Marry Christmas (Zebra Historical Romance) (2 page)

“Elizabeth,” she said, her gray eyes taking in her dishabille with slight distaste. “Do you know what you have done to your mother with your callous indifference to her feelings? She has suffered a heart attack, brought on by your ridiculous rebellion. Have you a notion what it means when a daughter literally breaks her mother’s heart?”

Despite her anger at her mother, Elizabeth was shocked to hear Alva was ill. She might be angry with her, but despite everything, she loved her and certainly didn’t wish her dead. “Is she going to be well?”

“The doctor said it was only a mild attack. This time,” the older woman said pointedly. “But if you persist on going against her, she could have another attack, this one fatal. I’m certain you do not want your mother’s death on your conscience.”

Elizabeth sat down on her bed, her legs no longer able to hold her up. Her life was being sucked from her, her hope drained away by this woman’s words. “Of course I don’t,” she said, looking down at the rich Aubusson carpet at her feet. Then she looked up, her expression tormented. “But is my happiness of so little importance?

Should I not have a say in which man I marry?”

“You are far too young to make such an important decision,” she said, sounding so much like her mother Elizabeth wondered if Alva had written a script. “If you persist on going against your mother and marrying this man, I have no doubt your mother will be forced into some drastic measure to prevent it. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth said dully, remembering her mother’s threat to have Henry murdered. As crazy as it seemed, she was not entirely certain her mother would not have him murdered, so great was her obsession to have her marry a great English title. Mrs. William-Smythe’s image blurred in front of her as her eyes filled with tears.

“Then you will agree to marry the duke?”

She blinked the tears away so that she could see the woman clearly when she made her answer.

“Yes. I will marry the duke.”

Mrs. William-Smythe smiled as if all were finally right with the world. “I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses, my dear. I shall go tell your mother the good news. Imagine. A Christmas wedding. She’ll be so happy,” she gushed.

She left the room, left the girl weeping silently on her bed, and took away any hope Elizabeth had of ever being in love.

England, Four Months Earlier

Randall Blackmore, ninth Duke of Bellingham, stared in disbelief at the letter before him, a letter that instantly solved his problems. One million pounds, an impossible amount of money, would be at his disposal if only he agreed to travel to America and marry a girl he’d never laid eyes on.

It was so damned tempting. As well as humiliating and insane. But after meeting last week for the third time with the family solicitors it just might be the only thing between salvation and complete ruin. He wanted to ball up the letter and toss it in the fire grate. He wanted to, but he knew he wouldn’t. He let out a curse which encouraged a chuckle from Lord Hollings, Earl of Wellesley, his most trusted friend.

“You’ve been handed a miracle, old boy, and all you can do is take the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, tsking mockingly. Edward poured his friend a generous splash of fine French brandy. “You can afford this now, Rand,” he said, laughing. Edward Hollings had been with Bellingham in the Life Guards, where they’d both enjoyed being part of the most elite military regiment in England. That is until Hollings’s uncle had died and he was forced to take on his duties as heir, but that was as far as his commiseration went. His family estate, Meremont, was not nearly as encumbered as Bellewood. Hollings was able to sustain his home and live a life, if not of luxury, then of leisure. Such a life was out of the question for Bellingham. Until now.

“What the hell is wrong with the chit if her parents are in such a hurry to rid themselves of her? I hear she was brought around the continent and dangled out in front of several cash-hungry members of the peerage. No one took the bait, of course,” Rand said, his eyes still glued to the words: “one million pounds.”

Hollings shrugged. “You met the mother. Did she hint at some strange disease? Or perhaps she’s fatally ugly.”

Rand gave his friend a withering look. “I’m so glad you are having such a grand time with my misery.”

“What did her mother look like, then?”

Rand frowned. He had met her at the opening of an art exhibit in London perhaps one year ago, and noted at the time how grateful he was that her daughter had not been with her and how very disappointed she’d been that he would not get to meet the girl. Ever since inheriting the title, Rand had been beset with mamas, all of whom apparently did not care that he was practically a pauper. He should have known a pauper with a title was still a grand catch.

If he remembered correctly, Alva Cummings was hardly a pretty woman. At best, one could call her handsome if one was extremely generous. “She must be ugly, then. Hideously so, for this price.”

“One million pounds can go a long way to making her beautiful.”

The idea of marrying for money was extremely distasteful. Still, he didn’t know what he was going to do. Bellewood was in shambles. His tenants, already driven to poverty because of the agricultural depression, were suffering needlessly. Cottages were in disrepair, farming equipment was completely outdated, young men were leaving for London, for America, all because the two former Dukes of Bellingham had dipped so deeply in the well of prosperity, it was now bone-dry. As much as Rand had admired his father and loved his brother, he could not fathom why they had allowed the situation to become as dire as it was. He truly had no other choice but to marry an heiress.

“Don’t look so glum, old boy. Get your heir and leave her be. With that money you can buy a little cottage somewhere for her, say in Scotland, and get on with your life.”

“One million pounds,” Rand said, feeling desperation pull at him. “It would mean everything.”

“It’s just marriage,” Hollings said blandly. “Go see her. You can always change your mind.”

Rand looked at his old friend and gave him a grim smile. “I can hardly afford passage.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “I really could throttle my father and brother. And would, too, if they weren’t six feet under.” His words were blasé but the pain inside was anything but. His father and brother had shared a bond that he could never breech. It was as if they were part of a whole and he was simply an extra bit that fell off and was not needed at all. His brother had taken pains to spend time with him when he was very young, and a boy could not have asked for a better big brother.

Then, Rand had been shipped off to school when he was nine years old and from then on he never felt a part of anything at Bellewood. All he had were wonderful memories and a sometimes aching desire to go home.

Now they were both gone, so he could only speculate why they had behaved the way they had, tossing away a vast fortune on nothing.

Hollings took a long sip of his brandy. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know a single peer who hasn’t had to start looking for money. Some in unusual places. Lord Dumfrey is director of twelve companies.

Doesn’t do a thing but collect the cash and lend out his good name. And don’t even think that you’re the only peer who has married an American for her money. Done all the time these days.”

Rand tried to take heart in Hollings’s speech, but he couldn’t help wishing there was another way. If it was just a matter of raising the money to repair Bellewood, he could do that. He wasn’t opposed to working for a living; it was becoming common among the more desperate of the peerage. But he could never pay the enormous amount of debt left behind by his brother. Not without a substantial bit of help. He refused to sell Bellewood; he’d only get a fraction of what it was worth. Besides, Bellewood had been in his family for generations and he’d be damned if he’d be the duke to lose it.

God, how he wished he were back in London with his regiment, happily unaware that his brother, the eighth duke, was dying of consumption. By the time he found out, his poor brother was near death and Rand was looking at a future far more grim than the one he’d expected. But not as grim as his brother’s, and for that he was somewhat grateful.

He didn’t want to be duke. He didn’t want to marry some American. He didn’t want to produce an heir and a spare. Not yet. Hell, he was only twenty-seven years old. He’d thought he had at least another decade of work in the military before settling down to a calm country life with a pretty English girl. English, being the key word. He would happily have been Lord Blackmore for the rest of his life. Now he would be something else entirely. Good God.

He’d had to sell out his commission with the Life Guards and return home to take up his new duties, only to find out that his first duty as duke would be to find a way to save his beloved Bellewood, one of the grandest estates in England. At least it used to be. Now, thanks to poor investments and outrageous expenses, Bellewood was a shell of what it had been. When he’d been called home to his brother’s deathbed, he’d been shocked by what had happened to the great house. The library, filled with nearly forty thousand volumes dating back to the fifteenth century, had been decimated. Paintings, furniture, tapestries, all sold to pay for enormous debt. Indeed, Bellewood resembled a large and quite empty museum. The staff had been nearly all dismissed, which left the house to fall into disrepair, not to mention that vast amounts of dust floated everywhere.

Worst was the stables, the pride of his grandfather, whose love of horses surpassed all else. Bellewood was famous in the British Isles for producing some of the best racers in the world. The stables, the pride of the Blackmores, were an empty shell, the horses long ago sold off to pay for debts or God knew what else. His childhood memories of Bellewood were centered around the stables, hanging about the tolerant stable master and the intolerant grooms. Rand had been happiest in those stables, watching foals being birthed, hefting hay, oiling the tackle. He hadn’t realized he shouldn’t be in the stables at all, never mind working there. Walking into those stables, hearing nothing but the wind hissing through a hole in the roof, had been heartbreaking.

The grounds were overgrown, the beautiful gardens his mother had taken so much pride in, nearly obliterated by neglect. Strangely, it was the loss of his mother’s garden that affected him the most. It might have been his fond memories of his mother doting over her roses, the warm afternoons when he, as a young boy, would escape his tutor and find her there. His mother had been a strict disciplinarian in most things, but she never could bring herself to give him up when he found his way to her. Looking back, he supposed she justified allowing him to stay by giving him a lesson in horticulture. He would pretend interest when all he really wanted was to be near her.

Rand hadn’t yet told his mother that to save Bellewood he would likely have to marry an American heiress. The Dowager Duchess was such a stickler about everything, except little boys who wandered into gardens. She had envisioned for him the daughter of an earl or duke from a family she knew and respected. No doubt, she’d had a list for his brother, one, to her great frustration, Tyler had chosen to ignore. Rand never knew why his brother had not married. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he would die before he was ready. It wasn’t as if the dukedom would be lost or go to some unsavory cousin, for he had a younger brother. Rand had never talked about marriage with Tyler. They’d talked of women in general, the need of them, and horses, the joy of them. Now that he was dead, Rand would never know how Tyler had felt about leaving nothing behind, no legacy but unending debt, no children to remember him. Nothing but a brother, who didn’t want to be a duke, and a mother who’d been crushed by his death.

His mother was blissfully and almost tragically unaware of his financial difficulties. Shortly after his brother’s death she lamented how she wouldn’t be able to hold her annual ball. “I talked with your brother about it before he grew so ill and we’d agreed that this year we’d spare no expense. I’m so sick of watching every penny we spend. Of course, now that he’s gone…” Her voice had trailed off, overwhelmed with the realization that never again would she plan even the smallest event with her oldest son.

Rand had felt his body go completely numb, for he’d just learned from his solicitor that the only way to pay off the astronomical debts accumulated by his father and brother was to sell every bit of property they owned, including the dowager house where his mother had happily lived since his father died three years before.

He found he could not do it. He could not sell his mother’s home from beneath her and put her in something far less grand. His mother was a duchess from the diamond-encrusted tiara on her head to the silk stockings on her legs. Those diamonds had long been replaced with paste, to pay for a new breeding mare his brother had to have, but his mother’s eyesight was so poor, thankfully she could not tell the difference.

Already the family’s London town house and three country estates had been sold to pay for too many years of extravagance and ignorance. It had been a shock, but perhaps it should not have been. If he had spent more time at home, more time paying attention to what was happening around him, he would not have been so blindsided.

And now he would have to pay for two generations of neglect by marrying an heiress, and an American heiress at that.