The Bastard's Iberian Bride (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 1) by Alina K. Field (29)

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Miss Liliana Ashford understood duty, and so did her seventeen-year-old charge, Katherine Mercer.

Out of duty, Liliana would put herself out of this quite comfortable, quite respectable situation. Worse, though, she would usher Katie into the life Mr. Mercer was arranging for her, a life that only love could make bearable.

Whether love would appear was, as yet, still very much in question.

Blasted duty. She hurried Katie to the liveried groom waiting beside the girl's tasteful town coach and climbed in behind her, grateful for their escape from Lady Warefield’s chattering. The scrubbed steps and polished knocker of the Warefield's Portland stone townhouse had welcomed many a fashionable visitor to Berkeley Square. Just not on this day. Today, it had been Liliana and Katie receiving the hostess’s undivided attention.

The horses stepped out and pulled them past several ornate doorways before Katie spoke. "I thought Lady Warefield would never let us go." She settled against the coach's burgundy-upholstered squab. "Whatever could she have been thinking? And we, her only callers. I was ever so amazed that no one else paid a visit. Is she not one of the hautest of the haut ton?"

She giggled into her hand then raised her eyebrows in the shocked look Liliana had been trying to discourage. Her job was to make Katie socially acceptable to her betters, as bland as the rest of this season's crop of debutantes.

"My gloves, Liliana! What will Lady Warefield think of me? Oh, how could I have forgotten them? The footman handed me my pelisse, but not my gloves. Mama sent all the way to Paris for those gloves."

Lady Warefield had gabbed and chattered and bent their ears, reeling them repeatedly back from a graceful exit. If the footman forgot Katie's gloves, it was probably by instruction.

"Katherine Mercer." Liliana smiled, softening the scold. "We must have no tears, else your eyes will be puffy and red for the rout at Lady Sheffield's tonight." Tears would be evidence of feelings.

The girl squeezed her lips together and nodded. Another bad habit Liliana should remind her of, but not today.

Liliana rapped for the coach to stop. "I'll retrieve the errant gloves and walk home. You will continue directly there in the charge of your coachman and groom, and then you must have a lie-down so you are well-rested for tonight."

Katie's face lit. "I shall stretch out with Mama and nap with her."

She patted the girl's delicate cheek, so pale in comparison to her dark hair and vivid blue eyes. Her coloring was all the fashion. She would be one of this season’s Incomparables, if Liliana had any say in the matter. "That is an excellent plan."

Katie's lips curved up in the smile that always sparked a light in her eyes and turned her face aglow. Her fine porcelain beauty, her good nature, and that smile—limited to private moments, of course—would, Liliana fervently hoped, win her future husband's love.

Not that she needed beauty to win the husband. Her marriage portion, and her father's indomitable will, would settle that matter. What Katie didn't have—a title and perpetual membership among the hautest of the haut ton—that, her husband would provide.

Katie was beautiful, and biddable, and rich. Liliana had seen immediately, the task of bringing the girl out into society would take almost no effort at all.

Liliana spoke with the groom, and sent the coach on. They'd gone but a few blocks, and it was a fine day, on this fine street in Mayfair, not so far from the Mercer's townhouse. She could roam for a few moments in blessed freedom, not something she’d had much of in the past ten years.

In minutes, she was back at Lady Warefield's door, and with the smallest of vails drawn from her own purse, she persuaded the footman to return Katie's gloves. The deduction from her meager bank account would not be reimbursed, but to have the girl return, as her ladyship had no doubt connived, was out of the question.

She rolled her shoulders back and stood taller. One had to set limits on careless suitors. Cousin Alice had drummed that standard into Liliana during her daily lectures.

Not that Katie had been expecting to meet a suitor today. The girl was being shielded from the plans for her future.

Such secrecy wasn't right. The matter was becoming a weight on Liliana's conscience. She herself would tell Katie the name of her intended, if only she knew it.

As Lady Warefield's front door closed behind her, Liliana noticed a coach drawn up in front, its gleaming panels crested with an unfamiliar coat of arms. A gentleman stepped out and moved along the horses to the front of the team.

Her stomach knotted, and an ache started between her shoulders. This must be the titled man Katie was supposed to meet all unexpectedly today. His height, his broad shoulders, his fair hair under the tall beaver hat, all sent warning bells clanging.

A man that handsome would be trouble. A man that handsome had been trouble for her once.

She eased in a breath. This was not Colin. Colin was long gone.

The gentleman loomed over a servant who gripped the halter of the exquisite wheeler. "By God, Johnson, you knew your instructions. I'll have none of your excuses." He clenched his gloved hands.

His voice carried all the way to the townhouse steps. Liliana bristled, grasping the strings of her reticule tighter. Not even Mr. Mercer, a man made by trade, would upbraid a servant so audibly on the street like this.

"Aye, my lord."

The laconic voice held no alarm, and wasn't that worse? His servants did not respect him.

As she came down the steps, the gentleman turned. Blue eyes, of a startlingly bright shade, speared her.

That knot in her stomach danced, and she sucked a breath into her tightening chest. She'd expected—well, what had she expected? This lord was much older than Katie—that was not unusual. But Liliana had expected him to be more like the other aristocrats of his age—balding, portly, and full of himself.

Indeed, he had that last attribute. Otherwise, he was still very fit in his well-cut clothes, and quite handsome.

Handsome, and ill-mannered, and perhaps under that hat, a bald spot was lurking.

His eyes lit with interest and his hand went to the brim of his hat. She sent him a curt nod and hurried on, his gaze burning her back. She dare not turn and look.

A shiver went through her. Had she been rude? No one must know she was a fraud, an impulsive Ashford masquerading as the staid, refined spinster crafted by Cousin Alice. Years of determined mentoring had tempered her rashness, but she still felt a reckless twinge now and again, especially where a young woman’s happiness was at stake.

She must see Katie well-married, and then find another suitable position for herself. At nine and twenty, even putting aside her poverty, she was too old for marriage. And God knew her only living relative would be of no help.

She traced her way down the street, thinking. No, she hadn't been rude. He’d tipped his hat to her, but heavens, it would have been forward to speak, since they'd not had a proper introduction. If this handsome brute was Katie's suitor, they would have that introduction in two days, at the Kirchford Ball, where, Mr. Mercer had hinted an announcement would be made.

Or, perhaps this lord would appear at the rout tonight, anxious to lay eyes on his future bride—his sweet, delicate, and very, very rich future bride.

Dear Katie. That man would bully her dreadfully, just like he'd done to his servant.

Dodging puddles from the recent rain, she walked on. In the park, early spring bulbs had poked through the ground, preparing to burst into bloom. Her only hope was the promise Mrs. Mercer had extracted from her husband—Katie must approve the man fixed for her.

And before Katie approved, she, Liliana Ashford, would make sure he was worthy. London was full of titled bachelors and widowers with pockets to let. Someone else would do for this Smithfield Bargain Mr. Mercer was negotiating.

Though likely, if she used her influence with Katie to challenge Mr. Mercer’s choice, she'd be packing her trunk and heading for some heathen outpost in Scotland. Or perhaps Jersey. Cousin Alice had once threatened to send her to Jersey.

As she neared the end of the square, she heard the rattle of a coach and turned to look. The same beautiful bays swung their heads proudly, and the man called Johnson, perched on the back, lifted his hat to her.

A leering, bleary-eyed face reared up in the coach window. "Ho, lovey, let me give you a ride." He pounded for the driver to stop, but the coachman did not so much as slow down. His shout became fierce, the bellow carrying across the square. The horses picked up their feet, and the coach darted into the next street.

Heart pounding, she stopped dead, prickles of anger crawling up her legs. That roaring fool in the escutcheoned carriage was as fair-haired and blue-eyed as the angry man she’d seen on the street. They were related. And if that drunken oaf was the man they were pairing with Katie, well, she would...she would...

Her whole body stiffened. Bugger her future—she would see to Katie's happiness.

George Tilden, Baron Grigsby, doffed his hat to the woman who'd just exited Lady Warefield's. Dark-haired and pretty, she met the description of the future bride.

She was no green girl, though, and not as petite as he'd been led to believe. That was probably a good thing. In the life being planned for her, strength and maturity would be a plus. Perhaps she could introduce some good sense into the Hackwell line. His own sister had certainly not succeeded in doing so.

He watched her move down the street, quick and graceful, and quite eager to be away from him. A quiet curse escaped him. This duty was one he couldn't help but hate.

"Was that her, milord?" Johnson moved up next to him.

"You are too forward, man." He muttered another curse. Her tense nod had held an excess of courtesy and a good dose of disapproval. Perhaps she'd heard him chastise Johnson, or else...

He turned. No, Thomas had passed out in the coach, his head thrown back, his mouth open like a flycatcher's. Grigsby had seen the lady just in time to move between her and a possible insult. Pulling Thomas out of yet another vile hell had caused this tardiness.

"I apologize, Johnson. I suspect you did your best with his lordship."

"Begging your pardon, milord, his men—”

"I know." The Earl of Hackwell's coachman and footman had themselves been thumping drunk. "Get him home. I'll manage without my coach."

The lady had almost reached the end of the square. She bore herself like a gentlewoman, but on second glance, he decided her dress was too plain for her to be Mercer’s daughter. Mercer was no Puritan. The wealthy, social-climbing daughter of this industrialist would be drowning in laces and frills. The future bride might still be here, in Lady Warefield's drawing room.

He straightened his hat and went up the stairs.

"You are late."

Grigsby winced at the reprimand. The Countess of Warefield had never been one to mince words.

"Do you know how difficult these negotiations have been?" she went on.

He studied the tea tray. Three cups had been used. "As I have had three meetings with the father of the bride, yes, I do know. Mr. Mercer is as direct and impatient as you are, cousin."

"Pah. And where was Thomas this time?" Shaking her head, she waved a hand. "No, do not tell me. I will not want to hear it."

Outside, sun lit the square and the walkers taking advantage of the clear afternoon. How he longed to be out there himself. "I found it necessary to send him home. The lady is gone?"

"She just left. She will be at Lady Sheffield's tonight. You will do well to attend."

"Perhaps." He would rather poke out his eye than attend a rout at Lady Sheffield's. Besides, he had a new book on the latest Egyptian discoveries waiting in his library.

"And persuade Thomas to go."

"No." Thomas would need at least twenty-four hours to be human again. "I have extracted his sacred promise as a gentleman to be at the Kirchford Ball tomorrow night."

Thomas's credentials as a gentleman might be questionable, but the Kirchfords smiled upon high stakes in their card room. His nephew would come.

"And while there, he must dance attendance on her. I tell you, Grigsby, her blood may have the scent of the warehouse, but her money can buy a great deal of perfume, and she is a pretty little thing." She lifted an eyebrow and smiled. "If Thomas fails, you might have a go at the match yourself."

His back stiffened. Gad, his cousin was crass. He turned a cold gaze on her, but of course she didn't notice. Once an idea took hold, she could be single-minded.

"It has been a whole year. You have no heir. You must remarry."

Even if Mercer had not made it clear it was Hackwell he wanted, Grigsby would have had no interest in the girl. "Think you that Mercer would look lower than an Earl? Not with the prize he is offering. And besides, the chit is young enough to be my daughter."

She snorted and hovered a hand over the biscuit plate. "Most men would think that a good attribute. Come, you are not still mourning Cora?"

He kept his face carefully neutral. The death of his wife had been shocking and unexpected, a sudden and powerful bout of influenza felling the quiet woman who, even after a string of miscarriages, had dutifully allowed him into the marriage bed now and then. He had mourned her death as he should, but it had not really touched his heart, much like their marital union.

"She is as still as a potted plant when she is nervous."

His cousin, of course, had not waited for an answer. She had returned to the subject of Katherine Mercer.

"I noticed that about her at the balls. Dances beautifully, in spite of her nerves. After you are married and she produces your heir, you may send her out with her young beaux and retire to your club."

He narrowed his gaze. “Cousin—”

"Do you think Thomas will come up to scratch? I think he shall drink himself into the grave. Or into a duel, and from there into the grave, and you will have to send for his brother to find the rich wife that will save the house of Hackwell. But by that time, mark my word, Katherine Mercer will be taken." She patted his hand. "Hackwell needs an infusion of money."

As did she. He wondered how grateful Mercer would be in the end to her.

"If Thomas will not do his duty, you know you will end up having to help him. You have plenty of money, but why not marry more? And she is young enough for you to beget as many children as the King himself."

After several more minutes of this line of persuasion, he extracted himself and retrieved his hat.

The same footman who had admitted him lingered in the hall to usher him out.

"The lady who left here just before I arrived, do you know her name?"

The man's eyes narrowed, and he colored a bit. "She came for Miss Mercer's gloves."

He lifted an eyebrow. The man was dodging, the cheeky bastard. The Warefields ran a very loose ship. "She was not Miss Mercer?"

"No, milord."

As he mused on this tidbit, he passed the footman a coin.

The servant inclined his head and said in a hushed voice, "Her card said she was Miss Liliana Ashford."

Ashford was the gentlewoman the Mercers had engaged to help launch their daughter into society. A spinster relative of a recently deceased dowager Viscountess, Lady Warefield vouched for the woman’s respectability. Which, given his cousin’s financial incentives, was not entirely reassuring.

Why had this Miss Ashford not married? Poverty was not, strictly speaking, a complete bar to matrimony if the other party had funds. She was pretty even now, and couldn't be more than thirty, if that. In her salad days, she must have been beautiful, and she was clearly a lady.

Perhaps her failure to wed had something to do with that sharp eye of hers. Perhaps she'd been discriminating. Perhaps she was not as big a fool as Miss Mercer’s father, seeking to marry a child to the most dissolute peer in the kingdom. If Miss Ashford exercised that same care with the girl, then Thomas's match was in trouble.

The churning he felt in his stomach he identified as guilt. In the past year, Thomas’s finances had become so dire, marriage was the only solution. Finding a bride for his nephew felt like looking for the Passover lamb. Happiness would not be part of the arrangement. The title of countess would come at a steep price, especially if her new ladyship was a delicate young girl.

The next evening, in the tiny guest room she'd been allotted, Liliana tucked one last hairpin into an errant curl. She'd spent the afternoon with Katie, going over the names and pedigrees of the most likely attendees at the night's ball.

Mrs. Mercer had felt well enough to go down for dinner. Tonight, she and Mr. Mercer would discuss with Katie the arrangements they'd made for the girl's betrothal. Mrs. Mercer had apologized for excluding Liliana's helpful presence.

She hadn’t needed to say it was Mr. Mercer’s wish. Smart tradesman that he was, he’d seen through Liliana’s compliant façade. And if he expected objections from her, the match was a bad one.

Liliana had barely touched the dinner delivered to her room. The worry that had merely simmered within her was now at full froth. She’d felt this much worry the night of her own and her brother's undoing.

Not that either of them could have been dissuaded from rash action. She’d been blinded by love, and he—well, the moment he came of age, he'd thrown himself into the life of drinking, gambling, and the worst women. And of course, those rogues he ran with.

And who was she to cast fiery stones? She'd fallen head over ears with one of those rogues, in a garden, at a ball much like the one they were attending tonight. Her own foolishness had driven her brother right out of England.

After that, even without Cousin Alice’s harangues, she'd resolved to never ignore the trembles, flutters, and ripplings of intuition. Not even now, when acting upon her instinct might cast her into a life of cheap lodgings and penny pies. That stirred her fear also, but she must be brave.

Mr. Mercer had hired her to make sure Katie fit into the world of the ton, and lucky she was for the position.

Mrs. Mercer expected her to make sure Katie was happy in this life. Given Mr. Mercer's aspirations, that would be a challenge.

Never mind. She would accompany Katie to the ball tonight, assess this lordly suitor, and remind the girl that she could say no.

A knock at the door stirred her from her reverie.

"I'm just ready now. You may come in." She was fixing the clasp of her mother's amber drop necklace, but stopped when she saw the maid's face. "What is it?"

"Miss Mercer is crying."

Oh dear. Her insides trembled. The match must be as bad as she feared. She gathered her things and found Katie's maid struggling to finish the girl's coiffure and Katie shaking with quiet sobs.

"Liliana." Katie reached for her hand. "Oh, I'm sorry. You will tell me my eyes will be red, but I cannot help it. And we are late. Papa has already sent a servant up twice to tell us that there will be such a crush of carriages on the street that he wishes to leave early, and that I must hurry."

The poor dear had descended into blubbering. "Has he?" Liliana took the maid's comb and nudged her out of the way. No one had come to tell Liliana to hurry—she might have been left behind.

Her nerves prickled. Mr. Mercer must be as upset as his daughter, and might turn his anger on someone outside the family. And who better than an outsider inside his own household?

"Gertie, will you go find us some very cold water and a clean flannel? And tell Mr. Mercer we will be along presently and in good time, please."

Once the door closed, Katie expelled a large sigh. "I am to marry the Earl of Hackwell." She bit her lip. "Did you know, Liliana?"

Liliana's heart kicked up. She recognized the name Hackwell from the scandal sheets, though she couldn't retrieve any particulars. "No. I didn't know the name of your suitor."

"The settlements have all been arranged, Papa said. All negotiated. The earl must just look me over and agree, and I must say yes." She squeezed her eyes tightly.

Katie was reaching for self-control. Liliana must help her grasp it.

She combed through a curl and pinned it in place. "That is how these things are usually done."

"I must say yes, Papa said. Must. It is not only that his daughter must be a countess, but that this earl has..." she waved her hand wildly, "ore, or whatever, on his estate."

Katie's doomed desperation flowed into Liliana. She had underestimated Mr. Mercer. She had thought the marriage had been just a matter of pride. But a shrewd business maneuver? Yes, that explained much, including why he’d refused to tell her the name of Katie's intended the one time she'd had the temerity to ask.

"Will you share with me what your mother said?" she asked smoothly.

Fresh tears welled.

Fingers shaking, Liliana slid in the last hairpin and took the girl's hands in her own. "Deep breaths."

Katie shuddered, her lower lip trembling.

"You are a lady, Katie, even without a title. Even if you don't marry an earl and never become a countess."

Her eyes widened, and she took a long breath. "Mama told Papa that she had not loved him when she married him, but that she had liked him. She said that if I do not like the earl, then Papa must give me time to know him better. That I must at least like him before I am forced to marry him. That he had promised her not to force me."

Liliana released a tensely held breath and felt her shoulders relax. "There, you see? All will be well."

"Papa's face went very red. He was very angry. I cried. He is...he is a rake, Liliana."

Liliana's mind stumbled trying to keep up. Katie meant the earl, not her father.

Katie waved a hand around. "But, Papa said I would make the earl a good wife and settle him down."

She rested a hand on Katie's shoulder. A piece from a scandal sheet came to her, a sordid tale about the Earl of Hackwell and a disreputable party.

"And...and he is so old."

She squeezed the girl's hands. "Listen to me. You must not be alone with him tonight."

Shame curled through her. She'd made that mistake, and compounded it with a letter her brother tried to steal back. "If he asks you to walk on the terrace, or slip into a quiet chamber, you will say no. Do not be afraid to say no. You have as much beauty and goodness as any debutante in attendance tonight. And—I will speak plainly—you have far, far more in the way of dowry. You are a prize in every way. If you do not want him, you must not let him carry you off. We have talked about this before, haven't we? I will stay very close. I will be the most hideous, formidable, wart-faced chaperone Lord Hackwell has ever encountered."

By the time Liliana opened the door for the maid, she had coaxed a smile. A few applications of cool compresses and a brushing of powder hid the evidence of tears.