Heart's Debt (Lost Lords Book 5) (7 page)

L
et’s dance, Harold.”

“You know I hate to, Sophia.”

“Why must you always be such a stick in the mud?”

“You’re aware of my preferences so why must you pester me? You’re embarrassing yourself.”

Sophia smiled at her fiancé, Harold Bean, but it was a fake, patronizing smile. They’d been engaged for two years, with Sophia accepting his proposal without any dithering. She’d simply been so desperate to become betrothed.

She’d known Harold all her life. He owned the neighboring estate and lived there with his widowed mother. She and Augusta had planned on the match ever since Sophia and Harold were children.

Harold was wealthy—he even had a house in London—and it had seemed logical to follow her mother’s advice and accept him, especially as Miles grew unrulier and rumors had swirled about their finances.

Sophia had viewed Harold as the perfect escape. But with her being a very elderly twenty, she was vexed by the notion of the men she might have met, of the men who might have proposed instead. Because she’d been destined for Harold, she hadn’t had a Season in London so no other fate had ever been possible.

She’d immediately said
yes
to him, but she constantly wondered why. When they were younger, he’d been quite handsome, but he wasn’t aging well. His brown hair was gray, and he was rapidly balding. He was fat now too, his paunch more noticeable every day.

With him suffering from gout and melancholia, he was stuffier and more pedantic than ever. He never felt good enough to ride or walk in the woods or play lawn games when they were entertaining. He wouldn’t even sing in the church choir, claiming it made his head ache.

Although he was only thirty, he acted as if he was a hundred and thirty.

“You don’t care to dance,” she said, “but I hope you won’t mind if I do.”

“Suit yourself, Sophia. You’ll behave however you wish—whatever my opinion.”

She smiled even more sweetly, though her eyes were shooting daggers.

Was this how her life would go? Would she actually wed this fussy, miserable dolt? She liked to laugh, wear pretty clothes, and socialize with interesting people. He liked to sit at home, with his hounds at his feet, reading by the fire.

She’d throw herself off a cliff before she’d carry on like that.

She’d once asked her mother why she’d picked Harold. Clearly they weren’t compatible in even the slightest way. But Augusta had replied that Sophia was young, flighty, and prone to juvenile conduct, that she needed the guidance of an older, wiser husband to tamp down her worst impulses.

Sophia thought her mother was insane. She also thought—should she have to face Harold and
his
mother over the breakfast table every morning—she might murder them both.

“I’ll stop back in a bit to see how you’re feeling.” She intended no such thing.

“Don’t fret over me,” he woefully whined. “I’ll be fine all by myself.”

“Well, I’ll check anyway.”

She flounced off and sidled over to the French windows that led onto the verandah. She had numerous partners waiting for her to dance with them, but she was too angry. No one was watching her so she slipped out and raced into the garden.

How could her mother have forced her into such a hideous, unpalatable betrothal? Thank goodness Harold appeared in no hurry to set a wedding date.

When she’d questioned him about the delay, he hadn’t had a viable excuse. Perhaps he didn’t want to marry her any more than she wanted to marry him. At night when she said her prayers, she begged the Lord to send a miracle, to rescue her from Harold, but so far the Lord hadn’t saved her.

Very quickly, she reached the lake and she climbed into the gazebo, yearning for a few quiet minutes where she could calm her temper, then return to the party and pretend to be enjoying herself. But to her consternation, a man was already seated on one of the benches. He was smoking a cheroot, gazing out at the moonlight shining on the water. He heard her enter and glanced at her over his shoulder.

“Pardon me,” she muttered, irked that she’d have to find somewhere else to stew and pace. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You haven’t.” He waved to the spot next to him. “Would you like to join me? Or would that be too inappropriate? I realize it’s dark and we’re alone.”

The comment sounded like a dare so it was precisely the sort of remark that would have her behaving exactly as she shouldn’t.

“If you think I worry about the proprieties,” she said, “you’ve mistaken me for my mother.”

“Who is your mother?”

“Augusta Marshall.”

“So you are…?”

“Sophia Marshall.”

“Miles’s sister?”

“Yes.”

She hovered for a moment, expecting him to stand and bow or dust off the bench so it wouldn’t dirty her skirt, but he made no polite moves. He simply stared up at her as if he was too tired to rise or hadn’t ever been informed he was supposed to.

Feeling very brazen, very bold, she plopped down. They’d only invited neighbors, the same boring group she’d known forever, but she didn’t know him, and couldn’t decide why he was on the property. He probably shouldn’t be. Was he Georgina’s mysterious friend?

She hadn’t noticed him inside the house, and she certainly would have. He was very handsome, his hair black, his eyes very blue. He looked like a hero out of a romantic novel, and after pleading with Harold to dance, after being reminded yet again of what a finicky, unpleasant fiancé he’d turned out to be, she was definitely entitled to a flirtatious chat with an attractive stranger.

“I’m Christopher Roxbury,” he said, “but you can call me Kit.”

“I will Kit, and you can call me Miss Marshall.”

He studied her, then laughed. “You’re a snotty little thing, aren’t you?”

“I
am
Miss Marshall. What would you imagine you’d call me?”

“How about Sophia?”

“Since I just met you, it wouldn’t be fitting.”

He scowled. “I thought you ignored the proprieties so you wouldn’t be confused with your mother.”

It dawned on her that he was being sarcastic. “You’re mocking me.”

“A bit, but you deserve it.”

“I’m the hostess. You can’t mock me.”

“Why can’t I? I hate fussy manners. If you insist on acting like a spoiled brat, I won’t pretend to like it.”

She’d never had anyone talk to her as he was talking. From her earliest memories, there had been such status conferred by being Edward Marshall’s only daughter. People fawned over her. They cosseted her and rushed to grant her every wish. She’d never been chastised or rebuked, and she was aggravated and fascinated.

“What brought you to the gazebo, Miss Marshall?” he asked. “When you arrived, you looked quite vexed.”

“I have no idea why you’d think so.”

“I’m very observant; I’ve always had to be. Initially you were distressed, but you seem to have calmed.” He arrogantly flicked his cheroot out into the grass. “Might I hope it was my smiling presence that did the trick?”

“I wasn’t upset,” she fibbed.

“I saw you inside.”

He’d noticed her! How thrilling! “Really?”

“Yes. You were arguing with an older, balding clod. Is he an uncle? An elderly cousin?”

“That clod—as you so uncouthly put it—is my fiancé. And we weren’t arguing.”

“You poor girl. No wonder you’re in a dither. If I’d been engaged to him, I’d be furious too.”

“Honestly! How rude of you to comment. Mr. Bean and I—”

“Mr. Bean? Gad, even his name is tedious.”

She’d often thought the same, but she could hardly admit it. Instead she said, “I don’t recognize you, Mr. Roxbury.”

“Kit, remember?”

“I believe I’ll stick with Mr. Roxbury for now. Are you here with an invited guest?”

“You could say that.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I tagged along with someone, but he isn’t exactly a guest.”

“What is he then?”

“The new owner?”

“What? You’re babbling in riddles, and I can never figure them out.”

“Your brother doesn’t own Kirkwood anymore.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are too. The men in my family, Miles included, have owned it for over two centuries. How dare you claim otherwise.”

“Have you spoken to Miss Fogarty this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should. She can tell you about it.”

“If you assume she’ll tell me that Miles doesn’t own Kirkwood, then you’re stark-raving mad.”

“I’m not lying. My friend, Damian Drummond, bought up your brother’s gambling debts and foreclosed.”

She gaped at him, his remark rattling her in ways she didn’t like. She hadn’t known the Drummonds, but their names were whispered by the servants, by her mother and father when they presumed no one was listening.

Whatever had happened to them was so awful it couldn’t be mentioned aloud.

She blanched with astonishment. “Miles wagered over Kirkwood?”

“Yes and lost spectacularly.”

“Why would Mr. Drummond want it?”

“For revenge. Why would you suppose?”

“Revenge against who?” she inquired.

“Against all of you.”

“What did we do to him?”

“I suggest you ask your brother. Or your mother. I doubt they’ll confess their many perfidies, but you should definitely ask.”

She eased away and stood, suddenly deciding he wasn’t quite as handsome as he’d initially seemed. Actually she sensed malice emanating from him.

“Get off our property, Mr. Roxbury. I demand you leave.”

“Are you deaf, Miss Marshall? It’s not
your
property any longer. You have no authority to command my departure.”

“I’ll summon the footmen. They’ll deal with you.”

“Miss Fogarty already tried, but I’m still here. You needn’t bother trying the same.”

“I’ll tell my mother!”

He shuddered scornfully. “I’m trembling in my boots.”

Sophia had grown up under Augusta’s heavy thumb, and she viewed her mother as powerful, unbending, and impossibly commanding. She was stunned that referring to Augusta had had no effect.

“She’ll show you!” Sophia insisted. “She will!”

“I don’t think so,” he scoffed, “and you’re acting like a child again. Go away, would you? You’ve absolutely ruined the peace and quiet.”

“I’ll do more than ruin the peace and quiet. I’ll…I’ll…”

She couldn’t conceive of a threat sufficiently horrid. He was the most stoic, unflappable man she’d ever encountered.

“You’ll what?” he inquired when she couldn’t finish her sentence.

“I don’t know yet, but you’ll be sorry.”

She spun and strutted away, and his rude laughter followed her across the garden.

“Thank you for coming.
Thank you for coming.”

Georgina was in the front foyer, the sole family member who’d seen fit to greet their guests. She welcomed another group and waved them toward the festivities, and as they wandered off, she breathed a sigh of relief.

So far, no catastrophes had erupted. Mr. Drummond had stayed away as she’d ordered him to. A few of his guards were present, but they’d blended in with the crowd, providing the impression that they’d been invited.

Augusta was still upstairs, which was always a benefit. She cast a dour shadow on any gathering. No one had asked after her or noted her absence. They wouldn’t court trouble by speaking her name and conjuring her appearance.

Miles hadn’t appeared either, and Georgina was both glad and irked. She wished he’d display more interest in the estate, but with Mr. Drummond lurking it was probably better that he hadn’t arrived. He was a spoiled idiot and would only make matters worse.

Sophia was missing too. She’d been bickering with Harold and had flounced into the garden in a snit. She was miserably unhappy in her betrothal. Georgina had tried to confer with her about it, but Sophia refused to discuss it, and Georgina pitied her cousin. It left her deliriously pleased that she’d never succumbed to amour herself, that she hadn’t ever had to ponder a sensible proposal from an unpalatable dullard.

Just then, Portia Smithwaite strolled in. Or perhaps it was more correct to say she floated in. With her white-blond hair, violet-colored eyes, and curvaceous figure, she was glamorous and beautiful in a way Georgina could never dream of being.

She was Miles’s fiancée, the match between them another fiasco Augusta had arranged, just as she’d arranged the match for Harold and Sophia. Portia’s mother and Augusta had attended the same boarding school as girls, and they’d pledged to each other that their children would marry in the future. Augusta was determined for it to happen, pursuing the conclusion with an almost maniacal zeal that had Georgina wondering if she wasn’t proving a point to Portia’s mother.

Portia and Miles were an odd couple. Miles was thirty-four and Portia twenty so he was old enough to be her father, and Georgina had never understood why she’d agreed to the engagement.

Yet the pair went through the motions of pretending to be happy, but as with Harold and Sophia, no wedding date was ever set. Whenever they were together, Georgina furtively observed them, and they were like two strangers at a ball who had nothing in common.