No Marriage of Convenience (Avon Romantic Treasure)

216 Pages·2000·1.63 MB·English

by  Elizabeth Boyle

N M C
O ARRIAGE OF ONVENIENCE
E B
LIZABETH OYLE
To my father, Denton Herlan,
the other storyteller in our family.
Thank you for teaching me
just how far you can stretch a fish story,
and then how to stretch it just a bit further.
All my love and deepest appreciation
—Lizzie
Contents
Prologue
“Mother, where are you sending me? You can’t hide me…
Chapter 1
“Cousin Felicity, my brother had the business sense of a…
Chapter 2
“Riley, my love, whatever took you so long? While you…
Chapter 3
The next morning Mason stared out his study window onto…
Chapter 4
Riley could only stare down at the Earl’s firm hand…
Chapter 5
“I will not be—” Riley started to protest as the…
Chapter 6
“Damnation, here comes Del,” Mason muttered early the next morning,…
Chapter 7
Mason returned from his ride an hour or so later,…
Chapter 8
Before Riley could make any further introductions, the door to…
Chapter 9
Riley had watched from the library window as Mason and…
Chapter 10
Mason arose the next morning at the same time he…
Chapter 11
“Oh, Mason,” Cousin Felicity wailed as she burst into his…
Chapter 12
“You can’t decline the Duke’s invitation,” Riley said, following doggedly…
Chapter 13
The Dowager Countess of Marlowe sat in her morning room…
Chapter 14
Mason had never considered himself a coward before, but when…
Chapter 15
Mason stared at the woman on the floor. “What the…
Chapter 16
Mason was as swift and true to his word as…
Chapter 17
Mason walked home from the Everton masquerade, each pounding step…
Chapter 18
Riley awoke disoriented. The sun streamed in through a crack…
Chapter 19
“Oh, aye, my lord, he was Daniel Nutley all right,”…
Chapter 20
“Can you believe it?” Riley said. “I’m a Countess.” She…
Chapter 21
Opening night of any new production found the Queen’s Gate…
Chapter 22
Lord Cariston lurked about the edge of the crowd pouring…
Epilogue
Riley snatched the book out of Mason’s hands, as their…
About the Author
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
London, 1772
“M other, where are you sending me? You can’t hide me away forever!”
The angry cries erupted outside the morning room where the Countess always took her breakfast.
Summoning all the breeding and reserve of her noble forebears, the lady set down her teacup and
awaited the next outburst. Even as she raised her napkin to her lips, her daughter Elise burst into the
room. Two footmen followed the young woman, catching her arms and trying to pull her back into the
hallway, their faces apologetic and fearful.
As well they should be, thought the Countess, to allow such a scene in my house.
Before she could chastise either of them, her scandal-ridden daughter shook herself free from her captors
and continued her headlong rush toward the Countess.
“What are your plans now, Mother?” Elise cried, banging her fist down on the table and sending the
delicate teacup clattering out of its saucer. “Commit me to Bedlam? I am a married woman with child,
not some dockside whore riddled with pox!”
The Countess blanched at her daughter’s vulgar outburst. Coughing discreetly, she waved the gawking
maid and the ever-present butler out of the room. With a nod, she sent the footmen following as well. As
the sound of their hurried steps died away, the Countess carefully set aside her napkin, reached for her
gold-tipped cane, and rose from the table to face her only child.
A strained silence filled the room. The two women glared at each other, mirror images of stubborn
determination.
Why couldn’t she have borne a son? the Countess lamented. Though her husband’s title and estates were
entailed so they could pass to a daughter, Elise was not worthy to wear the noble name—not with her
antics or her ill-fated connection.
The family’s honor and decency had to be maintained, no matter the personal cost.
“Mother, I demand to know where you are sending me,” Elise said, her scorn and contempt defining
each word. “I’ll have a say in my future. I’ll not be treated like a child any longer.”
Confronted again with this unrelenting defiance, the Countess lost any hold she’d claimed on her steely
reserve and flew into a blind rage. Without even blinking, she slapped her daughter across the face as
hard as she could.
The blow sent Elise reeling to her knees.
The Countess clenched her stinging hand at her side and continued to glare at her daughter.
From the floor, Elise looked up through the mass of dark hair that had tumbled loose in her fall and now
fell about her head like a black shroud. “How dare you,” she said. “I am with child!”
“I heard you the first time!” The Countess pounded her cane on the polished floor. “Why not say it loud
enough for even the scullery maids to hear?”
As Elise staggered to her feet, her chin lifted again in rebellion. “I’ll say it loud enough for everyone in
London to hear, once I am free of this house.”
“Oh, don’t worry. You’re about to leave. But don’t think for a minute you’ll have the opportunity to
make a greater fool of yourself.” The Countess resumed her seat at the small table. Taking a deep breath,
she steadied her shaking hands and poured herself another cup of tea.
Elise moved closer. “You truly mean to send me away from London?”
To the Countess’s keen ears, it seemed her daughter’s words held an anxious edge. She smiled inwardly
at this first small victory in their battle over Elise’s ill-advised elopement with Geoffrey Stoppard. Until
fifteen years ago the Stoppards had been nothing but wool merchants, until they’d purchased a baronetcy
in a pitiful attempt to raise their family above their common origins. Geoffrey, as a third son, had aimed at
a higher lot in life than even his ambitious father could have imagined or purchased.
And Elise had offered him just that opportunity.
For as her husband, Geoffrey Stoppard not only would have gained control of her fortune, but the cursed
letters of patent also entitled Elise’s husband to take the rank left open by her father’s death, the title of
Earl.
The Countess shuddered at the unthinkable union of her daughter and some…some…conniving cit’s son.
Or worse, a cit’s son taking her esteemed husband’s title.
What would the ton have said about the sudden elevation of that odious man from commoner to one of
the most respected titles in the peerage—all because she’d been unable to control her errant daughter?
At least she’d been able to prevent such a contemptible situation—so far, though only through stealth and
sheer bribery. The Countess had quelled all the rumors of Elise’s springtime elopement, and even
privately rejoiced when Stoppard and his arrogant ways had gotten him killed by brigands as the
honeymoon couple returned from Scotland.
The entire episode could have been hushed up and forgotten, until this, she thought, glancing at the
growing swell of Elise’s normally flat stomach, this final reminder of Stoppard’s rapacity and her daughter
’s reckless indiscretion.
“Where are you sending me, Mother?” Elise’s insistent demand broke the Countess’s reverie.
Selecting a roll, she buttered it with slow, precise strokes. “I intend to send you far enough away that this
embarrassing situation will never be discovered.”
Elise shuddered. “Why? Because Geoffrey didn’t have all the titles and family connections you find so
important? I don’t care about any of that. I loved my husband. I’m proud to be carrying his child. At
least now some part of him will continue on.”
Anger narrowed the Countess’s vision. “I doubt your precious Geoffrey would have appreciated such
devotion, for he cared only for your money and the titles you brought to your marriage.”
Her daughter’s chin cocked upward again. “He cared not for those things. He would have loved me if I’d
been a pauper. He told me so.”
The Countess sniffed. “He said the same things to Lord Easton’s daughter when he tried to elope with
her last fall.”
Elise blanched. “Cynthia?”
“Why yes, Lady Cynthia. Luckily her maid revealed their plans and Lord Easton was able to stop them
before the idiotic girl ruined herself completely.” She paused and glanced up at Elise. “Why, I thought
you knew—nearly everyone does. But I can see by your face you didn’t.” The Countess glanced away,
allowing her lie to sink into her daughter’s love-besotted mind.
“What do I care what Geoffrey did before we were…” Elise struggled valiantly to defend her dead
husband.
“Married?” her mother finished for her. “I wouldn’t be so sure. There is no proof of a wedding, as you
know, since you allowed it to be stolen along with all your belongings. And why would you want to claim
it? Think, you foolish girl, what an alliance to that family would mean,” the Countess said. “His father will
step in as guardian to that bastard and take control of your inheritance. If something happened to that
child, while the title would be safe, our holdings, our income, would pass to that wool merchant and his
loathsome brood. No, it is better the entire episode is hidden away, better for you if this child is
forgotten.”
Elise shook her head. “Forget my child? Never.” She drew herself up to her full height. “Geoffrey’s child
deserves a name, a home. Why should this babe bear the brunt of your anger because I married Geoffrey
Stoppard?”
The Countess, refusing to speak, stared at her with icy regard.
“How can you deny your own grandchild?” Elise demanded.
“I will not acknowledge your unfortunate association with that impudent man, nor will I lend our good
family name to his leavings,” came the cold reply. “There is too much at stake.”
“My child deserves a name.”
The Countess raised her eyebrows at this continued defiance. Looking around the room she spied the
wagging tail of her deceased husband’s favorite hound lounging near the fireplace. “If you insist on giving
your little bastard a name, call it Riley,” she mocked, pointing her finger at the ugly old hound.
“After the dog?”
“Why not?” she told her daughter. “Without the protection of this family or that of a husband, you would
be no better in the world than the whore you played to your perfidious lover. Riley is the best name your
child could hope for.”
Elise’s hands folded over her stomach, as if to protect her babe from the nightmare unfolding around her.
“You would have my child live as a…”
“A bastard,” the Countess said coldly, dismissing any possible sentiment about the child her daughter
carried.
Her grandchild.
Again, she took a deep breath. The child was none of her concern.
“I could marry someone else, pass this child off—” Elise said quietly.
The Countess shook her head. “You’re too far gone for that. If you had come to me two months ago, it
might have worked. I’m sure there are many who would take you even now, but I’ll not endure the
gossip come March when that babe arrives four months after a hasty marriage—nor will I risk any
speculation by those Stoppards as to who the father may be.”
The Countess reached for her cane and rose again. Pacing to the garden window, she glanced out at the
cold November morning and frowned.
“So what will you do with me?” Elise finally whispered.
Drawing a deep breath, the Countess laid out her plan. “You will sail to France and bear this child in
secret. Once it is all over, you can return and marry Tamlyn, as your father and I have planned since your
birth. He’s heir to his grandfather’s dukedom. One day you’ll be a duchess and all of this,” she said,
pointing a beringed finger at her daughter’s stomach, “will be forgotten.”
Elise shook her head at her mother’s scheme, her gaze focused out the window as well. “No, there must
be another way. I’ll not abandon my child.”
The Countess leaned forward. “You will agree to these arrangements, or you will find yourself in a
French convent for the remainder of your days. I will live without a daughter rather than have you ruin this
family’s honored name.”
“Even you wouldn’t be so cruel to bury away your only child in some foreign convent.”
The Countess arched a brow. “I would rather see everything pass to your father’s cousin than allow you
another opportunity to rain scandal down on this house. Give up this bastard and marry Tamlyn.”
“My child is not a bastard. It has a father. My husband.”
“Then where is he, Elise? Where is your proof of matrimony?” the Countess jeered. “I’ll tell you where—
stolen away, just like that conniving blackguard did with your virtue and reputation.”
It wasn’t without some regrets that she watched Elise’s shoulders sag in defeat.
All is not lost yet, my child, her mother thought. You can return and take your position as Tamlyn’s wife
and you’ll rule society as I have.
A famous beauty from the moment she’d stepped into the London social circuit at sixteen, Elise and her
mysterious green eyes had been regaled by poets, her lithesome and flirtatious manners imitated by the
highest born down to the parroting masses, and her company sought by every man from seventeen to
seventy-nine.
Elise slowly turned her gaze from the window. The Countess watched her with a level stare, trying to
discern any sign, some evidence that her daughter would make the right decision.
“What will it be?” the Countess asked, silently urging her to make the right choice. Forget this child.
Marry the Duke.
“I’ll go to France.” Elise’s green eyes burned with hatred. “But I will not give up this child. Nor will I
marry Tamlyn.”
The Countess instantly heard something underlying her daughter’s terse words.
Hope. And a plan.
Well, she would nip any harebrained designs right here and now. “Don’t think because you go to France
you will have any opportunity to gain your freedom. You will be escorted by Edrich and his brothers, all
of whom have been well paid and are not foolish enough to risk my wrath.”
The Countess rose from the table, her cane in hand. “They will take you under guard to the ship, and then
you will be locked in a room for the crossing. The Captain has been informed of your unfortunate
tendency toward lunacy and is more than sympathetic to seeing you kept under lock and key. Your
wiles, your pleas will go unheard, for you will neither see nor speak to anyone. In France, the abbess will
not allow you to leave your cell until the child is born. And if you continue to refuse to marry Tamlyn, in
the Abbey you will remain for the rest of your days. There will be no escape.”
“Mercy, what will become of my child?” Elise said quietly, the words whispering of despair and loss.
The Countess thumped her cane down hard on the floor, driving away the bitterness of the last two
months now wrenching at her heart. She wouldn’t let imprudent sentimentality tear her from the course of
action she’d chosen.
“That is no longer my problem,” the Countess replied. “I wash my hands of you. You have done
everything possible to ruin this family’s name with your common behavior and theatrics more suited for
the stage than my home. Your days of bringing disgrace to this house are over. If you do not come to
your senses when this child is no longer an issue, then I will tell the world you died of a fever.”
At the Countess’s signal the footmen returned and caught Elise in their strong grasp.
“I shall escape you, Mother. And I will return,” Elise cried out, as they dragged her from the morning
room.
Though she did escape, she never returned to her mother’s house.
But one day, Riley did.
Chapter 1
London, 1798
“C ousin Felicity, my brother had the business sense of a pelican,” Mason St. Clair, the new Earl of
Ashlin said, waving his hand over his littered desk. “Look at these. Bills for carriages. Bills for horses. I’
ve looked in our stables. We have no horses. And we have no carriages. From what I can surmise, as
quickly as Freddie bought these extravagances, he gambled them away.”
Mason’s announcement hardly seemed to upset his elderly relative, who sat primly on the settee in the
corner of his study.
“Frederick always said life was just a dice toss away. Perhaps you should take up gambling.” She
nodded sagely, as if she’d recited gospel.
He picked up several sheets of paper and shook them at his cousin. “That’s exactly what got us into this
situation. That and Freddie’s ill-advised investments. I never knew anyone who could throw so much
money at such nonsense. Gold mines in Italy, Chinese inventions, and of all things, a theatre!” The Earl
shook his head. “Only my brother would invest in some tawdry play on Brydge Street.”
“Really, my dear, you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead,” she sniffled. A day never passed that Cousin
Felicity didn’t find something to cry about, especially when it came to Frederick. “My poor Caro and
dear Frederick have only been…been…gone now…” Cousin Felicity faltered, unable to continue. With
a shaky hand, she reached for her ever near lacy handkerchief and dramatically blew into it. She glanced
up at him, her blue eyes misting, making her look frail beyond her fifty-odd years.
Mason sighed. “Yes, I know the last seven months have been terribly difficult for you and the girls. But
weeping all the time does not solve the problems at hand. The bill collectors are becoming quite insistent,
Cousin. If we don’t find a way to satisfy some of the more pressing debts…we’ll be out on the street.”
“Pish posh, my boy,” Cousin Felicity declared most decidedly, her bout of tears forgotten as she settled
back into the elegant settee and reached for her embroidery. “You are the Earl of Ashlin. They wouldn’t
dare cast us out. Honorable debts are always overlooked.” She leaned forward in a confidential manner.
“Frederick informed me thusly whenever my dressmaker became rude or insistent about my account.”
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, Cousin Felicity, but debts are never overlooked, honorable or
not.”
“But Frederick said—”
He held up his hand to stop her from spouting another litany of Frederickisms. Even Mason had his limits
with the saintly accomplishments and nonsensical witticisms his cousin attributed daily to his deceased
brother.
“Really, Mason, you always tended toward exaggeration as a child. I would have thought you’d have
outgrown that by now. Our situation can hardly be as bad as you say.”
“I don’t see how it could be any worse.”
“If that is the case, you could secure quite a tidy fortune by marrying Miss Pindar,” she began
deliberately. “She’s just come out of mourning for her father, and from what I hear, she’s exceedingly
well off. Yes, that would be the perfect solution.” She went back to selecting a thread.
Mason leaned over the mounds of paper and gave his cousin what he hoped was a censuring look.
Marry Miss Pindar?
He’d rather suffer transportation to Botany Bay. The girl embodied every vapid, silly pretension he
detested. Besides, he’d never considered himself the marrying type, having been happy until now to live
out a bachelor existence.
But if Cousin Felicity wanted to deal out marriage cards, he had one of his own.
“Cousin Felicity, why don’t you marry Lord Chilton?”
Cousin Felicity turned a rosy shade at the mention of her twenty-year romance with the reluctant baron.
“I wouldn’t find that convenient right now.” She took on a renewed interest in her silks.
Mason knew that what she was really saying was that she hadn’t been asked. Not once in all these years.
Oh, he hadn’t meant to embarrass her about her hesitant beau, but he found it the only way to stop her
from pushing this proposed marriage to the cloying and wealthy Miss Pindar. And with Cousin Felicity
temporarily quieted, he could get back to the accounts at hand.
“My heavens,” Cousin Felicity said, interrupting his tally of the greengrocer’s bill. “Have you considered
the girls’ dowries? You could borrow against those accounts.”
Mason shook his head. He should have known Cousin Felicity never gave up easily. “Frederick drained
them years ago,” he told her. “Even Caroline’s dower lands are mortgaged to the rooftops.”
Cousin Felicity looked aghast as the reality of their situation finally sank in. “Whatever shall we do?” True
to form, the elderly lady finally gave way to a full bout of weeping. “Take my poor pin money. I also have
some set aside…. It is yours, my dear boy. Take it with my best wishes,” she said between sobs.
“No, please, Cousin Felicity,” Mason said, getting up from the desk and sitting beside her. He couldn’t