Page 15 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Chapter 3
No. No. No. Paulette’s vision clouded. She locked her knees and stared through pinpoints at the fireplace poker, and somehow managed to stay erect.
Shaldon wanted her to marry hisby-blow. Hisbastard.
It was true, she was no prize, in either beauty, breeding, or dowry, but she’d had respectable offers. The vicar, whose wife had died leaving five children, had asked her to marry him. And a prosperous yeoman from an ancient, well-known family had been so unaccountably smitten, he’d promised to hire a full-time cook for her.
Her vision cleared and she looked around. Bakeley’s brow had creased. Mr. Gibson’s eyes—his eyes bore into hers and she knew the moment they went from feral to concerned, sending her insides quaking.
Shaldon’s by-blow wasn’t a pretty man, nor as handsome as Bakeley, but when she looked closely she could see the resemblance in the brothers, in the line of the jaw, the length of the nose, and the curl of the lips. Strength and danger had its own allure. Jock had warned her to be alert for this kind of peril.
She sensed he might not be unwilling to take Shaldon’s bait, and fought for a breath to set him straight.
“Miss Heardwyn,” he said, before she could speak, “even with a smallish portion, your intelligence and beauty will bring you a better man than the Earl of Shaldon’s bastard.”
She huffed out a laugh. Her intelligence? Her beauty? A dark little shrew, a teacher had once called her. Her options had been a desperate vicar and a love-struck farmer. Most gentlemen didn’t like such as she. Men wanted fair skin, golden hair, and blue eyes.
Biting her lip, she studied him. His speech had taken on a northern cast almost as bad as that of Mr. Cummings, or the man Kincaid, and his mouth quirked like he wanted to laugh.
He was mocking her.
“You’re turning me down then?” she asked.
“I will never marry.”
Her chest tightened. “That has been my intention also.”
Bakeley moved closer. “It’s a good arrangement. Your work for Hackwell has taught you how to manage an estate.”
His work?His work?
He must have seen her shock. “I am steward to the Earl of Hackwell. I served him in the army, as a sergeant.”
“Yes. Paulette, Mr. Gibson will manage your property well. And you’ll have your own home. You’ll have enough money to gad about traveling, as you once expressed a wish to do. Perhaps you may even have a Season.”
“ASeason?” she cried. Married to a land steward, there’d be no Season. It hadn’t ever been truly possible, but the thought of closing and locking that door forever depressed her.
“Bakeley, she’d have no entry into society, not on my arm.”
Bakeley moved closer. “Lord Hackwell and I—”
“Bakeley.” Mr. Gibson put up his hand. “Leave us.”
When the door closed, Bink loaded a plate and sat opposite Miss Heardwyn. Paulette.
“We may as well eat,” he said.
Her mouth firmed, and her lips paled, and she would not meet his eyes.
“I am sorry for this, Miss Heardwyn. Shaldon cannot leave off from his meddling and spying, even unto death, but we must not let it bring us down. We’ll find a way through this.”
A sob escaped her and she blinked rapidly and took several breaths, before reaching for the plate Bakeley had prepared for her.
“One small bite,” Bink said.
She nibbled a piece of cheese, poor wee cornered mouse.
“You’ll have my portion,” he said. “I’ll see to it. And I’m sure Bakeley won’t put you out of your home.”
