The Reluctant Suitor

  The real test for any man, Roger had concluded during that time, was fairly simple. All he had to do was win the lady’s heart, for, by winning it, he would then gain her father’s approval . . . perhaps. Foolish logic indeed, for he had soon learned that a goodly number of pompous lords, after striving to evoke her affection, had toppled from their self-erected plinth with scarcely an excuse or a warning from the young lady herself. Those swains had not been chivalrous enough to maintain their silence. In sharp contrast to the glowing tributes the townspeople were wont to heap upon the girl, jeering comments as to the hardness of the lady’s heart had been liberally bandied about by the rejected, causing Roger to wonder if Adriana was really as cold and haughty as those arrogant fellows had claimed, or if her reserve had merely become an impenetrable cage she had locked around her heart while she awaited the return of her intended.

  Still, his desire to have her as his wife had strengthened progressively, but more crucial than the assuagement of his pining heart was the matter of her generous dowry and her father’s wealth, which no roué in dire financial straits could lightly ignore. As a boy, he had been forced into a life of hardship imposed upon him after his father had callously cast him aside right along with his mother, leaving the two of them struggling to put food in their mouths in the slums of London while the elder had courted numerous ladies and caroused with doxies.

  When a wildly careening livery had run down his mother, Roger had found himself not only grieving but entirely deprived of anyone who cared a whit. Other than escorting him to an orphanage and laying out instructions for him to be rigorously schooled, Edmund Elston had given no further heed to his offspring. Although it seemed unlikely that it would’ve troubled his sire, Roger had suffered harsh treatment and frequent whippings from those in charge. After all, there had been no one to whom they had had to answer for the stripes they had laid across his back or the vindictive discipline that had exacted from him. Eventually he had reached maturity in the orphanage, assumed the role of tutor, and had come to understand how certain children could nettle one’s temper even while innocent of the charges laid against them.

  It was during his adult years he had learned that his sire had found a rich miller’s widow to wed. Soon after her death, Edmund had summoned him to Bradford on Avon. No apologies for what he had been forced to suffer were ever offered. The elder Elston had enormous plans for his son; Roger would marry the young daughter of another miller whose holdings purportedly would stagger the wits of the most greedy, among whom he had come to suspect his father was primary. Being the only issue of her sire, Martha Grimbald stood to inherit a sizable fortune upon his death, and once she married, then, as often was the case, that same wealth would fall under the control of her husband.

  Initially Roger had been tempted by the idea of such affluence, but after making the acquaintance of the most undesirable Miss Grimbald, he had decided marrying her would be too great a sacrifice for him to endure beyond the measure of an hour. He certainly couldn’t imagine himself actually being able to make love to such a thin, hawk-faced spinster . . . even in the dark. After all, he had acquired an eye for beauty, even if he couldn’t always afford it. Nevertheless he had done well enough for himself in that area, for his handsome face had led some lovelies to treat him merely for the pleasure of his company.

  In placating his outraged sire over his refusal to marry Miss Grimbald, he had woven a hopeful story about his courtship of the beauteous Lady Adriana Sutton, fabricating more than any man had a right to. The idea of an aristocrat in the family had served to mollify his ambitious father, and Roger had been given time to woo the girl.

  It certainly didn’t help his situation now that the very handsome and distinguished Colonel Lord Colton Wyndham, the seventh Marquess of Randwulf, had finally come home. The stories about the couple would soon be making their way around Bradford on Avon. What he’d actually tell his sire once the elder confronted him about that matter was something he hadn’t quite figured out yet, but he could see that day rapidly approaching. If, in the meantime, Lord Colton could do him a favor and fall over that fine cane of his and break his bloody neck, then perhaps he’d be able to survive without being forced into exchanging marriage vows with Martha Grimbald. It was a very sad occasion indeed when a son was compelled to wed a totally unappetizing woman merely to satisfy a debt his father had extended to him in buying him the clothes of a gentleman.

  Six

  * * *

  A brilliant shard of sunlight pierced the drapery-shadowed darkness of the spacious, second-story bedchamber of Wakefield Manor. Much like a dazzling, puckish sprite, it streaked across a lengthy expanse of oriental carpet before climbing a low chest that resided against a heavily carved footboard. Upon reaching the sleeping face of the young woman who lay sprawled amid a twisted tangle of sheets and downy comforters on the huge tester, the brightness seemed mischievously bent upon wrenching its victim from an exhausted slumber, which sadly enough had come well after hours of fitful tossing and turning.

  Opening one eye, Adriana glared in vexation toward the cause of the provoking light, in this case a tiny gap that servants the previous night had inadvertently left in the heavily tasseled green velvet draperies they had drawn closed over the spacious oriel. The latter amounted to a wide expanse of diamond-paned windows, which consumed nearly the entire east wall of her bedchamber. No matter how diligently the servants tried to ensure the snug closure of the velvet hangings, the early morning rays, on a fairly frequent basis, would find their way in through the tiniest breach.

  At times like these, Adriana knew exactly why her sisters had left her, the youngest offspring, the largest and grandest bedchamber in the manse, with the exception of the suite of rooms belonging to their parents. Both Melora and Jaclyn enjoyed sleeping until a late hour, whereas, in sharp contrast, she normally rose soon after the dawning of the sun, or even earlier when she had plans to join their father on a hunt. Unfortunately, this morning she was thoroughly exhausted and suffering an horrendous headache, the likes of which she had never known before. The intensity of it caused her to regret the fact that she had consumed so much wine. Aside from her fatigue and discomfort, she was also feeling a little queasy and more than a little rebellious. Indeed, if Colton Wyndham had been anywhere within striking distance, she’d have boxed his fine, aristocratic nose just for the sheer pleasure of it.

  As relentlessly as she had tried to thrust that gray-eyed, handsome devil from her mind prior to succumbing to her lassitude, regretfully he was still very much in residence in the full light of morning. The hardest part had been trying to banish to the nether ends of her memory the sight of him standing gloriously naked in the bathing chamber. No one could have been more surprised by his return to Randwulf Manor than she. After his failure to come home for his father’s funeral, she, like his sister, had assumed that he had wanted nothing to do with the marquessate. Then, out of the blue, he appeared, turning her world topsy-turvy. After waiting an eternity for the rogue to show his handsome face, it seemed she might at least have been better prepared, but in that endeavor she realized she had failed most miserably.

  Looming in her future now were three endless months of uncertainty during which she’d be forced to bide her time until the rascal made up his mind whether he wanted to accept or reject his father’s decree. Duty and honor would serve as a forceful constraint to bind her to a promise her own sire had made years ago. As much as she loved and respected her father, she couldn’t bring herself to appreciate the tenuous position he had helped create for her. He just hadn’t realized what it would entail.

  Adriana buried her throbbing head beneath a pillow, knowing only too well that her future would hang in the balance during that grueling, interminable interval of time. Her father was a man of high morals and principles, and, as such, would do everything within his power to honor the terms of the betrothal contract, though he, too, had grown impatient for the son of Sedgwick Wyndham to return. Yet, if she chos
e to avoid the anguish she’d likely suffer while waiting for the outcome of the ordeal, she had no doubt her sire would stand behind her decision, though it could well mean going against a pact that he and Sedgwick had carefully considered at great length years ago. Still, if he did, she could think of no assuagement that would absolve him of the shame that would probably torment him in years to come.

  Once again, Adriana found herself at the vexing crux of her problem, how to avoid Colton Wyndham’s courtship without causing her father anguish. Being romanced and then rebuffed by the marquess might well prove her undoing. Why, oh, why did he have to return at all? Hadn’t their fathers realized at the time of their agreement there existed a possibility that her heart would be just as susceptible to Colton today as it had been ages ago? She didn’t think she could bear another wounding the like of which she had suffered after his earlier rejection. What could she possibly do to save herself now that he looked like some godly being sent to Earth for the express purpose of stealing the hearts of maidens in every corner of the world? Sheath her own in a bulwark of stone? Not likely!

  As much as Adriana yearned to find a way out of her predicament and banish Colton from her mind, both proved impossible feats. When some moments later she stumbled downstairs, he was still wedged securely within a cavernous niche. Thus, with languishing heart and pounding head, she entered the dining room to find her parents already seated at the table.

  “Where have you been, child?” Lady Christina asked cheerily. In view of the different habits of her offspring, she had no need to verify the identity of her youngest. “We’ve delayed breakfast until Cook is nigh cranky.”

  When no answer came, the older woman glanced up toward her daughter and immediately gasped in shock. Even at an early hour of the morning, Adriana was normally bright and vivacious, truly a pleasure to be around. It was equally rare the girl came downstairs less than neatly groomed for the morning meal. Nevertheless, here she was, still in her dressing gown, her long black hair tumbling in riotous disarray about her shoulders, and faint, translucent shadows evident beneath her silkily lashed dark eyes. The sight was so unexpected that Christina could do little more than gape in slack-jawed astonishment at her youngest offspring.

  Growing sharply curious about what had caused this peculiar reaction from his wife, Gyles Sutton twisted promptly about in his chair to find his daughter, still very much in a state of dishabille, weaving an unsteady path toward the table. Stealing the very words from his awestruck wife, he blurted, “Good heavens, child! Have you fallen ill?”

  The jerky, irresolute movement of the dark head was somewhere between a nod and a shake as Adriana halted beside her customary place at the table. Beneath the combined stares of her astounded parents, she passed a shaking hand over her face and managed to croak, “Nay, Father, I’m not ill.”

  Gyles indicated her disheveled appearance as if to draw attention to the fact that she was not already dressed and definitely far from her sprightly self. What he saw convinced him that something was indeed seriously wrong. “If you’re not ill, girl, then what the devil has taken hold of you?”

  Adriana opened her mouth to reply, only to emit another hoarse croak, motivating her to clasp slender fingers to her lips in surprise. She tried to swallow against the large lump that seemed wedged there, but, in her failure, was forced to respond with a quick, negative shake of her head. In abject misery, she lowered herself as awkwardly as an ancient crone into her chair.

  “Well, I know very well that something is the matter!” Gyles insisted. Though generally at a complete loss when discerning the moods of the elder two, he knew his youngest only too well. Concern affected his voice. It seemed to rumble upward from somewhere deep in his chest as he cajoled, “Now tell me, child, what is bothering you?”

  “Dear . . .” Christina sweetly plied with a tentative smile, drawing her husband’s curious regard. “You didn’t return from London until late last night, and I was reluctant to tell you. . . .”

  “Tell me what?” Immediately suspicious, he braced a forearm along the table’s edge and peered at her intently. More than thirty years of marriage and three daughters had taught him a few things about women . . . especially his wife. She was never sweeter than when she had bad news to relate. Recognizing the soft plea in her eyes, he became increasingly anxious. “What the hell-fired blazes is going on here?”

  “Calm yourself, dear . . . please,” Christina urged and nervously rearranged the linen napkin on her lap.

  “Perhaps I will, madam, if you will kindly tell me what you have to say,” he bargained gruffly, revealing his heightening apprehension. “Now, what is it? I implore you to tell me before I’m seized with a fit of apoplexy!”

  Christina glanced toward their butler who had approached and was presently moving around the table, setting their plates before them. Charles was incredibly loyal, but she was loath to discuss family matters in front of servants.

  “Madam, I’m waiting,” Gyles reminded her.

  Christina smiled gingerly, seeing no help for her predicament. “Only that Colton Wyndham has finally returned home.”

  Gyles’s face took on a shade that closely resembled dark magenta. “The devil, you say!”

  His bellow was loud enough to draw starts from both Adriana and his wife. Charles, however, seemed oblivious to his employer’s show of temper. With an uncompromising air of dignity, he fetched the water pitcher from a side table.

  Adriana clasped her hands over her ears as her father’s thunderous tones seemed to reverberate within her sore brain. Lifting her slender bare feet off the floor onto the seat of her chair, she curled into a small, discomfited knot, and fought against a strengthening urge to cry.

  Lady Christina’s fingers trembled as Charles returned a glass of water to her hand. Ever the dignified lady, she sat rigidly in her chair as she urged her husband in a gently admonishing tone, “Don’t shout, dear. The servants will think you’re angry with us.”

  “Humph!” Gyles peered askance at the butler, who seemed the very paradigm of tranquillity. “Charles should know by now that I lose my temper on occasion, rare though it be.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the butler agreed, revealing no more than a trace of a smile in spite of his amusement. With the possible exception of his lordship himself, everyone in the house was keenly cognizant of the topics that could ignite the man’s outrage. More than not, they had to do with matters concerning his youngest daughter and her many suitors. She certainly had a way about her that seemed to bring waves of admirers to their stoop, which, of course, did much to spark her father’s protective instincts.

  The housekeeper entered the dining room and crossed it with a rapid patter of footfalls. Having been in the Suttons’ employ well before their first daughter was born, Henrietta Reeves did not show the slightest hesitation as she progressed toward the end of the table where his lordship sat. Halting beside his chair, she presented a silver dish bearing a rumpled letter sealed with a rather large, incongruous blotch of red wax. “Mr. Elston stopped by earlier this morning, my lord,” she explained in muted tones. “He asked me to give you this as soon as Lady Adriana came downstairs. He said the missive was most urgent.”

  “Thank you, Henrietta,” Gyles replied in a tone only slightly less gruff. He broke the seal as the servants withdrew and, unfolding the crumpled letter, began to read. After a moment, one dark brow arched sharply upward, deepening lines across his forehead that normally were barely noticeable.

  The Earl of Standish hadn’t needed a thunderbolt to strike him before he had become suspicious of Roger Elston’s attempts to play upon his daughter’s sympathies. It had been his concern from the beginning that the apprentice was seeking some secure foothold in her life. He had deplored the man’s methods. Having been carefully instructed himself in the manners of a gentleman by his own sire, Gyles had long been of the belief that propriety demanded a fellow, no matter his circumstance in life, remain mum about his difficulties except to those
who were required to know. Among the citizens of Bradford on Avon, Adriana was notoriously compassionate toward people in need. Thus, when Roger had disclosed to her many of the arduous travails he had suffered in his youth and the years thereafter, Gyles had taken umbrage at his effrontery. It hadn’t helped a father’s mounting qualms to realize she had perhaps shown a more kindly tolerance of the apprentice than she had ever exhibited toward aristocrats who, while seeking parental permission to woo her, had been more inclined to abide by lofty codes of behavior. If not for his agreement with his old friend, Gyles would have lent serious consideration to the requests he had received for her hand from several noblemen he had deemed above reproach, the most promising being Riordan Kendrick. Approving of such a courtship would have given him good reason to forbid Roger’s visits, which to his great annoyance had often come about unannounced and without prior knowledge of Adriana.

  Perhaps he was merely reacting to something many would claim as nothing more than a father’s overprotective instincts, but Gyles just couldn’t shake the suspicion that Roger’s main purpose for attaching himself to Adriana was to marry into wealth, just as his unprincipled sire had done before him, or perhaps even to reap the benefits to be gained through the demise of a spouse, by which method, according to rumors, Edmund Elston had profited either by natural or deliberate means.

  “What is it, dear?” Christina inquired, unable to ignore her husband’s deepening scowl.