Willed to Wed Read online

  AFTERNOON DELIGHT

  As if on cue, Matthew appeared before Sarah. He smiled and held out a gloved hand.

  “Come, Sarah. We will show them how it should be done. Let me help you.” He led her to a bench and took her skates from her. Removing his gloves, he knelt before her to fit the blades to her boots. “We have been here before, have we not?” He laughed up at her. “Only this time your ankle is in perfect order.” He surreptitiously caressed her leg.

  “Matthew!” The laughter in her voice belied the admonishment as she pushed his hand away and readjusted the hem of her cloak. He grinned, put his gloves back on, and led her onto the ice.

  They skated smoothly and sedately together for a round or two. Then, gaining momentum and enthusiasm, they twirled and danced on the ice, their movements becoming faster and more intricate. Having, indeed, shown the others, they graciously acknowledged a round of applause and continued.

  Unable to suppress a gurgle of laughter, Sarah was happily startled to see her exhilaration mirrored in Matthew’s eyes. And something else—naked hunger that sent a surge of warmth swirling through her....

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  WILLED TO WED

  Wilma Counts

  Zebra Books

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  http://www.zebrabooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  AFTERNOON DELIGHT

  BOOK YOUR PLACE ON OUR WEBSITE AND MAKE THE READING CONNECTION!

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Copyright Page

  For Nisha and Grant,

  who know the meaning of love—

  and friendship

  One

  “What in blazes are you doing here so early?” Matthew Carey Cameron, major in His Majesty’s forces, veteran of the Peninsular campaign, and newly elevated peer of the realm, glared through sleep-befuddled eyes at the visitor who casually invaded his bedchamber.

  Adrian Whitson, Marquis of Trenville, was impeccably attired in a dark blue coat sporting the unmistakable elegance of Weston. Matthew closed his eyes against the gleaming Hessian boots and snowy cravat—and against the brilliant display of white teeth in his best friend’s broad grin.

  “Too early,” Matthew groaned, but he swung his legs out of bed and reached for the large mug of strong coffee offered by his batman, Coop.

  “Early? It is past noon already! And you asked me to stop by. I must say, if your appearance at the moment is an indication of what His Majesty’s troops are come to, I fear for England’s safety should Napoleon’s present misfortunes take a turn for the better.”

  Matthew grunted. “If that happens, I trust we can count on you soldiers of peace in the foreign office to sweet-talk him into giving up forthwith!” He waved his hand toward the desk. “Those are the papers I had from the solicitor. Do look them over, Adrian. Find me a way out of this infernal situation. As a lawyer and a diplomat, surely you can come up with something. Imagine me—leg-shackled at my tender age.”

  Adrian’s disdainful “Hah!” reminded the new earl that he and his friend were of an age, both thirty-one. The marquis, married at twenty-three, had lost his wife in childbirth two years later.

  As Matthew shaved, dressed, and brought himself more firmly into the world of human beings with minimal help from Coop, Adrian perused the document and drank the coffee Coop brought him.

  “Hmmm. Well-l-l-l ...” Adrian drew the word out dubiously. “This is not my general area of law, but it appears rather tight to me. Your uncle and the lady’s grandfather seem to have had some pretty astute minds at work on this.”

  “That is not what I want to hear.”

  “Of course, they assumed that the Seventh Earl would be your cousin Robert. But I doubt an unwritten assumption would carry much weight if it actually went to court.” Adrian’s brown eyes twinkled. “Maybe you should just marry the lady.”

  “Easy for you to say. You are not the one looking into the barrel of the matrimonial gun. She must be a real antidote.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “She must be lacking in appearance, character, or fortune—why else would anyone go to such lengths to get her married?” Matthew ran his hand through a shock of light brown hair. “Why me?” he wailed in mock despair. “Here I am, home from the wars just this week—I should be able to stroll into a ballroom and have my pick of pretty lasses, and what happens? Those bloody wills! I’d rather be back on the battlefield.”

  Now prepared to face the day, he dismissed Coop.

  “You were managing that ‘home from the wars’ role pretty well last night at the Billington rout. Marriage need not inhibit your style too awfully, old chap.”

  “Just as it did not inhibit you, eh?” Matthew’s tone was heavy with friendly sarcasm.

  “Different story. But you were drawing them like flies to honey last night.”

  “I had forgotten what empty-headed foolishness one spouts in polite society. All those pretty flowers of the ton—schoolroom misses fishing for compliments on their hair ribbons or some such. Females in the demimonde are more honest!”

  “Speaking of female honesty—or lack of it—you might be interested to know that Annalisa Poindexter is on the prowl again. Her elderly husband prefers the country, but the beautiful Annalisa has not lost her taste for town. She asked about you.”

  Matthew froze as he reached for his hat. Only Adrian would dare bring up her name, and so lightheartedly at that. Only Adrian understood what the lovely Annalisa—she of the silvery blond hair and emerald eyes—had meant to him. Even now, nearly ten years later, the pain haunted him.

  “Hmph.” Matthew wished he could ignore the topic. “I saw her when I was back four or five years ago. She seemed satisfied with the position and purse her marriage brought.”

  “She should have been. It was a sizable purse.”

  “I never understood ...”

  “What? How she could forsake your sterling self for all that delicious money?”

  “Well, that,
too. But why she kept me dangling after her. Two days—two days!—before her wedding she and I were still planning to elope.”

  “Perhaps she could not face the prospect of scandal. Annalisa does enjoy her place on the social ladder.”

  “She used me to bring Poindexter up to scratch. But there was no need to keep me on a leash once he had offered.” Matthew fought to keep his voice neutral. Good God! Could she still tie him in knots?

  “Annalisa thrives on male attention. She needs to feel every man in her sphere wants her. Once she makes a conquest, she moves on. Ironically, her marriage has allowed a certain amount of freedom in that regard.”

  “In the end, she certainly fared better with Poindexter than she would have, had she accepted the pathetic offer of a besotted young soldier.”

  “Perhaps the young soldier fared better, too,” Adrian said quietly. Matthew did not respond. Then Adrian asked, “Do you recall a cousin of hers named Hamilton Ridgeley?”

  “Very well. Used to play too deep for my pockets. Likable chap, though.”

  “He still loves a game. He also squires the lovely Annalisa when she seems between . . . uh ... liaisons.”

  Matthew chuckled derisively. “So that’s the polite term these days, eh? ... Even as children she and Ridgeley were close. She could always persuade him to do whatever she wanted.” He pointed at the papers still in Adrian’s hand to redirect the discussion. “Well?”

  Adrian looked thoughtful for a moment. “You know, I think I may know your intended bride. Seaverton took his position in the House of Lords seriously. Good friend of Castlereagh and our office. The granddaughter used to act as his hostess. Not such an antidote at all, Matt, old man. Not at all. I remember dark hair and violet eyes, I think. Or were the eyes blue? Maybe gray. Intelligent, though, and well-read.”

  “Wonderful! Just what I need—some bluestocking to preach sermons at me on a regular basis. And do stop referring to her as my intended! I tell you, there must be some way out of this broil.”

  It occurred to him that this outburst directly contradicted what he had objected to in “schoolroom misses.” He was glad Trenville chose to ignore it as the two set out for White’s.

  A few days later, the new Lord Markholme had consulted several notable men of law in London as well as an army of creditors holding notes against his new properties. Their collective judgment was that if he intended to accept the inheritance, he needed to find some way to ensure its fiscal survival.

  To obtain a complete view of the situation, he set off for Derbyshire to inspect the main property which he had last seen as a youthful visitor. He invited his friend Adrian Whitson and Richard Hendley, a young lieutenant who served in his regiment, to accompany him.

  He would also call upon the lady in question. He expected little to come of such a meeting. Trust a woman again? Not bloody likely!

  And certainly not this woman. After all, her mother destroyed the life of Matthew’s favorite uncle, his father’s oldest brother. A very young Matthew, having lost his father, had been devastated when his fun-loving adventurous idol slowly destroyed himself in oceans of alcohol and gaming debts, finally taking his own life. And all because some mindless chit had thrown him over for a sea captain with interests in the West Indies.

  Later, Matthew himself had not fared much better. On the threshold of maturity, he, too, encountered a woman who freely gave sweet kisses and promised undying love—even as she negotiated for title and wealth elsewhere. Now he was to welcome some conniving chit to his bed? Not bloody likely! he repeated to himself.

  In Derbyshire, the supposed “antidote” had wrestled for weeks with the provisions of wills written by her grandfather and his friend on the neighboring estate. Miss Sarah Matthilde Longbourne knew the details early on, but a recent visit from the solicitor brought the situation home to her as her family now fully absorbed the implications.

  “Oh, Sarah! It simply cannot be. Grandpapa is forcing you to marry some stranger?” Miss Emily Longbourne vented shock and outrage in the unrestrained manner of one having only eighteen years.

  “He still controls—even from the grave,” said Charles, brother to the two Longbourne sisters.

  Sarah willed herself to sit stoically, her hands clasped tightly in the folds of her dress. The late September sun slanted through the library windows, its dancing beams a dramatic contrast to the mood in the room.

  “Grandpapa and the Sixth Earl of Markholme wanted to combine their properties. Marriage between the eldest Longbourne daughter and the Seventh Earl was their solution.” Sarah did not want Charles and Emily to suspect her own apprehension and anger.

  “But that should have been Robert,” Charles declared.

  “Yes.” Sarah remembered fondly the man who had almost become her fiance. “Grandpapa and the Sixth Earl were sanctioning marriage between Robert and me, but neither will specified names and neither was ever changed.”

  “Well, it’s just not right!” Emily’s vehemence was the antithesis of Sarah’s calm. “Grandpapa was downright mean not to change his will when Robert was killed.”

  “I doubt it even occurred to him,” Sarah said.

  “What do you think of this coil, Aunt Bess?” Emily addressed the fourth person in the room. The widowed Mrs. Carstairs had joined her father’s household years before as a surrogate mother to her orphaned nieces and nephew.

  “Papa knew what he wanted,” Aunt Bess said. “Unfortunately, he tied up the entire estate on this one condition.”

  Charles snorted. “He was stubborn and strong-willed, you mean.”

  “He was disappointed neither your mother nor I was the heir he wanted,” Aunt Bess replied gently. “Without a son of his own, he could not keep the Seaverton title and entailed properties in the immediate family, but he did control this estate. The will was his way of ensuring his wishes would prevail.”

  After a pause, Sarah said, “Please. Do not refine upon this too much. It comes as a shock to you, but I knew about the wills—though circumstances were different then.”

  Emily gestured impatiently. “You cannot just accept this high-handedness, Sarah!”

  “You are right, Emily. There is a choice. However, whatever is done will affect not only the four of us, but a good many others as well.”

  “Who?” Emily demanded.

  “Servants. Tenants. People like Lofton, Mrs. Blodgett, the Johnsons. Rosemont is not just a pile of old stones, you know.”

  “Well, it is not an altar requiring a sacrificial lamb, either,” her sister retorted.

  Sarah looked at her, startled. Then she laughed. “Oh, dear. Did I sound so very noble? I meant only that what happens to Rosemont concerns many people besides ourselves. And, of course, the situation also involves the new Lord Markholme.”

  Emily sniffed scornfully. “Who has yet to see it as necessary even to present himself!”

  “He has been on the Peninsula,” Aunt Bess explained.

  “Well, he should be here in Derbyshire,” Emily said without regard for reason or calm.

  Charles had been quiet during this exchange. “Perhaps if we pool our resources, we could take a cottage somewhere. Surely, we could manage. I might tutor some local boys.”

  “And give up your idea of a commission?” Emily turned to him aghast. “Besides, you were never such a grand scholar as to think of becoming a tutor. Better you should become a drawing master with your heavy hand on the crayon, or I a dressmaker, renowned seamstress as I am.”

  “Well, what idea do you offer?”

  “I think Sarah or I should find a husband with a sizable fortune, preferably a handsome man with an amiable disposition who would fall madly in love with one of us.”

  “Men with sizable fortunes are not looking to marry penniless chits—even pretty little blondes like you,” her brother scoffed. “If that is the plan, Sarah might as well tie herself to Markholme after all.”

  Two

  Sarah immersed herself in the distracting duties of es
tate, household, and parish as she pondered the “what ifs” of the future. Others would suffer if she chose wrongly.

  She also brooded over the particular question of marriage. Her role as hostess for her grandfather and his political friends had proved more interesting to Sarah than balls and soirees meant to facilitate one’s search for a husband. She had long since come to terms with being “on the shelf” when she and Robert Cameron had reached an understanding.

  Neither worried that their relationship lacked the passion and intensity of a romance from the Minerva Press. With a marked degree of warm affection, they would “rub on well together.” However, before a formal announcement could be made, the gentle, caring Robert was dead, drowned in a boating accident. His optimistic promises—they would marry and, of course, live happily ever after—had turned to ashes.

  Robert’s death left a void in her life. She had lost a dear friend. She did not feel the loss as a lover, but she refused to dwell on that idea. Marriage was no longer an attractive option—and marriage to a stranger was decidedly unattractive.

  Now, it was being thrust upon her.

  Sarah had loved her grandfather and understood his benevolent despotism. He adamantly refused to purchase a commission for his grandson whom he considered “too young to go haring off to battle.” But he had readily defied society’s conventions to allow his granddaughter to share the estate management. His dictatorial power in life had allowed him to control, but in death, it robbed his family of authority over their own destinies.

  Since her grandfather was unavailable, Sarah aimed her anger and frustration at the man who now controlled the situation, a shadowy figure off fighting in Spain. Meanwhile, the family looked to her to decide their shared future. And she—who had long been the one in charge—felt trapped in an indecisive state of limbo. And she hated it.

  Several days after that meeting in the library, she heaved an exasperated sigh and said to herself, “Oh, well. All right. I will at least consider this marriage.” There! She had made the decision. So why did she still feel trapped?