Marry Christmas. Jane Goodger

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.”

      “One million pounds,” Rand said, feeling desperation pull at him. “It would mean everything.”

      “It’s just marriage,” Hollings said blandly. “Go see her. You can always change your mind.”

      Rand looked at his old friend and gave him a grim smile. “I can hardly afford passage.” He closed his eyes and let out a long breath. “I really could throttle my father and brother. And would, too, if they weren’t six feet under.” His words were blasé but the pain inside was anything but. His father and brother had shared a bond that he could never breech. It was as if they were part of a whole and he was simply an extra bit that fell off and was not needed at all. His brother had taken pains to spend time with him when he was very young, and a boy could not have asked for a better big brother.

      Then, Rand had been shipped off to school when he was nine years old and from then on he never felt a part of anything at Bellewood. All he had were wonderful memories and a sometimes aching desire to go home.

      Now they were both gone, so he could only speculate why they had behaved the way they had, tossing away a vast fortune on nothing.

      Hollings took a long sip of his brandy. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t know a single peer who hasn’t had to start looking for money. Some in unusual places. Lord Dumfrey is director of twelve companies.

      Doesn’t do a thing but collect the cash and lend out his good name. And don’t even think that you’re the only peer who has married an American for her money. Done all the time these days.”

      Rand tried to take heart in Hollings’s speech, but he couldn’t help wishing there was another way. If it was just a matter of raising the money to repair Bellewood, he could do that. He wasn’t opposed to working for a living; it was becoming common among the more desperate of the peerage. But he could never pay the enormous amount of debt left behind by his brother. Not without a substantial bit of help. He refused to sell Bellewood; he’d only get a fraction of what it was worth. Besides, Bellewood had been in his family for generations and he’d be damned if he’d be the duke to lose it.

      God, how he wished he were back in London with his regiment, happily unaware that his brother, the eighth duke, was dying of consumption. By the time he found out, his poor brother was near death and Rand was looking at a future far more grim than the one he’d expected. But not as grim as his brother’s, and for that he was somewhat grateful.

      He