The Earl's American Heiress. Carol Arens

He might have accepted it had Willa loved him. But she did not. He’d been broken for a bit by the way she’d used his affection.

      Heath sat down on a bench and watched as wispy clouds drifted across the moon.

      While he hadn’t gone through with the marriage, he could not find it in him to cast her out. He’d put her up in an apartment away from everyone she knew, so that her shame would not be exposed. He visited her, brought her what she needed to live in comfort. Oddly enough, a friendship had grown between them during that time, a true one. He wanted to confront the cad who had left her in this state, but she would not say who it was.

      One day, when he paid his weekly call, Willa was huddled in her bed, weak and feverish. She admitted to giving birth the day before and walking two miles to Slademore House to give her baby over to the charity there, run by Baron Slademore. As soon as she’d done it, she regretted it. She looked in desperate condition, cursing Slademore in her near delirium. Perhaps he was the culprit and that was why she had taken her child to him and not because it was a well-reputed orphanage? Willa claimed it was not true, but still, Heath had wondered. In the end there was nothing to be done but send for the doctor.

      Even now, sitting here on the bench, he felt the cold lump that sickened his belly when the doctor reported that Willa would not likely see the dawn. She’d wept, clutching Heath’s shirt, and begged him to bring back her daughter.

      That trip to Slademore House had changed his life in a way that nothing ever had before.

      It had surprised him when Baron Slademore—a man respected by the highest members of society—denied receiving a newborn. Perhaps Willa, in her fevered state, had imagined she’d come here. If not, the baron was lying. But why? Was Heath correct and the baby his? Was he lying to keep from being caught out?

      In any event, he had to try to bring Willa’s baby home. When it seemed the orphanage had gone dim for the night, he’d gone in search of the child. Luckily someone had left the back door open. Indeed, he’d sensed a presence just out of sight, seeming to lead him down this ill-lit hallway and down another until he came to the half-open door that led to a dark, dank room. He found the baby there, wailing in a strident newborn voice. While there was no nurse present, there were other children sleeping on cots with thin blankets offering scant warmth. It was so different a picture from how he’d seen them treated earlier that day.

      He’d snatched up Willa’s child, tucked her under his coat and raced back to the apartment. Willa had held her daughter to her heart for an hour before she passed away.

      Baby Willa was the first orphan to be kidnapped by the villain whom the papers named “the Abductor,” and the first he sheltered at the seaside in Rock Rose Cottage.

      That had all happened two years ago, and now, suddenly, marriage was in his future again.

      “Hello, cat,” he said to the feline twining about his trouser leg. It looked a bit like the one that had spooked him in the dark and led to his meeting with his mystery woman.

      “What do you think?” he asked the fluffy creature looking up at him with great, dark eyes. “Perhaps a marriage of convenience is for the best. No secrets, no expectations. No heartache, either.”

      No passion, no love. Eyes wide open. The cold, formal circumstances of this union were for the best.

      The cat, in apparent agreement, gave a hollow meow and then went on his way toward the fountain.

      Earlier today he’d gotten word from James Macooish that he was in London and prepared to present his granddaughter at Lady Guthrie’s intimate gathering a few days hence.

      From past experience, he knew that the intimate gathering would be grand rather than cozy. He wondered if his future bride was any more prepared for this meeting than he was.

      As vibrant and socially accomplished as he understood Madeline Macooish to be, he could not help guessing that the duchess’s soiree would be different than what the American would be accustomed to. For all that the lady was admired in America, England was a vastly different place. He feared she might be shunned by the other women because she was an outsider. And not just any outsider, but one who threatened to dash their ambition of gaining a titled marriage.

      Heath pitied his bride-to-be as much as he did himself. He could not imagine why she had agreed to marry Oliver. It was not as though her family would fail without the money like his would. And not only the family of his blood but those he was now responsible for: parlormaids, footmen, butlers, cooks and farmers. Even the merchants Fencroft frequented could suffer if he failed to keep the estate solvent.

      If he could choose the direction of his life, it would not be this.

      Heath was far better suited to the bucolic life of the estate. Helping farmers tend the land and the livestock—it was all he’d ever needed of life. He’d been grateful to be born the second son.

      None of that mattered now. There was a crown pressing on his head and the legacy Willa had unknowingly bequeathed him burdening his heart.

      It hurt his brain to think about everything all at once. He’d rather let his mind wander to Cinderella. He’d come out tonight, half hoping to see her again. Thoughts of her had interfered with his daily duties; they’d even invaded his nighttime dreams.

      If he could only see her one more time, discover who she was.

      He glanced the length and width of the garden. While he’d been woolgathering, fog had rolled in. The vapor swirled brown and ugly in the light given off by a gas lantern beside the gate.

      A movement caught his eye. A woman stood beside the fountain dabbing her eyes with a white apron. He heard her softly weeping.

      She was not the lady he sought, but a chambermaid who worked on the third floor. He recalled seeing her hustling about her duties.

      Since he could not turn away from a weeping woman, he approached her.

      “Miss?” He spoke softly but still his voice must have startled her, because she jumped.

      “Oh, Lord Fencroft, sir,” she sniffled. “I beg your pardon for being out here but, but I—”

      “May I be of help, Miss—?”

      “Oh, I’m Betty, sir. And no one can help, I fear.”

      “Is there a problem with your employment?”

      She shook her capped head, and her breath shuddered when she inhaled. “No, not that—I shouldn’t trouble you about it.”

      “As Fencroft, I’m the one you ought to trouble about it.” Maybe he could not help in any way but to listen, but perhaps he could.

      “It’s to do with my cousin, sir. She’s a sweet and trusting soul but gullible to go with it. Well, the poor wee girl trusted the wrong man. She gave birth to a child and now has no way to support it. No one will hire a fallen woman. She’s gone to leave the baby at Slademore House. Not to speak ill of the sainted charity—they’ll care for the wee one fine enough—but I fear the grief of the parting will send my cousin headlong into the Thames.”

      Betty did not know how wrong she was about the charity being “sainted.”

      And why would she? Heath would think the same had he not stumbled upon the truth while searching for Willa’s baby.

      He would have been as blind as the rest of society, believing that Slademore House was exactly what it appeared to be.

      Living luxuriously was easier, he supposed, when one thought one’s donations went to ease the lives of those who did not. It was the only reason he could think of that no one ever looked beyond what their eyes saw when it came to the place—or the man.

      Slademore House might appear to be a haven for the hopeless, but in truth it existed for the purpose of feeding the baron’s lust for wealth and prestige.

      In Heath’s opinion, the baron put on a display of opulence to disguise the fact that his social position was a few steps below