The Bargain Bride

After their arranged match, Lady Y. presented her husband with five tokens of her affection. Three were dark-haired like him; two were redheads like the affectionate footman.

West did not take either of the coward’s ways out. His pride would not let him run, for one thing, and lending his sober support to Miss Goldwaite was the least he could do under the circumstances, for another. Besides, Sir Gaspar returned quickly, mopping his brow, muttering about immorality, and finished off the brandy.

West was curious to see how the two strong-willed Goldwaites were going to deal with each other. Miss Goldwaite could not very well plant her father a facer, but she seemed as adamant as the banker. West’s jaw still ached, and his self-esteem still suffered from her sharp words, proving the female could defend herself, but the knight appeared deaf, dumb, and blind to anyone else’s opinions.

As curious as he was to see the outcome—and to ensure that outcome did not involve leg shackles—West was even more curious to see what Miss Goldwaite would look like in what her father considered proper female attire, if she owned any such apparel.

He was not disappointed. Miss Goldwaite looked every inch the lady now, with her hair neatly braided into a coronet atop her head, like a golden crown. Well, he had to admit he was disappointed in that. He’d looked forward to seeing her glorious blond curls rioting around her face and shoulders again. Now only a few ringlets were permitted to caress her cheeks.

She wore a gown made of costly watered silk, perfectly fitted if not in the latest London style. The lower waist than he was used to became her, showing off a willowy figure. The lower neckline than the green sack she’d had on earlier became her more, showing off a well-formed bosom for such a slender female. He quickly raised his glance.

The shimmering blues of the gown made her eyes appear luminous, especially reflecting from the chain of round-cut sapphires at her neck, any one of which could have purchased another mare or two for his breeding stock. Her hair was the sun, her eyes were the sky, and her lips were rosy dawn. Her complexion had lost that hectic choleric color—which her father’s red cheeks now bore—and instead had the clarity and glow of fresh cream. Altogether, she reminded him of a clear country morning, except for the expression on her face.

If she was not careful—or if no one made her laugh—Miss Goldwaite could end up looking like the bulldog banker who fathered her, with her mouth permanently turned down and scowl lines etched between her eyebrows. If not for that, and the fists she kept clenched at her sides, his former fiancée would be a diamond of the first water. For now she was merely stunning, unless his opinion was formed by surprise at the transformation a careful toilette made.

No, West told himself, the woman was attractive in herself, and intriguing for the emotions that she did not try to hide. The usual well-bred London miss kept her expression bland, afraid to cause wrinkles, and afraid to show any kind of passion lest she be considered loose, flighty, or difficult. Miss Goldwaite was difficult, all right, but her father—or any other red-blooded man—could not fault her appearance. She even wore satin slippers on her feet.

West went toward her, to lead her to the chair opposite her father’s, whispering, “Don’t let him intimidate you. I will be right behind you.” He took up a position at her back, his hand resting on the leather cushion an inch from her shoulder.

Before Sir Gaspar could start the rant he was nearly choking on, a footman wheeled in a cart and Miss Goldwaite was busy pouring out tea and filling plates. As soon as the servant left, while her father’s mouth was full of the cook’s best strawberry tart, Miss Goldwaite began. “Father, no matter what you say, I shall not marry Lord Westfield. We have decided together that we do not suit.”

West had to smother a laugh at that. Was that what they decided, when she bashed him? Still, he admired her tactics: attack while the enemy was distracted.

Sir Gaspar choked on a bite of pastry, then gulped at his tea. He looked at Westfield, ignoring his daughter. “That so? What about what we decided?”

“We had not come to any conclusion. You threatened to challenge me to a duel; I agreed to come meet with Miss Goldwaite.”

Sir Gaspar huffed. “Nothing wrong with my age, and I’ve got my spectacles, haven’t I? And I wasn’t going to let him pick swords, no matter if it was his choice. A duel’s how gentlemen settle differences, don’t you know. Otherwise I could hire a ruffian to beat him up in an alley.”

West ignored that last. “There will be no duel. There was never going to be one. I would not shoot at a man old enough to be my father. Nor shall I be coerced into a marriage I never agreed to. I told you I was ready to repay the money you gave to my father. With interest.”

“Of course I’d collect the interest if I was going to accept your bribe. But I told you, I will not take your blunt. A deal is a deal.”

Sir Gaspar set aside his plate and cup altogether. “You paid your father’s gambling debts, didn’t you, even if you never held the losing cards? You weren’t the one who took my girl’s dower money and spent it on fast women and too-slow horses, but you paid those chits.”

“And his promises are worth less? In my world, a man’s handshake is as binding as an IOU, a gentleman’s agreement, same as play and pay. Hmph. Seems to me you pick and choose what you call honor.”

“Only money, eh? I guess I can see why you were mucking out stables yourself. Well, no matter. If you won’t respect your father’s integrity and his intentions, maybe you will respect the law. If you won’t duel, I’ll sue you for breach of promise. See if I don’t. And drag you and your family name through the courts. Asides taking every shilling you have. I can afford the finest barristers in the land. You cannot.” Satisfied he had made his point, Sir Gaspar reached for another strawberry tart.

West could imagine his horse farm sold, his lands mortgaged, his younger brother forced into some trade to pay the cost. He was horrified.

So was Penny. “You cannot do that, Father. The scandal would reach as far as France, much less Little Falls. Everyone would wonder what was wrong with me that Lord Westfield had to fight the betrothal. Besides, that is blackmail.”

Her father brushed crumbs off his waistcoat. “No, that is justice. Obeying the law. What do you call reneging on a contract? I call it a crime.”

Perhaps West should accept the man’s challenge after all, he thought, and choose sabers. Instead he said, “I call your behavior barbaric. Your daughter does not want to marry me.”

“Of course she does.” Goldwaite turned to Penny at her gasp. “You ain’t stupid, girl. You’ll never find a more pleasing partner.”

West growled at private matters being mentioned in polite company, much less in front of a young lady, especially his betrothed. He should simply run the banker through and be done with it.

Penny gasped again while West was thinking of murder. So that was his current, colorful flirt, and the color was green. Definitely green. “You would have me marry a womanizer I loathe?”

“Bosh. You were kissing him, weren’t you? Asides, I’d have you wed a real man who can give you sons.”

Before West could stop her, or say anything in his own defense, Miss Goldwaite leaped to her feet. “I am not a broodmare for his stables, Father, nor for yours. I will not do it, I say. Since I am of age, there is no one who will marry me against my will, so you are wasting your threats.”

Sir Gaspar steepled his fingers over his stomach, unconcerned. “Very well, missy, where will you live if you do not wed Westfield?”

“No, but I doubt Littleton can afford to keep you, or the roof over your heads. For sure I will not pay an allowance to some chit who defies me.”

“Hah! Who do you think buys those wretched things he calls paintings? The fool wouldn’t take money to keep you, but a Goldwaite pays his own way. So I have an arrangement with that art dealer in London where you send the canvases. I have a whole warehouse full of the scribbles and splotches.”

“You buy them? Oh no, Grandpapa would be heart-broken if he knew. He is so proud that he can still support all of us.”

“Of course you have money. It’s invested with my own bank, ain’t it? I know to a farthing how much you have and how long you could support your grandfather, his, ah, butler, and the rest of the household. Not very long, I figure—not without my help. That brandy doesn’t come cheap, nor do his fancy paints.”

“How could you be so cruel?” Penny cried, sitting back down, as if she felt comfort in West’s nearness.

“Cruel? How cruel is it to want my only offspring settled and secure? That’s what every father wants, ain’t it? Just think, girl, what will happen to you when the old man passes on? Not even Littleton can live forever. You cannot want to come home to London, not as some old maid who’s been jilted.”

“A dried-up old stick with no family of your own? Is that what you want? You’d be prey to every charlatan and fortune hunter, and plagued by scandal besides, a woman living alone. I know the way of the world, even if you do not. What kind of father would I be if I did not protect you from withering away like that?”

Penny looked stricken, and West wished he could comfort her, but he half agreed with her father. A woman like Miss Goldwaite should have a lovely home, fine gowns, servants at her beck and call, tousle-haired children at her feet. She should not take in stray cats in a shack.

For the first time, Sir Gaspar looked embarrassed. “None of us is getting any younger. I want to see my grandchildren. And I want the best for you, no matter what you think.”

“I didn’t want any son-in-law I had to support, coming to me for loans to repair that old pile of his.”

Her father was going on. “He’s solvent now and can support a wife in decent style, especially with the wedding gift I intend to give. In fact, I’ll sweeten the deal and pay to refurbish his London town house for you. The place looks too shabby for a viscountess.”

West might have argued that point, but he knew the older man was right. He had not spent money on Westmoreland House, not when the estates needed so many repairs. He and his brother lived spartanly in one wing of the mansion.

Penny did not care about the state of Westfield’s house, which she hoped never to see. “And if Lord Westfield were not able to keep me in jewels and furs, would you leave me here?”

“Well, he is, so that’s not to the point. I didn’t like sending you off, you know. But with a new wife, I did not have much choice. Couldn’t have two women in the household, now, could I?” he asked, turning toward West.

“But neither is Entwhistle welcome in the more discriminating gentlemen’s clubs. He is your stepson?”

“To my regret. I sent him off to India to make his fortune. He lost a parcel of mine, instead. He came back with the fevers—and the idea that he ought to wed Penny. No blood relation, don’t you know.”

So did West. That bounder with West’s fiancée? That is, Miss Goldwaite was not his betrothed any longer, but he still felt protective of the woman.

Sir Gaspar shook his head. “The jackanapes thought to keep my blunt in his family. Counting the days until I shuffled off, I suppose. I wouldn’t put it past him to compromise my gal, so I had to get you out of London. His mother wouldn’t hear a word against him, of course. You can’t say I didn’t have your best interests at heart, poppet, protecting you from that. Westfield is a far better choice.”

“I am safe here. I still want to know why you will not let me stay where I am happy, if you say you care for me.”

“I told you, I want grandsons. Besides, it’s not right, you living in this harum-scarum household. A blind painter, his Frenchy friend . . .”

Now the banker blushed. “He’s in the backroom studio, half naked except for some feathers. That ain’t right. You need the company of females.”

“She told her the Egyptian style looked ridiculous in our London house and that her daughters were spoiled brats.”

Now Sir Gaspar took off his spectacles to polish them with his handkerchief, not meeting either West’s eyes or Penny’s. “Yes, well, that’s, um, another reason I need you wed to his lordship and back in London.”

Penny saw her stepsisters twice a year, once when they met in Bath in the winter, once at summer when she traveled to the Lake Country. Lady Bainbridge had been correct: They were horrible children. They were horrible young women now.

Her father was still polishing his glasses. “They’re both of marrying age, you see, and ready for their come-outs. Constance doesn’t have the same connections a viscountess would, not even with my knighthood.”

“You want me . . . to marry this man, this person who ignored my existence for thirteen years . . . so that I can bring out your wife’s daughters? That is how much you care about my happiness?”

Sir Gaspar looked up. “Here, now, I planned your wedding before I ever met Constance. I always wanted you to be a lady like your mother, and I am not ashamed of that. I saw you were brought up for the position, didn’t I, with all those books and schooling and some snooty baroness to haul you to the Queen’s Drawing Room for a formal presentation?”

Sir Gaspar did not give him the chance to continue. “I have the special license in my pocket, and the innkeeper’s wife says she can bake a cake big enough for the whole village for tomorrow, right after church. I already sent a message to the vicar.”

And that, Penny and West both supposed, was as good a reason as Sir Gaspar needed to force them to wed. Tomorrow.