesday,” she said.

  “What for?”

  She’d reminded him the previous evening. “It’s my birthday—not that it matters to you.”

  “Oh.”

  “Kit will be there. I’d appreciate it if you’d urge him to return to town with us. He ought to at least pretend he’s glad the wedding is approaching.”

  “He’s plenty glad, and he’ll be even more delighted when the dowry payments are deposited in his bank account.”

  “A marriage should be about more than money.”

  “That’s the most absurd remark you’ve ever uttered. There’s nothing more important than money.”

  “Spoken like a man who has much more of it than he needs.”

  “A man can never have more of it than he needs,” he pompously stated.

  “I don’t think Kit even likes Priscilla, and she has completely unrealistic expectations about what their life will be like.”

  “Every bride has unrealistic expectations.”

  “Must you force them to go through with it?” she inquired. “Are you sure you should?”

  “Kit is an adult, and he understands it’s all about her fortune. Whatever Priscilla believes about it is irrelevant. I arranged for him to be her husband, and he’ll take her off our hands. You should be celebrating. I certainly am.”

  “You are such a thick-headed oaf. I hope you’re ready to face the consequences if it all blows apart.”

  “Why would it blow apart? Honestly, Gertrude, what’s wrong with you? I thought you were totally on board with the match.”

  “I never was,” she insisted. “If you’d asked my opinion, I could have told you it will be a disaster. Kit is much too sophisticated and experienced for her, and Priscilla is much too spoiled and immature to marry.”

  “If it turns out badly, it will be Kit’s problem. Not ours.”

  “Priscilla is your only daughter. Wouldn’t you like her to be happy?”

  “As I learned ages ago, it’s impossible to make Priscilla happy.”

  She sighed and stomped out.

  * * * *

  “You promised me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Andrew stared at his brother and flashed his most woeful smile. He was wretched over his recent escapade. He really was. He couldn’t bear to disappoint Christopher, but there was so much fun to be had in London.

  He loved to drink and revel with trollops and visit opium dens. He loved to attend the races and to gambol with his friends. Most of all, he loved to wager, and he simply couldn’t stop.

  His older brother, Richard, had been quite a wastrel himself. Before he’d passed away, he hadn’t bothered Andrew over his antics. He hadn’t ever scolded or demanded better behavior. But Christopher was a different story entirely.

  “How much did you lose?” Christopher asked.

  “It was around five hundred.”

  Christopher gasped. “Pounds?”

  “Well, it wasn’t monkeys or oranges.”

  At the cheeky retort, Christopher
walloped him alongside the head so hard he saw stars.

  “Ouch!” he protested.

  “Shut up,” Christopher warned, “or I’ll hit you again.”

  They were at the apartment his brother used when he was in town. Andrew was slouched in a chair, and Christopher was pacing, looming over him with dramatic effect. Andrew was in poor shape, both from his vicious hangover, but also from the thrashing he’d received a few days earlier.

  Debt collectors were constantly chasing him, and because he wasn’t an aristocrat he couldn’t refuse to fork over what he owed. Devious methods were employed, and a thorough pummeling was only the beginning of a painful road to financial reckoning.

  “I’m being hounded by creditors wherever I go,” Andrew said.

  “You have to quit gambling.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “No, Andrew, I don’t think you do, for you definitely haven’t been listening to me.”

  “I’m trying my best.” His tone was whiny, like a needy child.

  “No, you’re not. You’re not trying at all.”

  Christopher huffed out a ragged breath, and it made Andrew feel incredibly miserable.

  His brother was dashing and remarkable, tough and valiant, and he never let personal failings weigh him down. Andrew hated to be such a scapegrace, and he wanted Christopher to be proud, but he couldn’t seem to walk a path that would inspire confidence.

  “With how I have to repeatedly chastise you,” Christopher complained, “I could be Father.”

  “You sound like him sometimes.”

  “That’s the worst insult you could have hurled.”

  Their father had been a drunken, violent ass which was the reason Christopher had skipped off to the army at such a young age. Andrew hadn’t been able to escape, and growing up he’d had his father and Richard as his role models, and they’d been horrid.

  “I’m sorry,” Andrew said again.

  “Why keep saying that?” Christopher snapped. “I’m sure you don’t mean it.”

  “I mean it. I’m heartily, perpetually sorry.”

  “Who is owed this latest money? Is it a new fellow? Or is it the same brigands who beat you up the other night?”

  “It’s a new fellow, but he will probably hire the same brigands. It’s obvious they know how to find me.”

  Christopher shook his head with resignation. “The sooner I’m wed, the better.”

  “Yes, it certainly will be.”

  “From your perspective, I suppose it is.”

  “I appreciate that you’re doing it for me. I realize you don’t want to.”

  “The minute I have some of the funds in my bank account, you’re joining the army and getting out of England. I won’t let you change your mind.”

  “I told you I’d enlist, and I will.”

  “You’re subjected to too many bad influences in London.”

  “You’re correct, I am.”

  “The army will set you straight.”

  “I hope so.”

  He thought it would work, and he prayed it would work. For if he stayed in London, he couldn’t imagine matters improving. As he’d established over and over, he didn’t have the moral will to restrain himself.

  “I’m going home for a week or two,” Christopher said. “I’m leaving in the morning.”

  Andrew’s excitement soared. If Christopher was away from town, there would be no one to tattle about Andrew’s excesses, no one to whisper in Christopher’s ear that Andrew had been overly reckless again.

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Christopher asked.

  “No, thank you. I can’t abide those dreary country nights where people climb into bed the instant the sun dips below the horizon.”

  “It wouldn’t kill you to have a bit of peace and quiet.”

  “It might.”

  “When I get back, we’ll have another talk. I’ll be particularly interested in any rumors about what occurred while I was away.”

  “There won’t be any rumors,” Andrew insisted.

  “If you’re lying to me, you’ll be in big trouble.”

  “You’re sounding like Father again.” Christopher leaned over and clouted him even harder than he had the first time, and Andrew chided, “You’re acting like him too.”

  “Bugger off, Andrew. I’m so weary of your smart mouth and flip attitude.”

  “I’m twenty years old, Christopher. Stop treating me like a child.”

  “I’ll stop treating you like a child when you stop behaving like one.”

  His brother whipped away and stormed out.

  Andrew dawdled in the silence, pondering how he’d be free of Christopher for at least a week. During such a lengthy interval, he could land himself in any kind of jam. What would it be? Nothing good, he was sure.

  He rushed over to the door, grabbed his coat, and left. If he hurried, he’d catch his friends before they went out for the evening. London was such a fascinating place, and there were so many ways to be entertained. How could he resist?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Catherine stared around the drawing room of Bolton House, and many conflicted thoughts were racing through her head.

  The property wasn’t as grand as Middlebury where she’d grown up, but then the Henley family had had centuries to make it the remarkable place it was. The walls had fairly oozed with history. The furniture was ancient too, and at a very young age she and her siblings had learned to name the kings and queens and other dignitaries who had sat in each chair, who had dined at each table.

  Bolton House hadn’t been owned by an aristocrat, but had been purchased from a bankrupt brewer. It was a very ostentatious residence with high ceilings and sweeping staircases, but it was decorated in a loud and garish way. Mr. Bolton might be wealthy, but it couldn’t buy style or taste.

  She supposed her opinion indicated she was a snob, but she couldn’t help it. She hated how new money could purchase things but not class.

  Their journey to the country had been uneventful, with only a minimum of bickering between Gertrude and Priscilla. Mr. Bolton was arriving later, and Libby had stayed in town so Catherine hadn’t had her as a companion to ease the tedious hours.

  Neighbors had been invited to socialize for the evening, and there were several dozen people present, but she didn’t sense that any of them were particularly friendly with the Boltons.

  Everyone had been cordial and kind, but she was tired and simply wishing she could sneak up to her room and go to bed. Priscilla had outings scheduled every day, including a visit to inspect her fiancé’s home which would soon be her own. That trip alone would be especially fatiguing.

  She stifled a yawn.

  Evidently, Kit Stanton was coming by to welcome them, and she couldn’t muster the energy it would require to appear interested in meeting him.

  Again, she was wondering what sort of deranged oaf would bind himself to Priscilla, and she was always amazed by what a fellow would do to glom onto a fortune. Mr. Stanton would become very rich as Priscilla’s husband, but he would be miserable forever.

  Priscilla had overdressed for the party, having chosen a gown from Paris that was sewn from a shimmery fabric that glistened when she moved. Because she was still unwed, her donning of jewels should have been restricted, but her aunt hadn’t intervened so she was dripping with diamonds and sapphires. Catherine had tried to counsel moderation, but it was pointless to advise Priscilla on any issue.

  As to herself, she was wearing a simple lavender gown that set off the blond of her hair and the blue of her eyes. She’d added a single strand of pearls that had been her mother’s, and it was her sole adornment.

  She looked like the sophisticated young lady she’d been raised to be, like she belonged in the group where she was currently standing. She was delighted to report that no one would deem her to be the servant she was.

  There was a kerfuffle out in the foyer, and the level of conve
rsation increased, but she didn’t pay much attention. She went over to the corner where a footman was pouring champagne and other refreshments. She asked for a glass of champagne, and she sipped away while studying a painting of Priscilla’s mother that hung over the fireplace.

  The resemblance to Priscilla was clear, but the deceased woman didn’t seem to possess any of Priscilla’s cruelty or spite. She actually might have been pleasant.

  A man came up behind her and requested a whiskey from the footman. Then Priscilla was there too, and she nagged, “Not whiskey, Kit. You should have champagne. Now that you’ve arrived, I want everyone to toast us.”

  “A toast, Priscilla? Really? It’s a tad excessive.”

  “No. I want it.”

  She sounded petulant and spoiled, and Catherine forced a smile, then spun to greet the hapless fiancé. But as she saw who it was, blood rushed to her head in such a wave that she truly feared she would faint—right there in front of Priscilla and her guests.

  “You!” she snapped as Christopher Wakefield gasped at the same time, “You?”

  Then they both said in unison, “What are you doing here?”

  Catherine’s glass fell from her hand and shattered on the floor. Thankfully, the liquid missed the expensive Persian rug, but still it made a mess.

  “Honestly, Catherine,” Priscilla chided. “You’re clumsy as an ox. What’s wrong with you?”

  “I’m sorry,” Catherine mumbled. “It just slipped out of my fingers.”

  “You’re broken a perfectly good glass!”

  The footman hurried around his serving table. “Don’t worry, Miss Barrington. I’ve got it. No harm done.”

  He eased her away so she didn’t step on any shards, then he grabbed a towel and knelt down to mop up the debris.

  Catherine gaped at the love of her life, Christopher Wakefield, but who—apparently—was Kit Stanton and engaged to marry Priscilla Bolton.

  Obviously, she’d been horridly deceived, but why would she be surprised? The night she’d met him, he’d been kissing a girl, and he’d admitted he regularly practiced seduction. She was so poised and confident it had never occurred to her that he would treat her as shabbily as he treated every other female.