out of my sight. You disgust me,” Alva said. Her face was ruddy, but the skin around her lips was stark white. “Get out!”
Elizabeth hurried away from her mother, down a long hall, and to her room where she threw herself onto her bed. Behind her, the door closed, the obvious result of the efficient footman. Two hours later, when she tried to go down for dinner, she was told by the same man that she was not allowed to leave her room and that her meal would be sent up shortly.
Elizabeth whirled around, her eyes frantically going to the high windows that were completely inaccessible. It was almost as if Alva had foreseen the future when she so thoughtfully designed her daughter’s oppressive bedroom. It had become her prison.
The next few days were a nightmare for her. Her meals were brought in by servants who dared not say a word to her. The house seemed abnormally quiet, as if someone had died. Indeed, Elizabeth felt as if she were dying inside. How could she go on when her entire life was over? She longed to see Henry, to explain what was happening, to let him know that she loved him still.
On the third day of her isolation, the door opened and her mother’s dearest friend, Mrs. William-Smythe walked in. Elizabeth was a mess. She hadn’t changed from her nightgown or bothered to brush her auburn hair, even though it was long past noon. What did it matter what happened now? When she saw Mrs. William-Smythe, she felt a glimmer of hope, for she was always such a warm and reasonable woman.
“Elizabeth,” she said, her gray eyes taking in her dishabille with slight distaste. “Do you know what you have done to your mother with your callous indifference to her feelings? She has suffered a heart attack, brought on by your ridiculous rebellion. Have you a notion what it means when a daughter literally breaks her mother’s heart?”
Despite her anger at her mother, Elizabeth was shocked to hear Alva was ill. She might be angry with her, but despite everything, she loved her and certainly didn’t wish her dead. “Is she going to be well?”
“The doctor said it was only a mild attack. This time,” the older woman said pointedly. “But if you persist on going against her, she could have another attack, this one fatal. I’m certain you do not want your mother’s death on your conscience.”
Elizabeth sat down on her bed, her legs no longer able to hold her up. Her life was being sucked from her, her hope drained away by this woman’s words. “Of course I don’t,” she said, looking down at the rich Aubusson carpet at her feet. Then she looked up, her expression tormented. “But is my happiness of so little importance?
Should I not have a say in which man I marry?”
“You are far too young to make such an important decision,” she said, sounding so much like her mother Elizabeth wondered if Alva had written a script. “If you persist on going against your mother and marrying this man, I have no doubt your mother will be forced into some drastic measure to prevent it. Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth said dully, remembering her mother’s threat to have Henry murdered. As crazy as it seemed, she was not entirely certain her mother would not have him murdered, so great was her obsession to have her marry a great English title. Mrs. William-Smythe’s image blurred in front of her as her eyes filled with tears.
“Then you will agree to marry the duke?”
She blinked the tears away so that she could see the woman clearly when she made her answer.
“Yes. I will marry the duke.”
Mrs. William-Smythe smiled as if all were finally right with the world. “I’m so glad you’ve come to your senses, my dear. I shall go tell your mother the good news. Imagine. A Christmas wedding. She’ll be so happy,” she gushed.
She left the room, left the girl weeping silently on her bed, and took away any hope Elizabeth had of ever being in love.
Chapter 2
England, Four Months Earlier
Randall Blackmore, ninth Duke of Bellingham, stared in disbelief at the letter before him, a letter that instantly solved his problems. One million pounds, an impossible amount of money, would be at his disposal if only he agreed to travel to America and marry a girl he’d never laid eyes on.
It was so damned tempting. As well as humiliating and insane. But after meeting last week for the third time with the family solicitors it just might be the only thing between salvation and complete ruin. He wanted to ball up the letter and toss it in the fire grate. He wanted to, but he knew he wouldn’t. He let out a curse which encouraged a chuckle from Lord Hollings, Earl of Wellesley, his most trusted friend.
“You’ve been handed a miracle, old boy, and all you can do is take the Lord’s name in vain,” he said, tsking mockingly. Edward poured his friend a generous splash of fine French brandy. “You can afford this now, Rand,” he said, laughing. Edward Hollings had been with Bellingham in the Life Guards, where they’d both enjoyed being part of the most elite military regiment in England. That is until Hollings’s uncle had died and he was forced to take on his duties as heir, but that was as far as his commiseration went. His family estate, Meremont, was not nearly as encumbered as Bellewood. Hollings was able to sustain his home and live a life, if not of luxury, then of leisure. Such a life was out of the question for Bellingham. Until now.
“What the hell is wrong with the chit if her parents are in such a hurry to rid themselves of her? I hear she was brought around the continent and dangled out in front of several cash-hungry members of the peerage. No one took the bait, of course,” Rand said, his eyes still glued to the words: “one million pounds.”
Hollings shrugged. “You met the mother. Did she hint at some strange disease? Or perhaps she’s fatally ugly.”
Rand gave his friend a withering look. “I’m so glad you are having such a grand time with my misery.”
“What did her mother look like, then?”
Rand frowned. He had met her at the opening of an art exhibit in London perhaps one year ago, and noted at the time how grateful he was that her daughter had not been with her and how very disappointed she’d been that he would not get to meet the girl. Ever since inheriting the title, Rand had been beset with mamas, all of whom apparently did not care that he was practically a pauper. He should have known a pauper with a title was still a grand catch.
If he remembered correctly, Alva Cummings was hardly a pretty woman. At best, one could call her handsome if one was extremely generous. “She must be ugly, then. Hideously so, for this price.”
“One million pounds can go a long way to making her beautiful.”
The idea of marrying for money was extremely distasteful. Still, he didn’t know what he was going to do. Bellewood was in shambles. His tenants, already driven to poverty because of the agricultural depression, were suffering needlessly. Cottages were in disrepair, farming equipment was completely outdated, young men were leaving for London, for America, all because the two former Dukes of Bellingham had dipped so deeply in the well of prosperity, it was now bone-dry. As much as Rand had admired his father and loved his brother, he could not fathom why they had allowed the situation to become as dire as it was. He truly had no other choice but to marry an heiress.
“Don’t look so glum, old boy. Get your heir and leave her be. With that money you can buy a little cottage somewhere for her, say in Scotland, and get on with your life.”
