Page 2 of Miss Harvey's Horribly Lovable Fiancé
“Miss?” The old groom stopped as he cinched the straps on Admiral. “What will ye?”
“No matter, Samuel. Talking to myself.”
He smiled. But not happily. Samuel had always possessed the uncanny ability to detect if she ran at dawn for renewal—or refection. The latter never thrilled him. He’d oft told her so, too.
“Do not worry, Samuel. I promise to be home before Papa appears for his breakfast.”
“Aye, Miss. Or I come out to find ye.” He cocked his head, wanting details.
She relented. “To the river’s edge and back. Not far. Three miles today should set me straight.”Give me the peace to decide…
She frowned.
To decide not only what to wear to her marriage to the inscrutable, irresistible creature who set her heart to pound and her body to burn.
But also…
She put her hand to her forehead.
Yes, that too.
To decide if indeed she should give herself away to Giles Wilfred Charles Beauchamp,the Marquess of Northington, the Earl of Down, the Baron Apsleigh, heir to the Duke of Brentford. Twenty-nine years old, a man of theton. A man of some repute, most of it suggesting that he had some hand in the settlements at Vienna and others with the new Bourbon King Louis. His saltier reputation was the stuff of gossip that he’d had a few affairs.
What man had not, eh?
Today, her challenge was to decide if she should focus on marrying him for the way he made her laugh or the way he applauded her desire for freedom or should she…
Admit it, Ezzie!
Marry him for his titles?
And would he—after their solicitors’ interminable negotiations over dowry and land and widow’s portions and rights to inherit Papa’s stud—marry her for her beauty? Or her wit? Or her grace?
Which left two other possibilities. Did he want her because he loved her? In fact, he’d never said the words.
Or does he simply want my money?
She dismountedand threw the reins to Admiral over the fat branchof the ancient oak. Papa’s elegant black stallion nickered in acceptance. He knew her desire on such mornings as this to climb down, seek the far rock and let him graze. A small promontory over the Avon, this position gave her a view that brought her solitude, a rare commodity at her home where her Mama was a magpie and her Papa was a jocular fellow. Usually here, Esme also found peace and soon after that, answers.
Today, she needed them. Quickly, too. Barring a new answer which would kill her dear mother and send her father into early decline, she would marry her fiancé.
Of course she would.
She just had to think it all through. Rationally.
She spread her tidy blanket onthe limestone rock, sat, crossed her legs and took her place of contemplation.
The sun climbed higher in the sky. So she had perhaps an hour before hell broke loose and her father sent the world looking for her.
Northington.
Northington.
She’d met her future husband one evening last December at Lady Wimple’s Christmas Ball. Esme had become bored of the vapid creatures she’d danced with. So she had hied herself off to a small (thankfully empty) salon at the end of the main corridor.
Having drunk two glasses of bitter ratafia, she absconded with a glass of champagne (generously poured by a sympathetic footman). She sat down before the crackling fire and kicked off her slippers to settle in and enjoy her alcohol.
It was then a man, meticulously attired and damn comely too, emerged from the far corner near the piano and surveyed her with large eyes lit by the silvery moon. His manner was louche, his smile genuine but secretive. She liked him instantly though she had no idea who he was nor why she didn’t know him. (She’d been out in society for five seasons and a gel had to know who was available for the picking.)
