Chapter Three #2
“As I said to begin with, you may call me Stephen. My peers often refer to me as Lord Brunswick, or merely Brunswick. But that will change to Lancaster when my father leaves this earth and I inherit his title. Which is what has brought me here. The earl is not well, Abigail.” A fact that might have troubled Stephen more, had his back not borne the scars of his father’s ill temper.
“His dying wish is for me to return to England with my long-lost fiancée.”
Abigail’s freckles stopped dancing. “Can you tell him you couldn’t find me?”
“But I did find you,” he pointed out, not unkindly. “And so will the private investigator he’s hired.”
“Your father has hired a private investigator?”
“The best that money can buy.”
“Surely I’m not that important.” Her shoulders slumped beneath the voluminous folds of his coat as she muttered, “I couldn’t even convince Dr. Bard to allow me into Columbia College Medical School.”
Stephen didn’t have the foggiest idea who Dr. Bard was, but he did know that he didn’t like the blackguard.
He didn’t like anyone capable of putting such sadness into those big, beautiful green eyes.
Reaching across the table, he took her hand and gently squeezed.
“You’re the daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Hanover, betrothed to be married to the future Earl of Lancaster.
I can assure you that in London, you are very important.
” And hang Dr. Bard if he believes otherwise.
“But not here.” Sliding her hand out from under his, she tucked it back into her lap. “Here, where nobility does not matter, I am no one of consequence. I rather think I would like to keep it that way.”
“There is a contract, Abigail.”
Her mouth settled into a mulish line. “I did not sign it.”
“Neither did I, but that doesn’t negate its existence. Unless you have ten thousand pounds—”
“Ten thousand pounds?” Her eyes went as wide as their tea saucers. “What need would I have for such a sum?”
Stephen would have preferred this part be left out of it.
It wasn’t proper conversation for a lady.
And it also made him feel vaguely ill, as he sometimes did when he went on a winning streak at the races and celebrated with a bit too much champagne.
But Abigail struck him as a logical sort.
The type of person who, when faced with a broken object, preferred to take it apart and examine every single piece to determine why it had stopped working, as opposed to merely tossing it in the rubbish bin and buying a replacement.
“That was what my father paid yours.”
“For what?” she said blankly.
Stephen sighed. “For his son to marry the daughter of a duke.”
He could practically see the wheels in her clever mind spinning. When they stopped on the answer, he watched as the blood drained from her cheeks a second time . . . and tasted the bitter bubbles of champagne in the back of his throat.
“My father sold me to you. When I was no more than a child. When I was still an infant. As if I were a horse or a loaf of bread!”
“I don’t know if I’d say a loaf of bread—”
“Ten thousand pounds?”
“Yes.”
“That is a small fortune.”
“Yes,” he acknowledged, as there was no point in lying. Ten thousand pounds was a fortune. For most. For him, courtesy of several wise investments, it was a mere pittance. “It is.”
“My understanding is that the bride’s family pays the dowry, not the other way around.”
“It appears that while your father was a duke, he required money to shore up some gambling debts he had accrued. While my father had money, but no ties to a dukedom. It was a perfect arrangement for them both.”
“But not for us,” she burst out. “We had no say in the matter!”
Speak for yourself, he thought silently as his gaze wandered from her arching cheekbones (now flushed a pleasing pink), to her delectably full lips, to the creamy white of her breasts exposed in the shape of a half-moon above the bodice of her gown.
Stephen had not come to find Abigail out of any sense of duty to his dying father.
The Earl of Lancaster could choke on a toad tomorrow for all he cared.
But one thing he did care about—he cared deeply about—was Summerwind House, the country manor that had been in his family for five generations.
A manor that should rightfully pass to him without complication, along with the mansion in Grosvenor Square, townhouse in Bath, hunting property in Killin, and a far larger estate in Sussex.
But it was Summerwind House that held the most sentimental value, as it was the only place his father had never cared to visit, and as such, it was the only place in all of Great Britain that he had ever felt completely safe.
He’d spent his best summers racing away from his governess through the dusty hallways and romping around the fields and forests pretending to be a pirate.
With a branch as his sword, he’d slayed dragons and sea beasts while forging friendships that remained strong to this day.
Summerwind was more than a house, it was a haven.
Unfortunately, he’d made the dire mistake of revealing to his father just how much it meant to him .
. . and thus it was his duty to a crumbling old manor that had spurred him into hunting down a fiancée he’d never asked for, not his father.
“Find her,” the earl had said in no uncertain terms, “and marry her, or so help me God I’ll see to it that before I take my last breath, that hovel you love will be razed to the ground!”
In conclusion, Stephen hadn’t set out on his journey with any grand expectations.
But with every passing minute that he spent in Abigail’s admittedly volatile presence, he was starting to wonder if being forced to marry an intelligent, headstrong, and pretty faux-American would be such a terrible thing.
In a ballroom gone stale with the same old giggling debutantes, Abigail was a breath of fresh New England air.
She may not have wanted anything to do with him, but he was beginning to feel like he would enjoy having a great deal to do with her.
“Would it be so terrible?” he asked, leaning onto his elbows.
“Would what be so terrible?” she mumbled, staring at her teacup.
“Marrying me. And before you refuse, hear me out. We both have something the other wants.”
Her gaze snapped to his. “I don’t want anything from you but to be left alone.”
“Ouch,” he said, feigning a grimace. “If I were a man of lesser self-confidence that would hurt.”
She sniffed. “It is not my job to stroke your pride.”
“You’re right.” Although he could think of one thing he’d very much like for her to stroke.
When heat pooled in his loins at the erotic image of her hand wrapped around his hard cock, Stephen shifted in his chair.
“If I return to London with a copy of our marriage license in hand as proof of our nuptials, I don’t see why you’d have to accompany me.
Stay in Manhattan and attend Columbia College. ”
“I already told you that Dr. Bard—”
“Leave Dr. Bard to me,” he interrupted. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You’ll take care of it,” she repeated, her tone ripe with skepticism.
“That’s what I said.” Once again he extended his hand across the table, this time with his palm facing upward. “Marry me, Abigail. Marry me, and I’ll return home, you’ll stay here, and we’ll live happily ever after. Until such time as I require an heir, that is.”
Her own hand, which had begun to inch toward his, immediately disappeared. A tiny bird darting back into its nest as a hawk circled overhead. “You mean a child. In exchange for my education, I will have to give you a child.”
“As I’m sure you’ve gleaned from the betrothal contract, continuing the bloodline is quite important to us aristocrats.
Besides, would it be such a terrible thing?
” he asked, searching her countenance. She’d make an awful card player.
All of her emotions—dismay, uncertainty, annoyance, and the tiniest bit of curiosity—were right there on full display. “To have a child with your husband?”
“It wouldn’t be terrible.” Her tongue flicked between her lips, passing across the bottom in such a way that he found himself once again adjusting his position in the chair. Thank heavens for the long drape of the tablecloth. “Having offspring is the natural prerogative of any species.”
“Quite right,” he said seriously.
“I would require a minimum of ten years. To graduate from school, complete an apprenticeship, and establish my own practice.” Her eyes took on a gleam of determination that Stephen found both inspiring and a tad bit intimidating.
While most women in her position would be elated at the idea of marrying him and settling into the role of viscountess, soon-to-be-countess, Abigail viewed the traditional role of lady of the manor as a hindrance.
He couldn’t say he blamed her, as he wasn’t entirely looking forward to playing lord of the manor and shouldering all of the responsibilities that came along with it.
But he had an inkling . . . he had an inkling that with Abigail by his side, it would be a far less unpleasant experience.
“Five,” he countered.
“Eight.”
“Seven. My final offer.”
She looked at his hand, still stretched open and waiting. Then slowly, so slowly that had he held his breath he might have toppled right off the chair, she raised her arm . . . and pressed her palm to his.
Stephen could have sworn that his heart skipped a beat as their fingers interlocked, and by her startled blink he liked to think that hers had as well.
“Should we seal it with a kiss?” he asked.
“A . . . a kiss?”
“We are going to be married tomorrow.”
“So soon? But—”
“And have a child in five years.”
“Seven,” she corrected, her eyes narrowing.
“Ah, yes, seven.” The corner of his mouth hitched in a half grin. “How could I have forgotten?”
“Perhaps we should write this all down. The terms of our agreement.” She attempted to draw her hand away, but he held fast. A muscle ticked in her jaw. “Lord Brunswick—”
“Stephen.”