Page 11 of Married By Twelfth Night
Grace wasn’t the only clever one. He had methods of convincing her to work with him. “If your sister marries, then the pressure will be off of you. You can leave Wetherfield.”
She straightened, dropping her arm. “How do you know I want to leave Wetherfield?”
He glanced at Bridget to see if she had heard them, but her arm was propped on a pillow on the sofa and she was safely ensconced in her book. “You mentioned leaving here during our last cribbage game.”
“I did?” She stared for a moment before quickly blinking away her stupor. “I mean, of course, I did. Anywhere is better than being in the same room as you.”
She didn’t mean it. Despite her bluster, he knew she enjoyed their interactions. Criticizing him was her finest source of entertainment. Still, he had to play along. He needed her. “You wound me, Gracie May.”
“That was the point. Someone has to take you down a notch or that big head of yours might float away.”
With his thumb and first finger extended, he framed his chin in his hand. “Have you been admiring my head?”
“Isn’t it enough that the rest of Wetherfield does so?”
He rested his arms on the table and leaned over them. “It’s enough if Ruth does so, and by the end of the holiday.”
Grace’s eyes sparked as if she suddenly saw a map behind his desire to marry and she had to know where it would lead. “You might as well tell me everything, Richard. You know I’ll discover it on my own in the end anyway, and this will save us time.”
He chewed on the inside of his cheek, debating how much to say. Bringing her into his confidence might be the only way to get her aid.
“Can you keep a secret?” He knew she could, or he never would have brought it up. No matter her opinion of him, he could trust her. After all these years, she had never told a soul about the time he’d accidentally set fire to a small section of a wheat field on their estate. She’d seen him showing off with a magnifying glass, singeing the yellow stalks ripe for the harvest. And yet, she had never tattled on him.
“I will not tell,” Grace said. “But knowing your secret does not obligate me to help you.”
She was smart. Too smart. “Very well, I shall tell you, but not even Bridget can know.” He lowered his voice further. “Belside’s estate is in trouble.”
“What?” she hissed.
He quickly put his finger to her mouth, her warm lips startling him. He hadn’t meant to touch her, and it was strangely hard to pull away.
“What’s happened to Belside?”
Her words helped him to focus. “I inherited a nearly bankrupt estate. It needs money to survive. A lot of money.”
She was silent for a long moment. He could see sorrow in her eyes, and if he dared believe it, a trace of fear. “Is that the real reason why you have closed off the west wing?”
“Yes. We cannot afford to have house guests or heat the whole house.”
“I assumed your mother wanted to redecorate the rooms this winter as an excuse not to entertain.”
“I wish that were the reason.”
She chewed on her lower lip. “How will marrying Ruth help with that? She has a decent dowry, but if I’m correct, you need far more than what she can offer.”
“A dowry would help, but you’re right, I need more. My aunt is prepared to help, but only on the condition that I marry by Twelfth Night.” He stopped himself before listing the stipulations. It felt uncouth to mention that he had selected her sister like one would a meal.
“And it must be Ruth?” She had that perplexed look again on her face like she was attempting to puzzle the information together but didn’t quite have all the pieces yet.
“Yes, she is the one I want to marry. For Bridget’s sake, and for Belside Manor, I hope you will return your favor to me and help me court your sister.”
She scoffed. “It seems to me that Richard Graham has never needed any help winning a lady’s favor.”
“Ah, but Ruth might be the one woman in England who is afraid of me.”
She frowned. “And that’s why you want to marry her?”
He shook his head. “Not at all, but I would like her towantto marry me too.”
