An Heiress for All Seasons (10 page)

Violet covered her mother’s hand with one of her own, silencing her. Will scanned the room, and in those few moments she debated fleeing, hiding somewhere in the inn. Until he spotted her and put an end to such frantic thoughts.

His gaze narrowed on her. His purposeful strides carried him across the room toward her. She rose to her feet, lifting her chin. “Lord Merlton—”

His eyes flashed as he closed the distance between them and latched onto her wrist, pulling her around the table. “I told you to call me Will.”

She dug in her heels, resisting him. “Stop! You don’t understand. I left the letter for you to—”

He stopped and shoved his face close to hers. “I saw your bloody letter!”

“Then you understand—”

“I understand a good deal more than you do if you think you can just skulk away without a by-your-leave!”

Her eyes widened at his fierce expression. He was correct. She didn’t understand. She didn’t understand at all. Why he was here?

She moistened her lips. “In lieu of my change in circumstances, I thought you would appreciate my discretion—”

“Appreciate? I made a promise to you—”

“Is that what this is about? I’ve injured your pride? Have no fear, I release you from your promise.”

“Anything amiss here?” A voice intruded. “This man bothering you, Miss?”

Violet’s gaze flicked to a man that rose from a nearby table. He looked like a farmer, brawny and thick-fisted. He sat with several other men of similar appearance dressed in modest wool.

Will didn’t even glance their way. His gaze remained fixed on her, his expression almost desperate in its intensity.

She inhaled a deep breath. Apparently that uncomfortable conversation she had hoped to avoid would have to happen, after all. In front of a roomful of strangers, no less.

“I’m sorry, Will. I can’t give you what you want . . . what you need. I’m not an heiress anymore.”

He gripped her arms and gave her a small shake, his eyes deep and penetrating, reaching that part of her that wanted to curl into a small ball in the dark and weep until all tears were spent. “Can’t you see—”

“All right there, that’s enough now.” Suddenly the farmer grabbed Will and wrenched him from Violet. With an inhuman cry, Will swung at the man, his fist connecting in a sickening crunch of bone on bone.

Violet grabbed her mother’s hand, lifted her skirts and ran for the stairs, dragging her mother after her just as the room erupted into chaos.

“Violet!”

At the roar of her name, she glanced behind her and felt her eyes widen at the sight of Will being held back by several men. The duke and viscount had entered the fray and were likewise engaged, swinging fists and attempting to pull men off Will. One farmer punched Will in the side of the face and he went down.

Violet cried out, her heart lurching to her throat. She released her mother and staggered forward. “Stop! Will, just stop!” Tears rose up in her throat, garbling her words. “You don’t have to do this. I can’t marry you! You’re free to—”

Will surged back to his feet, indifferent to his bloodied lip. He was crazed and still fighting despite the men striking him and the innkeeper shouting for him to leave.

“Please!” Violet called. “Don’t hurt him!”

He roared her name over the din. “Violet! I don’t give a bloody damn about the money!”

Her mother was there then, clasping her arm urgently in clenching fingers. “Did you hear him, Vi? Did you hear him?”

She shook her head in disbelief, her heart pounding so hard it hurt in her chest.

“Will,” she whispered.

“Violet!” her mother choked, but Violet didn’t look at her. She couldn’t. She could only stare at Will . . . could only see his face, find his eyes amid the melee.

“Violet! I love you, Violet!”

A sob broke from her lips and she rushed forward, shoving through the press of bodies, stumbling over broken dishes and crushed holly.

She struck one of the farmers with her fist, her hand bouncing ineffectually off his massive shoulder. “Unhand him! Unhand him, I tell you.”

“Gor! What the—”

She glared at him. “Unhand him, you brute! That’s my fiancé!”

He relinquished his hold on Will enough for her to wedge between the others and wrap her arms around him.

Will swept her up against him with one arm. “Violet, I’m a bloody fool. I should have told you before. . . .”

She shook her head. “I can’t fault you for not saying what I didn’t have the courage to confess as well. I love you, Will.”

His hand cupped her face, his fingers caressing her cheek almost reverently.

Her heart sank as she suddenly recalled that he still needed an heiress, and she was no longer that. “But my father lost everything, Will. I haven’t anything. I can bring you nothing.”

He hushed her with his fingers on her lips. “I don’t care. I will figure it out. You mustn’t worry. I have hopes for some investments I’ve made, but even if they shouldn’t produce results, we’ll be fine. As long as we’re together. We’ll make it work. Violet, the reason I haven’t wed an heiress in all these years is because I could love none of them. You were the first to move me, the first and only I’ve loved. You . . . you bring me everything.”

Her heart swelled then, emotion clogging her throat. His mouth claimed hers. Dimly, she registered clapping and cheers, but she acknowledged none of it.

She didn’t look up. There was only this. Will’s lips on hers. Will’s arms wrapped around her. There was only love.

Keep reading for an excerpt from

New York Times
bestselling author Sophie Jordan’s

first book in The Debutante Files:

A GOOD DEBUTANTE’S GUIDE TO RUIN

Available now wherever books are sold.

The last woman on earth he would ever touch . . .

Declan, the Duke of Banbury, has no interest in ushering Rosalie Hughes, his stepsister, into society. Dumped on him with nowhere else to go, he’s determined to rid himself of the headstrong debutante by bestowing on her an obscenely large dowry . . . making her the most sought-after heiress of the Season.

. . . is about to become the only one he wants

But Rosalie isn’t about to go along with Declan’s plans. Surrounded by fortune hunters, how is she supposed to find a man who truly wants her? Taking control of her fate, Rosalie dons a disguise and sneaks into Sodom, a private club host to all manner of illicit activity—and frequented by her infuriatingly handsome stepbrother.

In a shadowed alcove, Declan can’t resist the masked temptress who sets his blood afire . . . any more than Rosalie can deny her longing for a man who will send her into ruin.

An Excerpt from

A GOOD DEBUTANTE’S GUIDE TO RUIN

R
ain hung thick in the air, the threat of which turned the early evening gray and mist-shrouded. Mrs. Heathstone knocked smartly on the immense double doors of the Duke of Banbury’s Mayfair residence.

Rosalie slid an anxious glance down her body and winced, smoothing a hand over the well-worn wool of her cloak.
Serviceable.
That’s the word that came to mind.
Shabby.
That was another word.

It wasn’t how Rosalie envisioned her return to London. She dreamt of bright skies and heralding trumpets. Ridiculous, but what fantasy didn’t possess a touch of the absurd? At least for her. She was an expert at dreaming up the absurd. She had imagined returning a debutante of the first order, outfitted in a wardrobe that royalty would envy. With swains lining up to pay court on her. With parties and galas that kept her out all hours. An invitation to court from the queen herself. She had imagined all this and more.

She had imagined him
.

The words whispered through her mind and made her wince. Perhaps not precisely
him
. Only someone as handsome as her stepbrother. Whenever she imagined a suitor for herself, he always bore a striking resemblance to Declan. She supposed it was a testament to her lack of exposure to suitable gentlemen during her time at the Harwich School for Young Ladies. Certainly some time about Town would dash such day dreams.

She sighed. Daydreams had long kept her company as she rusticated in Yorkshire, waiting for her mother to claim her. Waiting for a Season. Waiting for her life to begin. She had perfected waiting to an art form.

Now, standing on Declan’s stoop, the cold evening vapor folding over her, those fantasies were a very distant thing. But at least the wait was finally over. She stood two steps below Mrs. Heathstone’s formidable personage. The headmistress was taller than any man of Rosalie’s limited acquaintance even without the advantage of said steps.

She huddled deeper into her cloak as Mrs. Heathstone rapped yet again. The sound reverberated out onto the street, and Rosalie shifted nervously on her feet, casting uneasy glances over her shoulder, certain that eyes were already upon them from every neighboring window, wondering at the bedraggled pair calling upon the Duke of Banbury.

The mist suddenly gave way to rain as though it could be denied no longer.

“Drat!” Mrs. Heathstone growled, throwing a gloved hand over her head as if that would offer some protection.

Rosalie shrank back inside the voluminous hood of her cloak. She knew from experience that the slightest moisture turned her hair into a wild, frizzy mess. She pushed a coppery curl behind her ear. There was no help for it. She would not be making a sterling impression this eve. Of course, until this moment she had not realized how very important it was to her that she do so. She had told herself through the entire journey here that he would likely not even remember her.

“Perhaps we should call again later?” The ring of hope in her suggestion was unmistakable even over the drum of rain.

“Nonsense. Someone is at home.”

Of course,
someone
was at home. The duke maintained a staff of dozens at his Town residence, but the gentleman himself? The gentleman they needed to see? He was unlikely to be home. A matter of circumstance that appeared to only bear consequence to Rosalie. Mrs. Heathstone was quite prepared to deposit her on the duke’s threshold and then bolt. The headmistress had made up her mind weeks ago when she arranged this trip, and she was not to be dissuaded. As she had regretfully explained again and again, the duke was family. If her mother would not step up to claim her, then responsibility fell to him.

At last the door opened.

It was the only invitation Mrs. Heathstone required. She charged inside, shoving past a sputtering butler. Rosalie ascended, hesitating on the top step, peering inside the grand foyer that was at once familiar and alien. She knew it shouldn’t look so large and formidable now that she was a woman grown and no longer a child, but it actually looked bigger.

Mrs. Heathstone shook her cloak, spraying water onto the marble floor as she flung back her hood, revealing her lush silvery gray hair. Her sharp eyes narrowed on Rosalie. “Miss Hughes, come inside at once before you catch ague.” Her long, elegant fingers flicked impatiently on the air.

Rosalie obediently stepped inside, looking in awe up at the high-domed frescoed ceiling. Lowering her gaze, she sent the butler a small smile. She did not recognize him, but then she wouldn’t. She had been very young the last time she visited here. She had been relegated to the duke’s country estate most of the time. Her mother preferred it that way. Preferred to have her in the country while she entertained in Town. Out of sight. Out of mind.

The butler’s face puffed like a bloated fish. “Madame, you cannot barge in here—”

“Oh, no worry, I’m not staying.” She dropped Rosalie’s valise to the floor, her manner brisk and efficient as she closed her hands around Rosalie’s shoulders. “Remember all you’ve been taught. You’re a lady, Miss Hughes, no matter . . .” Her voice faded, but Rosalie knew what she was going to say.

No matter who or what your mother was.

“Yes, ma’am.” She nodded.

Mrs. Heathstone squeezed her shoulders gently a final time. “You’re a good girl, Rosalie. Smart, too. I wish we could have kept you on, but your future was never at Harwich’s. Your future is in this world.” She glanced around the opulent foyer.

Rosalie swallowed back her protest. This didn’t feel like her world at all. For the last ten years she had shared a drafty room with Rachel, a former pupil like herself who now taught French at the school. Rachel had been top in their class and spoke French like she was born to it. When Mademoiselle Leflore decided to return home to tend to an ailing aunt, Rachel had been offered the position.

Unfortunately, there was no position to be had for Rosalie. She had remained the last two years merely due to the goodwill of Mrs. Heathstone. She’d tried to make herself useful in that time. However, her situation was always awkward. Not a pupil and not an instructor. She merely took up space.

And yet her meager room back at Harwich felt more familiar——more like home——than these lavish surroundings.

She wasn’t certain the Duke of Banbury would welcome her any more than her mother would, but Mrs. Heathstone was confidant this was the right course of action, and Rosalie acknowledged that something had to change. She could not live on the charity of others. She should have left two years ago.

“Thank you, Mrs. Heathstone.” She nodded jerkily, emotion clogging her throat. In many ways, this woman was the closest thing she ever had to a mother. “For everything.”

Smiling, the headmistress brushed her cheek with gloved fingertips. “Dear girl. Take care of yourself.”

And then she was gone. Rosalie watched as she swept out the door, her chest tight and achy. She rubbed gloved fingers against her breastbone, willing herself to be brave. To embrace this next phase of her life.

The butler sputtered anew, and Rosalie sent him a halfhearted smile as she smoothed her hands down the front of her damp cloak.