Page 38 of Wager for a Wife

Chapter 8

That kiss.

The ride to Buckinghamshire had flown by, for the private lane leading to Farleigh Manor was—surprisingly enough—just ahead. William’s mind had been greatly preoccupied the entire way, so it only made sense, in retrospect. Kissing Louisa for a second time had only made him want to take her in his arms and kiss her again and again.

He’d lost whatever restraint he’d had when she’d prodded him to open up and expose his inner self to her. He should not have kissed her. Not like that. But, by thunder, she had kissed him back. Oh yes, she had. It had been a passionate kiss, a memorable kiss. It had been a victory.

But William was no fool either. It would take more than passion to win the heart of Lady Louisa Hargreaves.

He reined in his horse and came to an abrupt halt. When had this become more than simply getting his betrothed and her dowry to the altar? When had it become about winning her heart?

That she was willing to marry him at all should be enough. It was enough, he sternly told himself. He was not doing this for himself. If it had only been about him, he would have remained in Scotland, free to pursue his academic interests, and let Farleigh Manor rot.

That wasn’t entirely true though, he conceded. He couldn’t do that to the tenants who depended on the estate for their livings, the people who depended on him, or to the servants of the manor who’d taken care of him in his boyhood and youth. The people he loved. He couldn’t do it to Mrs. Holly or Grimshaw or the others. Or to Mary.

“Look here, Mary. Soldiers march like this.” Young William, a willow stick braced against his shoulder as if it were a gun, straightened his spine and paraded about the herb garden, knees high, while little Mary tagged along behind. “Soldiers don’t skip, and they don’t sing either.”

“Well, they should,” she replied. “Maybe they wouldn’t fight each other so much if they did.”

Farleigh Manor had always been Mary’s home. How would she ever be made to understand and cope if, suddenly, she and her mother were left to their own resources? Mary was like a sister to him—the closest thing to a sibling William had ever had.

No, he couldn’t do such a thing to Mary. Or to the others.

Perhaps he couldn’t do it to the memory of his mother either, who had spent all her married life at Farleigh Manor, much of the time alone and abandoned by her husband, and who was buried in the family plot there.

He nudged his horse forward at a walk.

The house gradually came into view. Farleigh Manor was an estate with a reasonable amount of property and a modestly sized manor house, and Matthew had done a good job keeping the front grounds in decent order, especially when one considered that he was undoubtedly doing all the work himself. The lawns had been recently scythed; however, the bordering shrubbery needed more pruning than they’d apparently received the past few years and were a tad overgrown. Except for the scythed grass, the place looked just as it had when William had been summoned home by Mr. Heslop.

William studied the estate now with new eyes. What would Louisa’s impression of her future home be?

Weeds William hadn’t noticed before suddenly appeared amongst the cobblestones leading to the front entry. The shutters needed a fresh coat of paint, and the roof was missing tiles in several places. It was certainly not as well maintained as the homes a daughter of a marquess would be accustomed to experiencing.

Rather than dismount when he reached the front entry, he continued on horseback around the side of the house until he reached the stables. He spotted Samuel there, tending to the horses.

“Master William! Welcome back!” the man called, leaving his chore and striding toward William, wiping his hands on a rag.

William dismounted. “Samuel, good to see you again so soon,” he said, shaking Samuel’s hand.

“That’s true enough, me boy—er, I mean, melord.” He grinned cheekily.

“Let’s take it easy on the ‘milording,’ shall we?” William said. “You’re family.”

“I’m family, eh . . .” Samuel scratched his grizzly chin as if pondering William’s words carefully, the old bounder. “That puts things into a whole new light, I reckon.” He rubbed his hands together with an avaricious grin.

Samuel was joking, and the stable master’s casual words took William back in time. “You were more of a father to me—you and Matthew and even Grimshaw—than my own father ever was. I won’t be having the lot of you bowing and scraping and tugging your forelocks at me every hour of the day. Understood?”

“Aye, boy, I do. Matthew and me—and all the others what’s here—done a right good job of raising ye too. And yer mother done her best by ye, God rest ’er soul.” He sobered. “She were a fine woman and gone too soon.”

“Thank you, Samuel.” William banished the ghost of his mother and the melancholy it invariably brought along with it. “I’m here to announce my betrothal and to see what can be done in a very short amount of time to prepare Farleigh Manor for the arrival of its future viscountess.”

The look of utter shock that appeared on Samuel’s face quickly became one of utter joy and excitement. “Well, ye don’t say!” He grabbed William’s hand again and shook it vigorously. “Well done, lad! And quickly too! Those lovely London ladies took one look at ye and fell at yer feet, did they?”

“Not precisely,” William said. William and Louisa’s betrothal could not be construed in those terms at all—yet there had been that kiss . . . “We must try our best to make Farleigh Manor as fit a home as possible for my bride-to-be,” William said, bringing the subject back into focus. “She is a lady of high rank.”

Samuel winked at him.

“Enough, man.” William couldn’t help but crack a small smile. “This is serious business I’m about. Lady Louisa is the daughter of a marquess. I want her to feel comfortable, and that means I’m relying on you and the others to work miracles between now and the wedding.”

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