Wager for a Wife Read online

  He’d left her alone and in peace on Monday as a result, but he couldn’t afford to be away from her side for too long. He needed to call on her this morning before he left Town.

  He purchased a single red rose from a flower girl on his way to Ashworth House, approached the front door, and straightened his neckcloth before knocking.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Farleigh,” the butler said as he opened the door and allowed William to enter. “I shall inform Lady Louisa of your presence.” He gestured for William to wait in a small parlor off the front door.

  He felt restless. During all of William’s time at Oxford, and even the past few years in Edinburgh, he’d not found himself foolishly wondering how to act around a lady, of all things. It was embarrassing.

  He stood by the fireplace and stared out the window, tapping his foot.

  “Ahem.”

  William whirled around, then silently berated himself for letting his reaction show.

  The butler stood in the doorway, a bland expression on his face, as though he hadn’t noticed William’s actions, just as any good butler would. “The ladies will receive you in the dayroom,” he intoned. “Follow me, please.”

  If William had heard the man correctly, it meant Lady Ashworth was most likely there to receive him, as well as Louisa. That wasn’t the best of scenarios; he would get a better read on Louisa’s state of mind if he was able to meet with her alone.

  The butler led him past the formal drawing room and down the hall. “Viscount Farleigh,” the butler announced when they reached their destination.

  William entered the dayroom—and five sets of female eyes turned to look at him, stopping him in his tracks. Blast it all. The situation was even more complicated than William had anticipated.

  “Lord Farleigh, what an unexpected surprise,” Lady Ashworth said, rising to her feet. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” he answered, feeling uncomfortably conspicuous. He cleared his throat. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said.

  “Not at all,” Lady Ashworth replied. “You have met the duchess, I believe?”

  “A pleasure to see you again, Your Grace.”

  “The pleasure is entirely mine,” the duchess said with a suspicious twinkle in her eye.

  “And we have Lady Putnam and Miss Putnam with us as well,” Lady Ashworth said.

  He nodded graciously toward the two Putnam ladies, both of whom were eyeing him like hawks who’d spotted prey, notwithstanding their knowing about the betrothal. “An honor to see you again, ladies,” he said, hoping he sounded like he meant it.

  Louisa had stayed silent throughout the exchange. Considering how their last encounter had ended, he couldn’t really blame her.

  “Would you care to join us?” Lady Ashworth asked as she resumed her seat. “I shall send for a fresh pot of tea.”

  “Er, no, but thank you.” He took a breath. “If you’ll excuse me, Lady Ashworth, I had hoped to steal Lady Louisa away—”

  Lady Putnam gasped, and the duchess bit her lip, trying unsuccessfully not to laugh—

  “That is, I—” Of all the words he could have chosen, steal was the absolute worst he could have used around Lady Putnam, whom he’d already concluded was a gossip of the first order. William was flustered, unsure what to say next, which was intensely annoying. He glanced about the room, not knowing precisely where to look, and then turned to Louisa. “May I have a few moments of your time?”

  She rose abruptly to her feet. “You may. Perhaps a walk in the garden?”

  He nodded, concealing his relief as best he could.

  “So good to visit with you all,” she said to the other ladies before placing her hand on William’s arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I intend to spend some time with my betrothed.”

  “Not too much time, I hope,” Lady Putnam muttered under her breath.

  “Of course not, Alice,” Lady Ashworth said. “Lord Farleigh is the epitome of a true gentleman, I assure you.” Lady Ashworth probably thought she was lying between her teeth at her statement regarding his character, but William appreciated her public display of support.

  Louisa’s hand dropped from his arm once he’d shut the door behind them, leaving a warmth behind that gradually faded.

  William held the single rose out to her as soon as they left the house. “For you,” he said as they began their stroll.

  She took it from him and held the red bud to her nose. “Thank you.”

  Silence.

  “Please forgive me for arriving unannounced,” he said, hoping a conciliatory gesture would get them past this awkwardness.

  “Not at all,” she replied. “Your arrival was a godsend.”

  It was? His heart sped up.

  “Lady Putnam was beginning to wear on me with all her talk. Terrible of me to acknowledge it out loud, I know, but, really, the woman would try the patience of a saint.”

  Not quite the reason William had hoped for—not that he should be hoping for anything anyway.

  They walked through Lady Ashworth’s rose garden and down a path that led toward a small folly set amongst a few young maple trees, Louisa occasionally breathing in the rose’s fragrance, William clasping his hands behind his back. The property around Ashworth House was ample, despite being merely their Town residence. He could only imagine what Ashworth Manor must be like in size and opulence by comparison.

  “I’m sorry the lady’s company was distressing to you,” he said.

  She stared at him, her large blue eyes speaking volumes.

  “Ah,” he said. “I was the topic of conversation.”

  “The topic, yes, although there wasn’t much to say. Apparently you are an enigma to everyone. Your father, however, is not.”

  “You knew that already.”

  “I did. The duchess, at least, was discreet when speaking of your father. Lady Putnam, on the other hand . . .” She stooped to brush away a twig that had caught on her skirts.

  “Anything you wish to share with me?” he asked, hoping she wouldn’t take him up on the offer. He loathed talking about his father—or thinking about him at all, for that matter.

  “No,” she said.

  William breathed an inward sigh of relief—

  “Just the usual sorts of things, you know,” she said, apparently unwilling to talk about it but unable to let it go either.

  “Like?” he begrudgingly asked.

  She shrugged but averted her eye, her face turning bright pink.

  “Ah,” he said. “I can’t say I’m overly surprised, can you?” William hoped his casual reply masked his true thoughts on the matter. “Does this mean you would like to discuss these things after all? I saw my father but once after my mother’s death, so I’m afraid I haven’t all the particulars of his wrongdoings. I take that back; I do know the particulars of his financial wrongdoings.” He needed to step back from this conversation and get his thoughts in order, as he was precariously close to speaking with more excitability than was good for the situation.

  “I know you do; it’s why we are betrothed, after all,” Louisa said.

  There was clearly nothing he could add to that. The best thing for now was a change of topic. “Come,” he said. “Let us set this distressing conversation aside for a while, shall we?” He offered her his arm, and thankfully, she slid her hand into the crook of his arm this time, and they strolled onward.

  * * *

  Louisa walked with William across the garden to the maple trees—hardly more than saplings, they were, as the groundskeeper had only added the folly and the trees the previous year. The folly itself was a small marble pavilion with a marble bench within, offering a view back toward the house. It was a pleasant place to sit and usually made Louisa feel as if she were at their country seat of Ashworth Park.

  Usually—but not today.

  They sat on the bench, and Louisa dropped her arm, choosing instead to clasp both hands on her lap after laying the rose on the bench next to her. The feel of him, the male st
rength she sensed in his arm, was beguiling, and Louisa didn’t want her nascent attraction to him to interfere with her determination to learn about him. She needed a clear head in order to do that.

  William adjusted his position on the bench in order to face her, causing their legs to brush together, and Louisa drew in a breath. “I’m traveling to Buckinghamshire this afternoon,” he said, “and wished to take my leave of you before doing so. It will be a short trip, as I intend to be back tomorrow evening, if all goes to plan.”

  “That seems to be a great deal of travel for such a brief visit,” she said.

  “Perhaps, but it is for a good reason. I wish to personally review the preparations being made at Farleigh Manor in order to receive a new viscountess.” He paused, the corners of his mouth flickering for the briefest moment in what was almost an actual smile before disappearing. “And then I’ll return to London in time to escort you to Vauxhall Gardens tomorrow evening, if you would be willing to do me the honor.” There was that flicker again.

  She ignored it and what it did to her insides and firmed up her resolve. “Naturally, I am willing to go to Vauxhall with you; I am your betrothed, after all, and such things are to be expected. I have heard that Vauxhall Gardens are not to be missed, and I shall look forward to it with anticipation. But—”

  “But what?” he asked.

  “I have conditions that I wish to have met in return.”

  His eyes shuttered. He reached out and took her hand in his. With his free hand, he began lightly stroking each finger, from knuckle to fingertip.

  Louisa swallowed. “Conditions,” she repeated.

  “Conditions,” he said. “Undoubtedly, you do. You have beautiful hands, Louisa, soft hands with long, delicate fingers. And yet they feel capable and strong too. Such a paradox. If I were an artist, I would paint your hands.”

  “You’re speaking foolishness,” she said, her voice a bit shaky, which annoyed her. What did her hands have to do with the current conversation anyway? “You’re not an artist, I daresay, and even if you were, I’m not sure I find it flattering that my hands are the subject you would choose to paint.”

  He threaded his fingers through hers, interlocking them, moving his head this way and that as though looking for the best angle to view them before returning his gaze to hers. “Oh, I would wish to paint your face too, rest assured. And your throat—from right here behind your ear down to your collarbone.” With his forefinger, he traced the spot he’d just described without touching her; still, she could swear she felt it all the same. “The line here is exquisite. If only I’d been given a true artist’s talent,” he said in a low voice.

  Louisa could feel herself melting, much as she had before the Melton assembly when William had kissed her the first time—

  The scoundrel was making it happen again!

  “Stop it,” she exclaimed, pulling her hand free. “You kissed me before only to make me look betrothed in front everyone present. You flatter me with your words only to distract me from my intent. You must think me a weak female to use such tactics on me.”

  “Not at all, Louisa, I promise you.” He turned his head away and stared outward toward the house.

  “My conditions are simple ones, William. Talk to me. Be forthcoming with me. Be honest. That is all I ask.”

  He turned back toward her, his dark eyes burning in a way she’d not seen before. “You think your conditions are simple, but they are not.” He reached for her wrist and pulled her toward him until she was pressed closely to him, their faces mere inches apart.

  Louisa’s heart pounded with excitement and fear and just a touch of triumph; she’d poked the caged tiger with a stick and had finally gotten a reaction.

  “There is not much to tell,” he said, the look in his eyes scorching her. “Anything of any import you know already. My mother died far too soon. My father died far too late to benefit anyone. The only thing of any worth he ever did was wager against your grandfather.” He cupped her chin with his hand and moved so his lips were but a breath away. “And when I kiss you,” he whispered, “it is because I cannot help myself.”

  His lips met hers then, firm and persuasive, and the entire world melted around Louisa, her senses once again colliding. Gradually, oh, so gradually, his kisses gentled and began softly exploring, and she floated into a place without time, eyes closed, receiving, taking, giving. Wanting more. Not knowing what she wanted.

  Eventually, much too soon, William drew back . . . and time gradually returned. She didn’t want to open her eyes. “That is all I can tell you for now,” he whispered, running his forefinger over her eyebrow. “But I give you my solemn promise that I will do better. Will that suffice?”

  “Yes,” Louisa breathed. Her eyes fluttered open.

  His dark eyes, intensely serious now, locked with hers and held her gaze—with passion, yes, she recognized that now, but also with pain. “I must go, although it gives me no joy. I will console myself with the thought that I will see you again tomorrow evening,” he said. He pressed a lingering kiss at the corner of her mouth. “Adieu, Louisa.”

  Chapter 8

  That kiss.

  The ride to Buckinghamshire had flown by, for the private lane leading to Farleigh Manor was—surprisingly enough—just ahead. William’s mind had been greatly preoccupied the entire way, so it only made sense, in retrospect. Kissing Louisa for a second time had only made him want to take her in his arms and kiss her again and again.

  He’d lost whatever restraint he’d had when she’d prodded him to open up and expose his inner self to her. He should not have kissed her. Not like that. But, by thunder, she had kissed him back. Oh yes, she had. It had been a passionate kiss, a memorable kiss. It had been a victory.

  But William was no fool either. It would take more than passion to win the heart of Lady Louisa Hargreaves.

  He reined in his horse and came to an abrupt halt. When had this become more than simply getting his betrothed and her dowry to the altar? When had it become about winning her heart?

  That she was willing to marry him at all should be enough. It was enough, he sternly told himself. He was not doing this for himself. If it had only been about him, he would have remained in Scotland, free to pursue his academic interests, and let Farleigh Manor rot.

  That wasn’t entirely true though, he conceded. He couldn’t do that to the tenants who depended on the estate for their livings, the people who depended on him, or to the servants of the manor who’d taken care of him in his boyhood and youth. The people he loved. He couldn’t do it to Mrs. Holly or Grimshaw or the others. Or to Mary.

  “Look here, Mary. Soldiers march like this.” Young William, a willow stick braced against his shoulder as if it were a gun, straightened his spine and paraded about the herb garden, knees high, while little Mary tagged along behind. “Soldiers don’t skip, and they don’t sing either.”

  “Well, they should,” she replied. “Maybe they wouldn’t fight each other so much if they did.”

  Farleigh Manor had always been Mary’s home. How would she ever be made to understand and cope if, suddenly, she and her mother were left to their own resources? Mary was like a sister to him—the closest thing to a sibling William had ever had.

  No, he couldn’t do such a thing to Mary. Or to the others.

  Perhaps he couldn’t do it to the memory of his mother either, who had spent all her married life at Farleigh Manor, much of the time alone and abandoned by her husband, and who was buried in the family plot there.

  He nudged his horse forward at a walk.

  The house gradually came into view. Farleigh Manor was an estate with a reasonable amount of property and a modestly sized manor house, and Matthew had done a good job keeping the front grounds in decent order, especially when one considered that he was undoubtedly doing all the work himself. The lawns had been recently scythed; however, the bordering shrubbery needed more pruning than they’d apparently received the past few years and were a tad overgro
wn. Except for the scythed grass, the place looked just as it had when William had been summoned home by Mr. Heslop.

  William studied the estate now with new eyes. What would Louisa’s impression of her future home be?

  Weeds William hadn’t noticed before suddenly appeared amongst the cobblestones leading to the front entry. The shutters needed a fresh coat of paint, and the roof was missing tiles in several places. It was certainly not as well maintained as the homes a daughter of a marquess would be accustomed to experiencing.

  Rather than dismount when he reached the front entry, he continued on horseback around the side of the house until he reached the stables. He spotted Samuel there, tending to the horses.

  “Master William! Welcome back!” the man called, leaving his chore and striding toward William, wiping his hands on a rag.

  William dismounted. “Samuel, good to see you again so soon,” he said, shaking Samuel’s hand.

  “That’s true enough, me boy—er, I mean, melord.” He grinned cheekily.

  “Let’s take it easy on the ‘milording,’ shall we?” William said. “You’re family.”

  “I’m family, eh . . .” Samuel scratched his grizzly chin as if pondering William’s words carefully, the old bounder. “That puts things into a whole new light, I reckon.” He rubbed his hands together with an avaricious grin.

  Samuel was joking, and the stable master’s casual words took William back in time. “You were more of a father to me—you and Matthew and even Grimshaw—than my own father ever was. I won’t be having the lot of you bowing and scraping and tugging your forelocks at me every hour of the day. Understood?”

  “Aye, boy, I do. Matthew and me—and all the others what’s here—done a right good job of raising ye too. And yer mother done her best by ye, God rest ’er soul.” He sobered. “She were a fine woman and gone too soon.”

  “Thank you, Samuel.” William banished the ghost of his mother and the melancholy it invariably brought along with it. “I’m here to announce my betrothal and to see what can be done in a very short amount of time to prepare Farleigh Manor for the arrival of its future viscountess.”