The Earl's Marriage Bargain Read online

  * * *

  Ivo felt the light pressure of Jane’s fingers, the anxiety in her voice, and frowned at his grandfather’s back as he led the way out of the orchard. Not only had the old man dropped a heavy hint that Ivo had some kind of past to be put behind him, but now Jane was worrying about her new life.

  ‘It will not be a burden—I will be discovering a new life at the same time. Don’t forget that I have to learn about the estates and become used to life as a civilian again. We can muddle along together.’

  He was aware of her relaxing a little and she chuckled. ‘I cannot imagine you muddling anything, Ivo.’

  No? What have I just done if not landed us both in a muddle?

  But what else could he have done but persuade her into marriage? It was not what he had hoped for, expected, but he was never going to have that and he refused to pine and turn himself into a recluse because he could not have Daphne. He had his duty to his name, to his grandfather, to the future.

  And it might not be what Jane wanted, had dreamed of, but he would make certain she could paint what she wanted, how she wanted.

  That gave him pause. No, possibly he would draw the line at naked footmen. The thought amused him, lightening his mood as they reached the back door into the house.

  Then his grandfather turned. ‘I clean forgot—I have spoken to Pettigrew and Arnold about that problem you mentioned. They are preparing an opinion for you, but I have to say, they are not optimistic.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I look forward to discussing it later,’ Ivo said. He would have to make it clear to the old man that he did not want Daphne Parris discussed in Jane’s hearing. As his physical wounds healed he found himself feeling more in sympathy with Daphne’s rebellion. She had dreamt of romance, he supposed, and instead was left to twiddle her thumbs demurely while her husband-to-be was hundreds of miles away, communicating erratically as months turned into years, unable to say when—or if—he would return.

  This young woman beside him had dreams, too. Unconventional ones, to be sure, but he could help her achieve them—or as much of them as was safe. If the legal experts told him the marriage was indissoluble, then all he could do for his lost love was to stay out of her way and try and find some satisfaction in helping another dreamer fulfil her hopes. It was that or mope about nursing his fading bruises and his broken heart, he thought grimly. Or set out cold-bloodedly to find a ‘suitable’ bride. The first tasted of self-pity, and he had no intention of throwing his life away by wallowing in that, and the second risked boredom or worse.

  Ivo glanced down at Jane as he held the door for her. She seemed calm, although her colour was up and her eyes were bright. Was she fighting tears or was it the effects of that kiss under the apple tree? He hoped it was the kiss because he had enjoyed it more than he had expected.

  He was conscious of a twinge of guilt for that. He loved Daphne and he should not be taking pleasure in kissing another woman. And yet, if he was to marry Jane, then he must make love to her and do so without ever letting her guess that she was not his first choice, that there was still another woman in his thoughts. For a second he wondered whether a marriage such as his grandfather had been plotting for him would not be more honest. The lady who accepted him then would have no illusions about the nature of the union, but Jane, he feared, was a romantic with her talk of love matches.

  Then her parents and her cousin descended on them, driving away any second thoughts or introspection. Jane was hugged and kissed, Mr Newnham shook his hand, Cousin Violet kissed him on the cheek and went bright pink and, taking the plunge, he kissed Mrs Newnham, making her gasp and blush and stammer something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Dear boy!’

  The die was cast and there was no going back now, Ivo thought as he smiled and laughed and generally exerted himself to be pleasant to his future in-laws. He must put all thoughts of Daphne behind him, except for offering the practical advice of his lawyers to her aunts. There was no reason why he should ever see her again, after all. Her husband had neither the money nor the reputation—nor, probably, the inclination—to mix with the same society that the heir to the Marquess of Westhaven would be keeping, so there was no danger of any accidental meetings. What was important now was to make this marriage work.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days later

  Jane took out the letter she had begun to Verity the afternoon that Ivo had proposed to her and started afresh, wondering if writing it all down would help her believe what was happening.

  And so you see how it comes to pass that I am making almost as good marriage as you! Mama, you will hardly be surprised to hear, is beside herself and half convinced that she would have discovered Ivo herself, once she had exhausted her search for distant heirs to dukedoms. He is, of course, the pineapple of perfection in her eyes—and I have to admit he is proving to be a very satisfactory husband-to-be.

  Sometimes I have to stop and pinch myself. I said I would never marry except for love. Then in a moment of madness I swore that I would be independent and paint for a living. And now I am doing neither.

  But is this the right thing? I keep thinking, What if? What if those two chairmen had not been passing just as we were arguing? What if Ivo’s friends had not appeared at just the wrong moment?

  But then I come back to worrying about what would have happened if we had not been held up at just the right point in Kensington. Then I would never have met Ivo and he might have been seriously injured. And that makes me feel quite sick.

  From your letters, Verity darling, I know that you sometimes find it difficult, learning to be a duchess. At least I will not have to be a marchioness immediately—not for a long time, I hope, because I am learning to love the Marquess despite all his growling.

  Anyway, I hope you will able to give me some advice on how to go on—I am relying on you.

  But I am not writing to bore you with all my dithering thoughts and three-in-the-morning doubts. Will you lead my attendants at the wedding? I am writing to Lucy and Melissa and Prue to ask them to be bridesmaids, of course, but you would be matron of honour—although I find the idea of any of us being matrons so funny that I giggle every time I think of it.

  You will receive a formal invitation, of course, for you and Will and all his brood of brothers and sisters. I am so looking forward to seeing them meet the Marquess!

  It would mean so much if you can be there to watch over me.

  Your ever-loving and quite distracted friend,

  Jane

  17th September—a week later

  ‘Oh, thank goodness,’ Jane said, looking up from the drift of letters that half covered the breakfast table. ‘They can all be bridesmaids, even Verity who tells me she is expecting a little dukeling, which is wonderful news.’

  ‘A duckling?’ Startled, Cousin Violet looked up from her own correspondence.

  ‘Dukeling. I suppose it might be a girl, of course, but Verity seems convinced it is a boy. You appear to have a great deal of post.’

  ‘Acceptances,’ Violet said, rescuing one envelope from the butter dish. ‘At least, most of them are, but there must be at least three letters from your mother, who no sooner seems to seal one missive than something else occurs to her and so she writes another. At this rate your father will be spending more on postage than on your wedding dress.’

  After much debate it had been agreed that Jane would be married from Cousin Violet’s house and that the ceremony would take place in Merton Tower’s own chapel. Bath, although no longer at the pinnacle of fashion, still had enough excellent modistes to provide Jane’s trousseau and far more shops for all the trifles she would need than could be found in rural Dorset.

  Mrs Newnham had been only too delighted to pass on the organisation to Violet, reserving to herself the pleasant responsibility for thinking up endless tasks for other people to do and changing her mind three times a day about he
r own gowns. Jane suspected that she was also scouring the Peerage to trace every one of Ivo’s illustrious connections so she could boast about them to her long-suffering acquaintance.

  Jane had expected that the Marquess would want to keep the marriage in a very low key. He had recently lost a son and she would have thought that the new bride was far from being a trophy to be celebrated, but he had been quite clear about his wishes.

  ‘It is not what people might expect, so we must avoid any suspicion I do not entirely approve. There will be no undue haste—six weeks will be adequate, I believe—and the guest list will be...comprehensive.’

  ‘Comprehensive?’ she had wavered.

  ‘Very.’ He had given her a stern look as though she might have been about to protest that two witnesses would be all she wanted. ‘It will be spoken of far and wide and my approval will be clear to all. However, the fact that it will not be in London will limit the numbers, I fear. I trust you will not be disappointed at perhaps two hundred guests, Jane?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she had managed to say. ‘Two hundred? Goodness, no, not disappointed. Not at all.’

  Terrified.

  The acceptances had come flooding back. The Marquess had despatched a clerk to assist Violet while his own secretary dealt with the far greater number of responses to the Tower for the Mertons’ family and acquaintances. Meanwhile Jane searched for a modiste who would provide her with the gown she wanted—simple, elegant and economical. She had the ‘diamonds’ that she had inherited and those, despite being merely paste, would distract from the fact that Papa simply could not afford the kind of trousseau Mama thought she should have.

  Anxious, Jane had asked Ivo and to her relief he had been very understanding. ‘We have time before you will be making your appearance in London society and I can buy you just what you need then—do not let your parents worry about it.’

  So Jane had edited down the extensive lists her mother sent her—all but the nightgowns. Verity had emphasised the importance of elegant naughtiness in nightwear for married ladies and had sent a box of outrageously pretty garments as an engagement present. Jane had tried them on and had been startled and surprised at the effect. But men, Verity had explained, liked such nonsense. Jane reasoned that, as the man in question was not already blinded by love, every little effort would help in making the wedding night go well.

  She hid her blushes at the thought of it by pouring herself another cup of coffee.

  It is too late now. You cannot change your mind. Then, Admit it—you do not want to change your mind.

  After her parents had returned to Dorset Jane went into Bath escorted by Charity, the maid, and had her jewellery cleaned. On the way back they had driven past the little shop near the Abbey and it made her think again about the choices she had made.

  Ivo had not been patronising her when he had told her that her dream was impractical, he had been correct. It was a hard truth to swallow but it made her respect him more, both for caring that she should not suffer the consequences of her impetuosity and for taking her ambition seriously in the first place.

  I can trust him, she thought as the carriage had rattled out of the City. Trust seemed a good basis for a marriage.

  ‘Lord Kendall, Miss Violet,’ Albert announced. He had become almost blasé about the comings and goings of the aristocracy by now, even unconventional ones who arrived while his mistress was taking breakfast.

  Ivo appeared, apologetic about disturbing them. Violet dimpled at him, Jane blushed, which was, disconcertingly, all she ever seemed to do these days when they met. She supposed it was a combination of the fact that she was beginning to find Ivo decidedly attractive and the realisation that the wedding day—and the wedding night—were coming rapidly closer.

  ‘I am sorry to call at such an hour, but it occurred to me that you might wish to tour the house with Mrs French, our housekeeper,’ he said to Jane once he had accepted a cup of coffee. ‘If we leave it much longer, Mrs French will be wrestling with all the arrangements for the wedding and I thought you might feel more comfortable if you had a better idea of the place before you move in and take over.’

  ‘Take over?’ It came out as a squeak. ‘But Mrs French—’

  ‘As housekeeper she will be a great support, but you will be the mistress of the house.’

  Jane swallowed a jagged piece of toast. Surely she recalled him soothing her worries with the mention of the competent housekeeper? She had not questioned the arrangements at Merton Tower when she and her parents and Violet had paid a formal visit after the betrothal. Her mother had been in a tizzy because she had no clothes she considered adequate for a marquess’s home and so they had made the excuse that they could not dine and stay because they had to travel back to Dorset to make arrangements there. But, of course, the Marquess was a widower and Ivo had no sisters or sisters-in-law who might take the place of the Marchioness.

  Ivo had given them a brief tour and Jane had stared at the single central medieval tower that was all that remained of the castle, had blinked at the number of windows in the flanking wings, built in the early eighteenth century, and had brought away an impression of acres of gleaming wood and costly draperies formed through a haze of nerves. If she had been asked afterwards to describe the public rooms that they had seen—the entrance hall, the great hall in the tower, the drawing room and dining room—she doubted she could have done so. But she did recall the portraits, ranking from stiff Tudor panels to lush Georgian groups.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she said now. ‘How thoughtful of you, Ivo.’ She owed it to him to make a good impression on the staff.

  He gave her a sudden smile and she wondered if he guessed just how anxious she was. It was good to see him smile because she had seen little of that side of him lately, she thought as she went upstairs to put on her best spencer and bonnet and to find a respectable pair of gloves. Was that why he had appeared so serious, the last few times she had seen him? Concern that he had done the right thing in marrying the daughter of a country gentleman?

  She had been raised as a lady, she knew she could hold her own in polite society, could dance and make conversation and display the proper manners in most formal situations, but she had never attended more than local dances and Assemblies, never been invited to a London party. She knew how to keep house, of course—provided the house had a mere six bedchambers and a handful of servants.

  Jane came downstairs with the lowering feeling that the unknown Mrs French would despise her. The upper servants in great houses could be as snobbish as their employers, Verity had told her. She fixed a cheerful smile on her lips, waved Violet goodbye and let Ivo help her up into her seat in the phaeton.

  ‘What is wrong?’ he asked quietly, the moment they were in motion and the sound of the wheels on the road surface masked their conversation from the groom up behind.

  Clearly her acting was worse than she imagined. ‘Why, nothing at all. What a lovely morning it is!’

  ‘Jane, I can read you like a book,’ Ivo said.

  That was depressing. No one liked to think they were transparent.

  ‘Merely nerves—your housekeeper is going to despise my lack of knowledge and I cannot imagine that, after running matters in the absence of a lady of the house for years, she is going to look very kindly on my bumbling efforts.’

  ‘She will be delighted, believe me. You have the sensitivity not to try and ride roughshod over her and she will enjoy showing you her kingdom. Day to day there is nothing for you to do but agree menus with Cook and make any decisions that, until now, Mrs French has had to lay before Grandfather. You may imagine how well they get along on matters such as deciding how to replace the hangings in the Blue Suite or whether we require another parlourmaid!’

  He laughed and she found herself laughing with him. Yes, the crusty Marquess would give short shrift to choices of braid and tassels.

  ‘Be yo
urself,’ Ivo said. He shifted the reins into his whip hand and laid the left over hers where they lay clasped nervously on her lap. ‘I have every confidence in you.’

  ‘Which gives me a very poor opinion of your judgement,’ Jane retorted, but she did not attempt to free her hands and he kept his, warm in his leather gloves, over them for a heartbeat longer.

  To her relief Ivo did not try and lecture her on the house as they drove, but pointed out landmarks on the way.

  * * *

  By the time they turned in through the gates, their high pillars topped by rearing seahorses for some reason she must ask about, she felt more relaxed than she had done in days.

  Then the drive went around a bend and she could see, spread out in front of her, the park and the house at its heart. Arriving in a closed carriage, in the company of her parents who were even more nervous than she was, the impact had been far less and somehow she had not realised just how large her new home was.

  ‘What is wrong?’ Ivo asked, steadying the pair as a small herd of deer ran across the drive.

  ‘Wrong?’

  ‘You gulped.’

  ‘No wonder! Just look at it. How many bedchambers are there?’

  ‘I have no idea. Too many, no doubt. But Mrs French will be able to tell you.’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question.’ Surely he could comprehend what a shock this was, although, of course, she should have expected it. ‘I will have to take a ball of twine with me everywhere, like Theseus in the Minotaur’s labyrinth, or I will get hopelessly lost and my skeletal remains will be found in some distant corridor a hundred years hence.’

  There was a suppressed snort from behind that reminded Jane that there was a groom with them and it behoved an almost-countess to be discreet in front of the servants.