The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

a fine fellow—an outstanding chap. You will get along well together.”

      Oh, she didn’t hope for that much. Only that they would share a mutual respect.

      * * *

      If Lord and Lady Guthrie’s casual gathering was this grand, what would one of their famous balls be like? It would glitter to the heavens, Clementine figured.

      The Macooish mansion in Los Angeles was lovely, a well-known gathering place, but it did not glow with half the formal elegance of this home.

      She clenched her fingers on Grandfather’s coat sleeve. As long as she remained attached to him she might get through this—this presentation, this being shown off like a new variety of flower, or bug.

      But really, she was far from the first American lady to invade the aristocracy in order to save a peerage from financial ruin.

      “How is it that you got us invited to this ‘little gathering’—isn’t that what you called it?” Clementine glanced about the ballroom that Grandfather escorted her into. There had to be a hundred people or more milling about in lively conversation.

      And one of them was very likely the fellow expecting to marry Madeline.

      She feared the poor earl was in for a disappointment. Grandfather had touted a bride who was as pretty as a butterfly and as lyrical as a sweet melody.

      Clementine was neither of those things. The earl was bound to be dissatisfied with her if a woman like her cousin was who he wanted.

      “The duke is interested in the Scotland business.” He shot her a wink. “Nothing like a good financial bond to open doors that would have remained closed.”

      Money had always been Grandfather’s greatest tool. At least Fencroft would not be disappointed in that part of the bargain. The Macooish fortune in ironworks was beyond respectable.

      And yet, Grandfather did not trust that alone to ensure the family’s security.

      “Do not be surprised to find other men competing for your attention tonight since no one knows of the arrangement I made with Fencroft. But keep in mind that I have made a bargain with him.”

      “As long as you keep in mind that I have yet to agree to anything.” Of course, she would not be here if she did not seriously consider his wish, would she? “Is the earl here?”

      Grandfather shook his head. “I don’t see him, but perhaps he is in the parlor, where the gents are gaming.”

      If only Oliver Cavill’s absence was not as much relief as it was disappointment.

      Also, it did weigh on her that if he was in the parlor it meant he was a gambler. She would feel better about the man had he not been gaming. She hoped there would be other things about her potential intended that she would come to respect.

      But it could not be denied that one thing she would have respected was to see him waiting to greet her instead of going into further debt.

      “Do you not think a more formal meeting would have been appropriate, Grandfather? It is all rather haphazard, having us meet so casually.”

      “To my mind, it’s more comfortable this way.”

      As if there could possibly be anything “comfortable” in any of this.

      Walking under a huge, exceptionally glittering chandelier, she was aware of people staring at her, the women from under veiled lashes and the men with ill-disguised interest.

      “They’ll have heard that you are an American.”

      “They aren’t staring at you.”

      “I’m not an heiress come to snatch up a peer. I’m sure the debutantes and their mothers are quaking in their dancing slippers wondering who you have set your sights upon.”

      “Sneering behind their smiles, more to the point.”

      He turned her chin with his fingertips, pulling her gaze away from the frown of a middle-aged woman peering at her through a huge arrangement of orange-and-yellow chrysanthemums. “Clemmie Macooish, keep your chin up just so, and don’t forget that you are the most beautiful woman in this room. It’s no wonder some of them are jealous of you. Why I’ll wager your gown cost more than three of theirs put together.”

      Heaven help her, it was probably true. Being a man, Grandfather would not realize that the extravagance gave them even more reason to be resentful of her.

      “Put on your best smile. Our hostess approaches.” He patted her fingers where they clamped onto his arm. She suspected that under her gloves, they were as bone white as the lace was.

      “Your Grace?” she asked under her breath. This was where it would be revealed whether her studying had been for naught.

      Grandfather nodded, his smile bright for the approaching duchess.

      If other women’s smiles at Clementine seemed forced, the duchess’s did not. Lady Guthrie was clearly gifted at making a guest feel welcome.

      Clementine prayed that her return smile would indicate that she was pleased to be here, especially given that she was not.

      While Grandfather led the way with formal pleasantries, Clementine gazed over Her Grace’s shoulder at the garden beyond the open doors. If she became overwhelmed, she would escape to that torchlit paradise and find a private place to catch her breath.

      Perhaps once she met her earl the flutters in her belly would settle. What she needed to bear in mind was that the opinions of daughters and mammas did not matter so much in the end. If Fencroft approved of her all would be well.

      If she approved of him, all would be very well. For all that she struggled against Grandfather’s insistence that she become a countess, she did want to give him what he wanted most, if it was within her power to do so.

      This man she owed everything to had been horribly betrayed by one granddaughter. If she could ease his grief over it, she would. Of course, she had yet to meet Fencroft, so she could not say for certain.

      But she would try. She did know that much.

      “Come, let me introduce you,” Her Grace declared.

      Grandfather’s arm fell away from under her hand.

      She prayed that her lips formed a bright and twittering smile.

      Grandfather walked toward a group of gentlemen engrossed in lively conversation across the room. She was utterly on her own.

      Even though the duchess was leading her to a gathering of women near the garden doors, sanctuary felt miles away.

      * * *

      Heath strode into the grand entry hall and handed off his black coat, hat and gloves to the servant standing in waiting.

      “Thank you, my good man,” he said with a nod.

      The fellow returned the nod but did not speak. Now that Heath was Fencroft, life was more formal. He’d been set on some blamed pedestal that kept some people at arm’s length. At the same time other people who had barely spared him a glance in the past attached themselves to him.

      His mind returned to the woman in the pond. She didn’t know who he was and so she showed him no deference. It was almost as though he was simply Heath Cavill, second son again. What would he not give to be strolling on a moonlit path at the estate in Derbyshire instead of traversing these marble floors?

      What would he not give to hear his brother’s congenial laugh one more time? But death changed everything and so he would not.

      By custom, he ought not to be here. He was still in mourning. But in mourning for Oliver. His brother would encourage him to laugh and enjoy his first meeting with Madeline Macooish.

      It wasn’t likely that any of the women here would object to his break with tradition. They would think he was looking for a wife, which, in fact, he was.

      Going