Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (3 page)

“Well, yes, so I know how to
make
a girl. Doesn’t mean I can
manage
one. Or profit from it.”

“Well, I can’t either. I haven’t the time, and my life is in London.”

“So we’ll make our fathers do it. They’re the ones who bought it.”

Sure, that will work.

Robert unknowingly echoed the mad voice. “And where will that get us?” His voice took on the dull, exhausted note that so often lingered in Grant’s. They both hid it, of course. There were some gentlemanly pretenses even Robert maintained. A casual insouciance was one of them. But here, alone in the woods, and faced with a shared parental disaster, even Robert let his facade slip. “Our fathers would destroy what little value is there.”

“Then they’d turn it into a drinking parlor and start getting more ideas.”

Robert agreed with a sharp laugh, but then the man quickly sobered. “Here’s the truth, Grant. You’re facing ruin. Not just you, but your whole family.”

“I know!” He spoke sharply, hoping to forestall the coming lecture, but his friend was relentless as he outlined the facts.

“Your lands and your people are destroyed without a huge infusion of cash, which you don’t have. You’ll have to replace the barn at a minimum, and—”

“Yes, I know!”

This time it worked. Robert paused long enough to exhale a long breath. “You do have half share in a mill and a buyer for the land. So that takes care of your responsibilities to your people—”

“And what about my mother?”

“Save a bit from the land sale for her. Put everything else into the mill. And then, make the best damn cloth in the land.”

Grant took a breath, but it didn’t help. He already felt the noose tightening around his neck. Or the hook in his mouth, to use his madness’s imagery. “You want me to sell the land and work in a factory.” He thought about it a moment, but then shook his head. “I can’t. The value is in the land. And it’s been in our family since Henry II.”

“Your people can’t eat history. Lawton can do more for them in one month than you have in ten years. You know it’s true.”

It was. Their finances had been a disaster since the day his grandfather took the reins. And yet, the very idea of selling the land where he’d grown up, where generations of Crowles had lived and thrived, was physically nauseating. To leave the open space to work in a mill offended every titled cell in his body. And yet, what choice did he have? That’s what Robert was so clearly telling him. There were no other options.

“How can I work a mill? I know nothing about it.”

And
when
has
that
ever
stopped
you?

Meanwhile, Robert leaned against a tree. “How much did you know of fire-breathing six weeks ago?”

Grant sighed, already seeing where this conversation was going. “Nothing. Not a damned thing.”

“So what happened in the barn?”

“Threshing dust. I didn’t think about the dust.”

“But otherwise, you could have won the bet?”

Grant felt his lips curve in a faint smile. “Easily. And I planned to use the same bet at a few other country parties. At least until the news got out that I could do it.”

“Hmmm. So you learned. You listened to those who knew how to do it. You practiced and focused. And in a month’s time, you had a marketable skill.”

“Breathing fire is a party trick, Robert.”

“One that would have brought in coin for a while at least.”

“I burned down the barn.”

“Well, your luck has always been uncertain.” The man abruptly leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with intensity. “So now do something that doesn’t require luck.”

“Factory work?” Grant spit out the words. He couldn’t breathe for the shame in the idea. He was going to be an earl, damn it. There were only a handful in the world, and he would be one. While toiling in a mill? In his head, generations of Crowles screamed their horror, while his madness bellowed back a sharp,
shut
up!
“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t do it.”

“You can. You can apply that clever mind and that amazing focus to doing something better than a sideshow trick. Something that makes real money.”

Grant waited while the noise in his head subsided. It never happened, but he slowly shifted the noise into a mental tally of possibilities, even though his stomach roiled in horror. “How much real money?” he asked quietly.

Robert shrugged. “I don’t know. Possibly a very great deal.”

“Enough to buy back the Crowle land, you think?”

Robert didn’t answer. He didn’t need to because Grant had already seen his path. The only path open that would keep at least a shred of honor to him and his family.

And
the
fish
is
caught!
crowed his madness.

“All right,” he rasped, the words choking him on the way out. “All right. I’ll do it.”

“You’ll run the mill? You’ll turn it around?”

“I will. But I have some conditions.”

Robert didn’t speak; his only expression was a raised eyebrow.

“I’ll become a bloody laborer, Robert. I’ll sell the land—every inch that isn’t tied up in the entail. I’ll give up everything, and by God, I’ll make that damned mill the most profitable place in the world. And then, when I’m done, you’re going to buy it off me.”

Robert reared back. “What? Why would you sell it?”

“Because I’m going to buy back my land. Because after I give my soul to that mill, I’m going to buy every acre back from Lawton, and then I’m going to make damn sure Father signs a new entail. We’re never going to sell that land again.”

Robert huffed out a breath. “You think you can do it? Think you can convince Lawton to sell you the land back?”

Grant snorted. “He’ll sign. I’ll see to it.” Then he pinned his friend with a hard stare. “You’ll buy me out? When the time comes?”

Robert nodded. “I’d be a fool not to. You’ll have made the place into a gold mine.”

Then they both sobered. There was one more obstacle. Robert was the one who voiced it. “What are you going to do about your father? None of this works if he accrues more debt.”

Grant released a low, dark laugh. “You think I’m going to shame myself alone? He bought the damned place. He’s bloody well going to work right by my side until it’s done.”

“You think you can keep him there? Working with you?”

“I’ll chain him to a loom, if I have to.”

Robert nodded. “So you’ve decided.”

Grant closed his eyes and took a deep breath—his last as a titled gentleman. “One more thing.”

Robert had pushed to his feet, but he stopped at Grant’s words. “What?”

“My name is Mr. Grant. If I’m going to be a bloody peasant, I might as well have a peasant name.”

His friend snorted. “You think too much about your name.”

“You never understood the grandeur of being an earl,” he shot back.

“It’s not grand if it’s broke. It’s just a lie, and a dangerous one at that.”

Grant slowly moved to his feet, feeling an ache throughout his body. But it was nothing compared to the pain in his soul.

***

With Robert’s help, he found an inn and bathed. He got his clothes and his gear, and met with Lord Lawton. Turned out the Welsh nabob wasn’t a fool, and he bargained like a fishwife for what he wanted.

The agreement they signed had the following provisions:

1. Will remained as steward at a very healthy salary.

2. Grant had five years to buy back every inch of the land. After that, Lawton was free to dispose of the land however he wanted.

3. The sale would be at a fair price.

Five minutes after the document was signed, Grant forgot about that third provision. He was too occupied with forcing his father to help with the disaster the man had created.

Three months later, he forgot to lock up his father’s horse. The man grabbed it and rode off, never to be seen again.

A year later, Grant learned that his father had died of a fever. Grant had already missed the funeral and wouldn’t have known about the death if there hadn’t been legal papers to sign regarding the shift in title. Grant was now an earl, finally able to do with his heritage as he saw fit. What he chose to do—after the papers were signed—was to take a bath. A good long soak in tepid water. Then he roused himself and spent the rest of the evening working numbers in his ledger.

Robert
would
be
proud
, his madness mused when Grant finally closed his eyes to sleep. But all Grant felt was a sick humiliation.

Then four more years ticked by.

Five years later

After five years of long, hard labor, Grant was finally going to have his moment.

Oh
Lord, are we back to this again? I thought you’d learned.

Grant ignored his madness’s voice. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and imagined his coming moment. It was crystal clear in his head because it was the one vision that had kept him going these last five years. And now, it was here. A great day built on nights spent hunched over books and days sweating over broken machinery at his textile mill. He’d gone without food as he poured money into the new dyeing process. Many nights he’d slept on a cot in his office, and for a time, he’d just lived there because it was cheaper. He’d sweated and bled for today, and now, it was here. His Great Day when everything paid off.

My
God, you’ve become a bloody bore. And, in case you haven’t noticed, you can’t have your glorified Moment if you don’t sell your cloth.

Grant grimaced, knowing his madness was right. Mr. Knopp, purchaser for A Lady’s Favor dress shop, had been scheduled to arrive ten minutes ago. Grant was waiting for him in an inn parlor on the outskirts of London. He’d placed bolts of fabric on five chairs set strategically about the room. And in the forefront of his mind was a number, the exact number of pounds he needed before he had his Great Moment. That money would come from Mr. Knopp today. Grant intended to take every penny the man had by selling the idiot all his merchandise for triple the cost to make it. But he couldn’t do that unless the man showed up!

Five years ago, Grant would have called for a drink and set about killing time in the only way he’d known how: numbing himself insensate. But he wasn’t Grant Benton, the dissolute Lord Crowle, today. He was the patient and cunning Mr. Grant who would enjoy his Great Day as soon as Mr. Knopp showed.

Fortunately for his sanity, a moment later he heard a soft knock at the door. Grant put aside his papers—he was always studying papers and their neat columns of numbers—then straightened his jacket and put on a congenial smile.

“Enter,” he called.

The door opened, and a woman stepped in. She was tall with soft skin and black clothing. The dress was out of date and somewhat shabby, but her smile was warm, though very tiny, like a bud of new growth on a dark stick of tree. Meanwhile, he stifled a sigh as he pushed reluctantly to his feet.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you’ve got the wrong parlor.”

No, she doesn’t! Bring her in! Take off her dress!
Grant didn’t even wince as his madness suggested all sorts of filthy things. Sometime in the last five years, his madness had shifted from the grumbling, annoying voice of conscience to the grumbling, annoying voice of temptation. As Grant learned how to spend every day and night in toil, his madness pushed for debauchery. At first he’d found the change disconcerting. Now, he just pushed it to the back of his mind. He’d gotten better at that too over the last five years.

Meanwhile, the woman didn’t so much as blink. “Are you Mr. Grant?” she asked.

He nodded. “I am, but—”

“You’re waiting for Mr. Knopp, I presume?” she said as she untied her bonnet with quick movements. “That’s me. Well, not the mister part, obviously. I’m Irene Knopp. Mr. Knopp was my late husband.”

A
widow! Make her merry!

Grant stared at her, his mind struggling with the woman in front of him. Mr. I. Knopp was a woman? A
woman
! And a widow still in mourning, given her black clothing. He stifled a curse and tried to find a way out. There wasn’t one. The deadline was today, and he needed her money to have his Great Moment. His conscience would give him hell for taking advantage of a widow, but what choice did he have?

Take
advantage
of
her! In at least four different positions!

Mrs. Knopp gave him another small smile. “Please, sir, I find myself somewhat fatigued. Do you mind if I sit down for a moment? Might we order tea?”

“Uh, of course,” he said. That’s what one said when a widow said she was tired and wanted tea. He rang the bell and made the order while she set her coat aside. Her hair was a glossy black, the exact color of a foal he’d once coveted as a boy. And though her clothing was shabby, he noted a grace in her movements as she stripped off her gloves and settled on the couch. Lord, she looked so tragic. How could he put his family’s need before hers?

Then she turned to him and smiled. It was a brief flash full of tragedy and quiet perseverance. At that moment, he had a revelation: it was all a lie. The widow’s weeds, the tragic air, even the way she perched like a delicate, frightened bird on the edge of the couch—all of it was a carefully constructed lie.

He sat in his own chair, relishing the coming moments. He didn’t care if she was a thief, charlatan, or just a smart salesgirl. Whatever her true nature was made no difference. She was about to make his last five years worthwhile.

Get
her
drunk
first.

He felt his lips curve. Drinking wouldn’t be the most subtle ploy, but it often worked anyway. “Instead of tea, I could order wine. More bracing, I think. They have an excellent brandy here too or—”

“Oh heavens!” she said with a flash of white teeth. “Tea is fine for me. But please, feel free to order some for yourself.”

Step number one: ineffective. On to step two: establishing a friendship.

Kiss
her
senseless!

“I don’t mean to offend,” he said. “Your attire suggests you’re still in mourning. That must mean your loss was recent. Please allow me to express my deepest sympathy.”

She nodded, holding his gaze for perhaps a moment too long. “Thank you,” she said, before dropping her eyes. “In truth, it’s been some time since Nate’s death, but I still feel it.”

There was true emotion in her eyes, so the loss must be real. He felt a twinge of sympathy, but immediately quashed it. Outside, though, his expression was tender concern as he leaned forward.

“So was he the purchaser? Are you taking over his job?”

Her expression shifted to stern, as if she were preparing to do battle, which he supposed, she was. “I think that the best purchaser for women’s clothing is a woman, don’t you agree? A man couldn’t possibly understand things as well.”

He nodded slowly. “Naturally, you have advantages. But in the world of business, there are some drawbacks to your gender.”

“Spoken like a gentleman,” she said, obviously not meaning a word. Then they both fell silent as the tea tray arrived. She reached for it immediately.

“Shall I pour?” she asked, as if she were a matron in a society parlor.

“Of course. Just add a little lemon for me.” He hadn’t allowed himself sugar or milk for the last five years. In fact, the lemon would be a treat.

Boring! Get on with the naked part!

She nodded and poured, her hands steady, her every movement graceful. There wasn’t anything special in what she did. Thousands of women throughout England did the same thing every day. And yet the sight stopped his breath. His belly tightened, and his chest squeezed painfully. And, worst of all, his cock reared like a thing coming alive for the first time in five years.

Finally!

What the hell? She was just serving him tea!

He narrowed his eyes, trying to judge the situation dispassionately. He noted each item individually, like marks on a tally sheet. First, she was lovely, but she didn’t dress to emphasize that. If anything, her attire was modest and old. Second, she moved with the inborn class of a lady, and yet everything about her told him she was of the working class. He’d known this already, so what had changed in the last second?

It was the way she served tea, he realized. As if she were born to something better, but had fallen on hard times. Terrible times that he couldn’t fix.

And there was his answer. His mother had served tea like this, and his sister too. With an innate dignity and a silent grief. Not for a man, but for a dream that was lost. A possibility that would never come to fruition. That was how the women in his family served tea. And now, Mrs. Knopp too. It roused his protective instincts. It reminded him that women should be cherished. And damn, it made him long for a better way.

Of course, none of that explained his thickening cock. He had no interest in bedding anyone. And if he did, it certainly wouldn’t be this tragic figure before him, especially since it was probably a well-constructed lie! And yet, nothing he said had the tiniest impact on his imbecilic organ.

Don’t question it. Use it! Repeatedly. And in a thrusting motion!

“Mr. Grant? Is something amiss?”

He swallowed then reached for his teacup. “Nothing at all,” he said. He took an obligatory sip then held the cup and saucer in his lap to hide his embarrassment. “Perhaps we should get to business. You are purchasing fabric for A Lady’s Favor dress shop, and I have the best wools in England.”

“My goodness, that’s quite a statement.”

“It’s true nonetheless.” Then he leaned forward, deciding that he might as well use his discomfort to his advantage. If he was attracted to the woman, then he should let it show and flirt. “In fact, I have the most gorgeous bolt just for you. It’s a little heavier—meant for late fall—but the color would be spectacular on you.”

“On me? But I assure you, I have no need—”

“You’re coming out of mourning soon. You must be.” He set aside his tea and crossed to the nearest pile of fabric. Sorting through them, he lifted then discarded his choices. He knew what he was looking for. So where was it? “Oh yes! I set it aside for a different customer,” he lied. In truth, he’d meant to bring it out later as a temptation. After the primary order was made, he would bring it out as a last temptation to increase her order. But now that she was here, he knew that it had been made just for her.

He lifted it up, feeling the exquisite softness and seeing the design. He had been the one to first draw this pattern, not that he’d tell her that. But when he turned and held the fabric up to her face, he knew he’d done it all just for her.

“This is it,” he said softly.

He angled her toward the mirror and let her see. The fabric was a dark rose, light enough to be joyous, but still not a full pastel. It brought out the color in her skin. But what made the piece truly stunning was the intricate pattern embroidered on top. Nothing so girlish as flowers. This was a design in abstract. He’d been looking at a candle flame, and the pattern had come to him. Yellows, oranges, and red burned on the area that would be the bodice. There were matching flames for the skirt. The end result would make her appear to be wreathed in candlelight.

“Touch it,” he said. “It’s a special wool that we make mixing in the fur from a thousand rabbits.”

“Rabbits!”

“Angora rabbits, in fact. Go ahead. Feel it against your skin.” He didn’t wait until she complied. Instead, he brushed it across her cheek.

She gasped, as he knew she would. The first feel of angora wool was always the best. Wool from sheep was one thing—and his factory had some of the best—but nothing could compare to his angora blend.

“Imagine yourself walking into a ballroom wearing this. The chandeliers are above you, but the crowd parts seeing only you. Like a living flame among them.”

“Mr. Grant, I am not a woman who likes flattery.”

“Every woman likes flattery, Mrs. Knopp,” he countered. “But in this, I only speak the truth. I’ll show you. But first cover your eyes.”

“Mr. Grant!”

“Shh!” He gently set his hand over her eyes. She closed them, of course, and he told himself the caress across her brow was only in the service of his sale. Still, he couldn’t help but note how soft her skin felt or that there was heat in her face. When was the last time she blushed? he wondered. Not lately, he’d wager.

Meanwhile, he draped the fabric about her, covering her ugly black dress with ease.

“Shall I look?”

“Not yet,” he said. He quickly crossed to the window and pulled the curtains shut. Then he lit two candelabra, setting them on either side of her. Just as he’d thought, the dress picked up the dance of the flames. When she moved, she would draw every eye in the room.

He smiled, proud of his creation. But more, he was awed by her beauty. “Now,” he said. “Open your eyes and see.”

He watched as her impossibly long lashes lifted, and she looked into the mirror. She blinked then she frowned, but not in disappointment. She seemed more startled than anything. As if she had forgotten what she looked like in anything but black.

“Your skin is flawless,” he said as he stepped behind her. “A gown made from this will bring out the color of your lips and the blush across your… cheeks.” The hesitation was deliberate as his gaze dropped lower to where the soft curve of her breasts might show.

“The design is so pretty,” she murmured, touching the precise stitches. “It’s like…”

“Fire?”

“Yes, but more delicate.” She met his gaze in the mirror. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was made for you,” he said, meaning every word.

Dance
with
her,
his madness prompted. And for once, he obeyed, touching her elegant fingers with his own.

“I can see you at a ball, Mrs. Knopp. The men have been watching you, but someone has claimed the waltz. He bows before you and takes your hand.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

“It’s harmless, Mrs. Knopp. Let yourself pretend, if only for a moment.” He didn’t give her the chance to object. Lifting her hand to his lips, he kissed her flesh before bowing. Once he had been counted a good dancer, and he drew on that memory now. She was wrapped in fabric, so he did what he could, draping the tail end over his shoulder. Then he began to hum.

“That’s a pretty tune.”

“Really? Trust me, I’m accounted a much better dancer than a musician. And now, if you will, Mrs. Knopp?”

He resumed humming and then swept her into a waltz. There was very little room, but he had danced on crowded floors before. In truth, it made it all the more thrilling as he spun her around and around.