The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

While he would be committed to his wife in being faithful to her and providing her with a comfortable life, she would not expect him to invest his heart in the agreement. There was every possibility that she would not want to invest hers, either.

      A marriage of convenience suddenly seemed a fine thing.

      “Lord Fencroft!” For a split second, Heath expected to hear his brother’s voice answering the greeting of the matron chugging toward him, her freshly presented daughter in tow.

      “Lady Meyers,” he answered, cringing at the gravity in his tone while recalling the genuine pleasure Oliver took in making the acquaintance of a debutante. It was the job of an earl to make people feel welcome in his presence. If the half-panicked expression on the girl’s face was anything to go by, he was failing miserably. “What a pleasure it is to see you tonight. I hope you are well.”

      “Quite well.” For some reason her smile sagged. “As well as a mother can be when her son goes into trade, I suppose. But here, please meet my daughter, Emily. I’m sure she will find a match to make us all proud.”

      “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Emily.” He bowed over her hand, certain he felt the heat of her blush through her glove.

      “As it turns out, Emily has one dance free on her card—the next one in fact. It would be a lovely chance for you two young people to get to know one another.”

      The right and decent thing to do would be to refuse the dance given that he was here to meet the woman he would marry.

      But he’d been neatly boxed in by the matron. Unless he wanted to insult them both, there was nothing to do but graciously agree, or appear to at any rate.

      He danced with Lady Emily, half embarrassed by the furious blush reddening her cheeks through every step of the waltz. The last note had barely sounded before she nodded, turned and fled from the dance floor.

      Emily’s mother might think her daughter ready for marriage, but the person Heath saw was still a child.

      While the girl hurried over to half a dozen young ladies whose heads were bent in apparent gossip, Heath scanned the room for a blond, elegantly coiffed head. He’d learned from Oliver that Miss Macooish was a confident sort, a lady whom he imagined would dance until her feet blistered.

      Still in mourning for his brother, Heath would have been excused from dancing, certainly. But mothers continued to come forward asking to put his name on their daughter’s dance card.

      While he had no intention of waltzing until his toes blistered, he would dance to honor his brother. Sitting in a dark corner would not serve that purpose. If Oliver were looking down upon the gathering, he did not want him to be frowning.

      Debutante after debutante came into his arms, every one of them sweet and pink-cheeked. He could barely tell one from another. A proper earl, like Oliver, in fact, would know every name, what rank and family they came from.

      Once or twice, through the whirl of dancers he caught a brief glimpse of a red-haired lady on the arm of an older gentleman.

      She was not the one he was looking for. Somewhere there was supposed to be an older man, James Macooish, with his lively blonde granddaughter on his arm.

      He would ask his hostess who she was, but how would he explain his interest in her? The arrangement with Macooish was private and he would prefer to keep it so.

      He did not see anyone matching Miss Macooish’s description.

      Ah, but he spotted the red-haired lady standing with the duchess and being introduced around.

      She was new to society, he thought. He would recall that shade of hair had he ever met her. She stood out as a red rose in a bouquet of pink.

      He nearly chuckled out loud at the poetic thought because it was something his brother might think. And then, just like that, in a blink, he wanted to weep.

      After two hours he no longer felt poetic and the weeping had to do with the blisters he had vowed to avoid.

      From the corner of his eye, he spotted Lady Meyers snatch up Emily’s hand and begin an advance upon him.

      With the garden doors standing open and only a few feet to his left, he rushed—no, hobbled—through them into the cool sanctuary of the night.

      Music faded as he walked along the torchlit path, making his way deep into the garden.

      * * *

      Clementine sighed and leaned back against the garden bench. Everything smelled green and as soothing as it did in the Los Angeles garden. A good bit cooler, though.

      Gazing up, she was reassured to see that the night sky looked the same wherever one traveled.

      Misty-looking clouds raced across the face of the moon, making it appear ethereal, fairy-like.

      She hadn’t told Grandfather she was escaping to the garden. She should have: it was quite improper to be out here without a chaperone.

      The wonderful solitude would not last for long. Knowing her as well as he did, Grandfather would quickly figure out where she’d be.

      Even when he did, it would take him a long time to locate her given how very deeply she had wandered along the path and how many secret places the garden hid.

      Judging by the rustle of shrubbery and a hushed sigh she had heard while walking along, she assumed she was not as alone out here as it seemed.

      She had to admit it was a lovely, late-summer night, just right for romance.

      At least it would be for a little while longer. A cool breeze rippled along the stones and made the leaves in her private spot whisper. The hem of her skirt fluttered. She glanced up to see a dense bank of clouds move slowly across the face of the moon.

      How quickly did storms advance here in Mayfair? At home one had hours of warning before rain began to fall, which it rarely did this time of year.

      But yes, just now, the scent of the air changed. She felt its moist hand brush her skin. And there in the distance? She was fairly certain she saw a flash and, seconds later, she heard the faint rumble of thunder.

      This was exciting, since she could not recall the last time she had heard thunder. Two years ago, or three?

      In considering whether or not she could be happy in England, she had not anticipated the wetter climate. Rainy days were her favorite.

      So, to the positive side of her mental list of reasons she should wed the earl, she added rain. She saw the word in her mind right there beneath afternoon tea and cakes, and strangers in fountains. Since this was merely a mental list, she allowed the handsome stranger to remain on it.

      But his inclusion in the list created a problem on the “reasons to sail for home” side of the list. She had liked the fellow, for all the little she knew of him. He reminded her that liking one’s spouse was paramount. At this point she did not know that she could even tolerate the earl—a man who did not show the common courtesy of leaving the gaming room to meet the woman who had the funds to save him from financial ruin.

      Even though she held no illusions that the earl was going into the marriage for any reason but monetary gain, she was disturbed by the contrast between the behaviors of the pair of men who were lately on her mind. One of them had gallantly offered to walk her home in the wee hours of the night, while the other had ignored her presence.

      Marriage implied a particular kind of intimacy. She did not think she could allow free access of her body to a man she did not at least think highly of.

      Recalling how appealing she had found Heath Ramsfield for those few moments she spent with him, she wondered if perhaps she ought to stand firm for a love match.

      Wondered until she recalled how Grandfather’s arms had held her through that flood. Held on with a love so fierce she had not been swept away.

      That memory, and everything else he had done for her, weighed heavily in her decision.

      If