Refine (House of Oak Book 4) Page 5

  Mrs. Heartstone resembled a mushroom. Literally and figuratively. A poofy brown turban sat upon her head, held up by a stocky body draped in a dress of the same color silk.

  A grasping fungus trying to push herself and her daughter into the laps of those above their station. With sixty thousand pounds on offer, she would succeed.

  Mrs. Heartstone simpered. “In fact, I was telling my darling Arabella just yesterday that if Lord Linwood is as fine a gentleman as his sister makes him out to be, well then, any woman in England would be proud to stand at his side.”

  The words prettily said, but a calculating gleam negated their sincerity.

  “Timothy is the kindest of brothers, I assure you.” Marianne smiled warmly.

  “I am sure of it.” Mrs. Heartstone touched a hand to her turban. “Though I was speaking with Marquess of Hartington just yesterday—you know, the Duke of Devonshire’s heir”—Timothy knew precisely who Hart was. He had gone riding with him two days before.— “and he declared my Arabella to be this season’s reigning beauty. Add her fine looks to her stupendous dowry and Arabella can have her pick of men.”

  “Mama, please!” Miss Heartstone whispered, a hint of distressed color touching her cheeks.

  Miss Heartstone was perfectly . . . unremarkable.

  Her fashionable white muslin gown revealed a figure which was neither too tall, nor too short, too plump, nor too thin. Her hair and eyes were a simple brown. Her round face was not unpleasing but, again, not distinct either. She kept her gaze turned toward the floor, the image of maidenly decorum.

  In other words . . . utterly forgettable. A shy debutante just like his mother had most certainly been. A girl like the hundreds he had been introduced to before her.

  She had probably never had a single original thought. No spark of life or vitality.

  And why did that thought depress him?

  Honor, duty and sixty thousand pounds, he reminded himself. Sixty thousand pounds that he desperately needed. And though it galled him to admit, his uncle was right. Whether he liked her or not, Timothy had no choice.

  No better time than the present to make his intentions clear.

  “Miss Heartstone, may I have the honor of this dance?” Timothy held out a gloved hand to the still blushing lady.

  She murmured something indistinct and placed her gloved hand in his. He supposed this meant she accepted his offer.

  Head held high, he led her onto the dance floor and into the familiar one-two-three steps of the waltz. They twirled in silence once. Twice. At least, Miss Heartstone had not inherited her mother’s forward ways.

  “Are you enjoying your time in London?” he asked, looking down at the top of her brown curls.

  “Indeed.” She did not lift her eyes to his, but instead kept them fixed on his cravat.

  Now what to say?

  “I am glad of it. Have you had a chance to attend the opera?”

  “Yes.” Still without lifting her eyes. “Mama and I were kindly invited to join Lord Winston and his son in their box.” Another earl hungry for his son to marry an heiress.

  Silence hung between them, awkward and heavy.

  Miss Heartstone held her body stiff and unyielding. Out of the corner of his eye, Timothy saw Marianne chatting with Mrs. Heartstone. The girl’s mother studied them with a calculating gaze. Obviously weighing the sight they made on the dance floor against his less-than-a-duke title.

  Which was just absurd. He was a respected viscount and one of the most sought after matrimonial prizes on the marriage mart. To have to bow and scrape and court a woman like Miss Heartstone and her mother, practically beg for their condescension . . .

  The entire scene reminded him powerfully of why he had never married.

  His parent’s marriage had been dynastically arranged, the union of two important families with little love lost between its principal parties. Timothy could not remember a time when his mother had not been a slave to laudanum, spending her days in an opium-induced lethargy. Her way of dealing with his father’s cold, and often cruel, behavior.

  Twirling with the quiet, spineless girl in his arms, Timothy clearly saw that an alliance with Miss Heartstone could easily end the same way. Heaven knew he was hardly a warm man.

  But marriages among the upper aristocracy were always thus. More business partnerships than anything else. And even if he had believed in love, there still remained the problem of his own personal preferences . . .

  Timothy had always been attracted to, well . . . the wrong sort of woman. Women who bounced with life and energy, heedless of the dictates of society, rendering them unfit to play the part of his viscountess.

  Women who were his absolute opposite.

  He knew nothing about wooing such women. His few forays into that sphere had been unmitigated disasters. Fine words and easy affection were the arena of others. Like his deceased friend, James Knight, Arthur’s older brother.

  As usual, the thought of James caused something painful to burn in Timothy’s chest. Something that felt suspiciously like grief and . . . regret.

  Due to his father’s strict code of behavior, Timothy had not been allowed to mingle with others as a child. But as the son of wealthy landowner with an illustrious family name, James had been deemed worthy enough to be a friend.

  Practically the only friend Timothy could ever remember having.

  How many hours had they passed together as children? Listening to James go on and on about the adventures he would have someday. Watching James charm everyone with his easy-going nature and silver tongue. Including Miss Emry Wilde . . .

  Timothy clenched his jaw, his hands convulsively tightening. Miss Heartstone stumbled. He held her upright and then forced his breathing to slow.

  Emry Wilde.

  Now there had been a woman who could command a man’s heart. Pretty with her dark hair and unusual eyes. Clever. Witty. Never at a loss for words. An American of no particular breeding or wealth, as it turned out. Completely unsuitable to be his viscountess.

  And yet . . .

  She had captivated him. He admitted it. And he had pursued her, determined to make her his in the way his father had taught him.

  Rule #119: A gentleman’s mistress must be kept secret from his wife and family.

  He had seen no other path . . . no other way to have her that allowed him to stay true to the obligations of his birth. He knew his father had kept several mistresses over the years. And so Timothy had offered to make Emry his wife in everything but name . . .

  It had gone terribly wrong . . .

  Rule #80: A gentleman should never do anything for which he must apologize.

  And she had run into James’ outstretched arms. Rumors said they had even married. Which made their deaths in a tragic carriage accident even harder to bear.

  He winced at the memory. Regret was not a familiar emotion. A true gentleman did not live in such a way as to invite regret.

  But he regretted his actions toward Miss Emry Wilde.

  She was a woman of polite breeding and deserved better than his tawdry offer. But his attraction and the unsettled nature of her situation had blinded him.

  So when Miss Emry’s brother had appeared last year, Timothy had welcomed Mr. Marcus Wilde’s trouncing him at fisticuffs. A small way of rectifying his wrong.

  Timothy knew his personal weaknesses.

  Machines, manufacturing, emotions which surfaced far-too-readily, a deep-satisfaction from work, an attraction to unsuitable women . . .

  Common. Vulgar. Pathetically middle class. His father’s voice sounded clearly.

  All too true.

  The music ended and Timothy delivered Miss Heartstone back to her waiting mother and Marianne. Miss Heartstone was instantly surrounded by other young men, each determined to press his suit.

  Mrs. Heartstone watched with eagle-eyes as a young lord led her daughter on to the floor.

  Marianne cocked an eyebrow at Timothy. Obviously encouraging him to speak to Mrs.
Heartstone.

  “Your daughter is lovely. I hope to spend more time with her.” He clasped his hands behind his back again.

  Mrs. Heartstone said nothing for a moment. “Your seat is in Herefordshire, I believe, my lord. Near to that of my cousin, Sir Henry Stylles.”

  “Indeed it is.”

  “I am quite fond of my cousin and enjoy visiting him when time permits.”

  A strong opening. “You must make time to visit him, then. I am sure the entire countryside would welcome your stay.”

  “Your estate, Kinningsley, it is newer?”

  “Yes. Only a mere fifty years old. A beautiful homage to neoclassical style, if I may say so.”

  “Excellent, my lord. And you live there by yourself, I understand? You have no other sisters and your own mother is deceased?”

  “Yes.” Translation: There are no other women in my life to cause you trouble, should your daughter decide to marry me.

  Mrs. Heartstone pursed her lips. “I have a fascination with dowager cottages. I find them darling and comfortable. Does Kinningsley have such a house?”

  Ah. The question seemed innocuous enough, but Mrs. Heartstone was clever. He would give her that much. Her husband had left his money to their daughter, not to his wife. Ensuring that his widow would need to stay close to her daughter in order to have a roof over her head.

  Clearly, Mrs. Heartstone wasn’t interested in actually sharing a roof with her daughter, no matter how unencumbered.

  “Kinningsley does not currently have a dowager house.” He had to answer truthfully.

  “What a pity.” Mrs. Heartstone turned to Marianne. “Mrs. Knight, you have spoken so highly of the darling dower cottage attached to Haldon Manor. It is the height of modern convenience?”

  “Yes,” Marianne chimed in. “Duir Cottage is most comfortable.”

  “You should consider building such a house on Kinningsley’s grounds, my lord.” Mrs. Heartstone turned back to Timothy. “Combined with your other charms, a prospective mother-in-law would find it a most attractive . . . incentive.”

  Duly noted.

  “Your advice is most welcome, Mrs. Heartstone.” Timothy managed to spit out the words without a hint of sarcasm. “A dower house modeled after Duir Cottage would be a welcome addition to my holdings.”

  “Excellent.” Mrs. Heartstone repeated, her eyes sharp. “I shall inquire of my cousin, Sir Henry. We are off to Shropshire in May to visit old friends. A stay with Sir Henry around the middle of the month would be pleasurable. Assuming we could count on your most delightful company, as well?” Her look turned speculative.

  “Naturally, Mrs. Heartstone. I would not miss any chance to enjoy your presence or that of your lovely daughter.”

  “I am glad we understand each other, Lord Linwood. I will be anxious to hear how the plans for your dower cottage are coming along. Such a lovely home would be welcome to any mother-in-law’s heart.”

  Subtle.

  She curtsied and made her way toward the other mamas gathered in an alcove.

  “Well,” Marianne said, turning to him, “it seems you may soon be building a dower cottage at Kinningsley.”

  Timothy nodded. Apparently that seemed a condition of Miss Heartstone’s acceptance of any offer of marriage. Though where the money would come from, he had no idea.

  He offered Marianne his arm and took his sister on a stroll around the ballroom.

  “Miss Heartstone is a lovely young lady,” Marianne observed, her voice carefully neutral.

  “Indeed. She is politely well-bred.”

  “And . . .” Marianne prompted.

  “And what, sister dear?”

  “You appear interested in Miss Heartstone, despite finding her somewhat . . . dull.”

  He would have used the word tedious, but dull would suffice.

  He turned his head, only to realize his sister had been studying him rather than the room. Something sad and knowing lingered in her eyes.

  “Have you decided to marry then?”

  Pity. That’s what he was seeing on her face.

  It seemed a catching disease around him.

  Rule #51: A gentleman is never an object of pity.

  Unable to bear the scrutiny, Timothy looked back toward the milling crowd of people, teeth grinding together.

  Marianne adjusted her hold on his arm. “Timothy, you need not marry where you do not love.”

  Ah, but he did. That had always been his destiny.

  Timothy’s hand sought out the gear in his coat pocket. Reassuring himself. He could do this. He could be a cog, a gear.

  He had yet to tell Marianne of his financial predicament. It would only worry her needlessly.

  “You do not need to become him.” Her voice was soft, yet insistent. There was no need to define who she referred to.

  Timothy managed to unhinge his jaw. “There is no shame in being the man my father was.”

  “Father was a bitterly unhappy person, forced to live in a cage of his own making—”

  “I am not unhappy, Marianne. I may not have deliberately chosen my life’s path, but it is hardly a cage, as you say. I will do my best to preserve our heritage and family honor. You all rely upon me.”

  “Nonsense. It is not your job to guide our way. Heritage is merely an emotion. It is nothing tangible in the end. A good heritage is merely a compilation of happy memories passed along to the next generation. It is most definitely not a pretty house full of dust-collecting things or the approval of a group of arrogant people.”

  Timothy let out a slow breath, stopping mid-stride, turning his gaze to his sister.

  Her eyes positively dripped with pity.

  Marianne sighed, no doubt correctly reading the stubborn set of his jaw.

  “I know you, brother mine. You have a huge heart and an enormous capacity to love. You just need to let go—”

  “Do not concern yourself over me, Marianne. I know what I am about.”

  Two days later, a note was delivered to Linwood House. One paragraph stood out:

  Arabella and I look forward to visiting our cousin, Sir Henry, and waiting upon you at Kinningsley around the fifteenth of May. Mrs. Knight mentioned that you plan on building a dower house. It is my hope you have chosen a fair prospect for it. I look forward to seeing your plans for the cottage.

  Timothy set the paper down on his desk. Daniel, again seated across from him, raised an eyebrow. He had clearly seen Mrs. Heartstone’s signature.

  “Miss Heartstone’s uncle and guardian is amenable to the idea of an alliance with the Linwood viscountcy.” Daniel glanced toward the note. “Will you offer for Miss Heartstone?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  Daniel’s silence spoke volumes.

  “Do I have funds to build a dower house? It would seem to be a condition of Mrs. Heartstone’s cooperation in the match,” Timothy said instead.

  If the question caught Daniel off guard, he didn’t show it.

  “You could begin the process and complete it after the marriage. Building a house takes time, of course.” There was a wink hidden in Daniel’s tone.

  Timothy sat back in his chair. “There is possibly a space beyond the back lawn that will be nice. Far enough away from the main house so as to not be seen. I will look at it. I am off to Kinningsley tomorrow, as events there require my presence. ‘Twill be a brief visit. With so many hangers-on, Miss Heartstone is at risk, and Uncle Linwood is increasingly anxious that I secure her hand. If not for my sake, then for Cousin Emilia’s. Uncle is determined to bring the Duke’s son up to scratch.”

  “I will await your return, my lord.”

  “Excellent. I believe I will stop by Duir Cottage on my way and sketch its floor plan. If Mrs. Heartstone wants a building like it, she shall have one.”

  Daniel paused and then shifted in his chair, as if concerned. “Do you think that wise, my lord? Arthur has guards stationed there, I believe.”

  Duir Cottage had been built on the site of an
ancient oak tree which had been incinerated by lightning several years previously. Though the house seemed innocuous enough, last year Arthur had placed a round-the-clock guard on the cottage. He had claimed it was to protect the house from a spate of robberies which had plagued the area.

  “I am Linwood. There is not a man in all of Herefordshire who would gainsay my authority.” Linwood shot Daniel a stern look. “I will explore Duir Cottage at my leisure.”

  Chapter 5

  The back garden

  Duir Cottage

  Spring equinox

  March 20, 2015

  Jasmine slowly drizzled honey into a small pitcher of milk, the early morning light catching the pouring stream, turning it into fire-licked amber.

  The earth smelled musty and new under her knees, heavy with spring rainfall. The morning had dawned clear and cheerily bright. Miraculous, given the perpetually gloomy March weather.

  But the sun was fitting. A symbol of the spring equinox. The day when earth sloughed off the death of winter and embraced new life. A chance for rebirth. For hope.

  The honey running out, she whisked the milk with a fork, blending the two together.

  Marmi’s tutoring flitting through her mind.

  Honey for the darkness of winter left behind, sweetening the future.

  Milk for the light of summer that was to come. The nourishment rebirth required.

  Light and dark in equal amounts. That moment of balance in the year when all things become possible.

  This was the fifteenth time Jasmine had celebrated the equinox without her grandmother, planting bulbs in the back garden as a symbol of rebirth.

  Jasmine swallowed back the raw burning in her throat.

  Not going to think about it.

  “Damn and blast. Is there any more milk?” James Knight fumbled next to her, righting his now empty pitcher. “I’ve gone and spilled mine.”

  Opposite her husband, Emme patted his hand. “Here, darling, you can have some of mine.” She poured a little of her milk into his glass. “I’ve even already mixed the honey into it for you.”

  James winked at her.

  “So now what?” Marc Wilde sat back on his haunches, tamping the damp earth in front of him with one hand, a well-mixed jar of milk and honey held in the other. “And please tell me it will be quick, because there is a shower and some bacon calling my name inside.”