Rake in the Regency Ballroom: The Viscount Claims His Bride / The Earl's Forbidden Ward

Philippa knew how rare her situation was. It had not come easily, but at the price of sacrificing a youthful dream. She’d wanted to marry for love, the passionate romantic kind of love found in fairy tales and Minerva Press novels. Instead, she’d married the man of her family’s choice and found a quiet companionship with him.

Perhaps that was better. Her experience with Valerian had been quite illuminating about the quality and strength of romantic love. It had its limitations. But companionship had its limitations, too. Cambourne had been kind and generous with a giving that extended far beyond his purse. He’d educated her in business and finance, delighting in her interest in his estates.

In the beginning she’d become interested to keep her mind off Valerian’s desertion. She had to do something to fill her life. Later, she’d seen the genuine need to take an active part in the life of Cambourne’s holdings. She’d built the school for miners’ children and it had become one of her favourite projects.

Then Cambourne had died so suddenly, firing her involvement in legislation concerning mine safety. Oh, yes, there was no disputing that her life was full these days. She’d remade herself admirably as the young Duchess of Cambourne and then again a few short years later as the Dowager Duchess. But re-fashioning oneself was hard work and she had no desire to do it again.

Philippa fingered the sapphire at her neck. She’d worn Lucien’s gift today out of a need to honour her word. There was no one to see her, no one to hold her to her commitment. But she knew. She’d told Lucien she’d consider the offer. Wearing the pendant was a reminder of what she’d promised. She owed at least some consideration of his offer. Although, if he could read her thoughts, he’d probably wish she hadn’t felt so obliged. Marriage to Lucien would definitely require some re-fashioning.

Most likely, she could get her solicitors to design a betrothal contract that would protect her property, but it would be difficult. Not even a dowager’s possessions were safe from a new husband’s rights. She would have to give him something. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him precisely. It was more the issue of having to give up the control she was so used to having.

Control would be given up in other areas, too. Lucien would expect her to stay with him wherever he went. The year would be divided up between Truro, London, his father’s estate, and then Cambourne. There wouldn’t be time to live as she liked. Her interests would give way to his and when his father eventually died, Lucien’s responsibilities would increase. Becoming the future viscountess to Lucien Canton would require quite a lot of re-fashioning, leaving very little room to be the Dowager Duchess of Cambourne—obliterating it, in fact.

And for what?

Security? She didn’t need security. She had it aplenty with her own holdings.

Finances? She was far wealthier now than the Pendennys family had been during her growing-up years. Marriage to Lucien didn’t enhance her wealth in any meaningful way.

Companionship? Certainly they rubbed along well together, but that was already something she enjoyed with him, not something she needed marriage to gain.

Love? Definitely not. In spite of his protestations the night before she left, Philippa knew without question that Lucien didn’t love her any more than she loved him. She appreciated him, but one didn’t marry for appreciation. She wasn’t sure Lucien was capable of a great love, the kind of love you married for, because you knew with a pure certainty that this was the one person in the entire world whom you could find fulfilment with.

There were none of the usual reasons that women typically married for. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would want to marry Lucien and give up all she had. It all provoked the question—why Lucien had asked in the first place? Surely he knew?

But Lucien needed the one thing she didn’t. He needed an heir and he was approaching thirty-five in a couple of years, the magical age when heirs finally decided it was time to start their nurseries and look to their futures. Perhaps he’d looked about for a wife and decided she would be better suited for him than one of the débutantes peopling London’s marriage mart.

That was a conclusion she could understand. Lucien would not tolerate an insipid wife. He would want someone with intelligence and social skills. It was the only conclusion that made sense. Like her, Lucien didn’t need additional wealth. Being a man and his father’s heir gave him inherent security. He didn’t need to marry for companionship.

Philippa sighed and took off the necklace, carefully laying it in a desk drawer for the time being. She’d take it upstairs later. Lucien would be disappointed in her answer and it could very well scotch their friendship. He would want to know why. He would try to resolve her misgivings with promises he’d mean to keep, but that social pressure wouldn’t allow him to—like the right to live her own life. He would say, laying out his assets like a balance sheet, ‘Why not me? Do you think someone better will come along?’

In fact, she did. At least she hoped. She’d married once for the sake of her family. If she married a second time, it would be for her. For someone who considered herself to be fairly conversant in the realities of the world, she was hard pressed to let go of her romantic notions.

It didn’t mean she had someone specific in mind and it absolutely didn’t mean she was holding out to see if Valerian could be brought to heel. He’d already proved he couldn’t be. But his kisses were hard to forget and served as potent reminders that one did not have to settle for the convenience of lukewarm companionship.

Philippa rose from the desk. The drizzle had stopped. She would change into a habit and take a ride between showers. When she came back she would write to Lucien and tell him of her decision. There was no sense in waiting. Bad news didn’t get better over time and the longer she waited to dispel him of his matrimonial notions, the more likely it was that he’d build up his expectation of being accepted.

Expectations being what they were, Lucien was not all that troubled by the arrival of Lady Cambourne’s letter at the manor in Truro the first week of February. In fact, he was precipitously jubilant. The New Year had got off to a perfect start.

Danforth’s bank had been well received by local men with money to invest. Cornwall was rich in many resources and not all of them came out of the ground. Industry bred invention. Plenty of men like Dabuz, Bolithio and Williams had seen the need for other industries like tin-smelting and gunpowder. Dabuz and Fox swore that smelters and gunpowder works were more profitable than the actual act of mining. From the amount of funds at their disposal, Lucien was inclined to agree with them.

It had been the simple work of a few dinner parties to corral the financial resources needed to start investing and buying. These men were as avaricious as he was. They immediately saw the merit in banding together to form a cartel that controlled the outside world’s access to tin and regulated the prices at which that outside world would have to pay for the commodity.

They’d also seen how important it was to control the mining interests in Britain’s new South American colonies. If those resources were allowed to compete against the cartel, it would diminish the profit. But if those colonies were controlled by the cartel, then the prices would be controlled as well.

Lucien had hand-picked the men who would serve on the new bank’s board of trustees and all had agreed buying up shares in the largest British mine in South America would be the first place they’d start with the building of their overseas control. Monopolies and cartels were tricky things. It wouldn’t do for there to be a large broadcast of their intended plans until they had some leverage.

So with his finances firmly in hand, Lucien had complete confidence that all else would fall into place, too. The letter from Philippa had arrived as if on cue. Just that morning at a bank meeting someone had asked about the Cambourne mines. He’d given the man an enigmatic smile and said vaguely something to the intent that he hoped to have more concrete news to share shortly. Then, like magic, the letter had arrived.

Lucien ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents, reading it twice and then again a third time to make sure he understood its contents correctly, his blood turning to ice.

Damn Valerian Inglemoore.

Lucien crumpled the note in one angry fist. The man’s name hadn’t been mentioned once in the missive, but he could read between every line. Although Philippa would deny it, St Just had turned her head. Whatever the man had once been to her, whatever claims, spoken or unspoken, had lain dormant between them during her marriage and his long absence, they had been awoken once more.

The man had kissed her at least once since his ill-timed return, making Lucien highly suspicious that St Just’s tenure away from fair Albion’s shore could be directly linked to Philippa’s marriage. Lucien didn’t like surprises. It galled him there was something of that nature he didn’t know about Philippa.

Lucien’s secretary knocked and asked for the day’s correspondence. Lucien sent him away. ‘No letters to write today. Take time to work on cataloguing the library.’ The door shut on the office.Alone again, Lucien took out a sheet of crisp paper. There was one letter to write, but it was too private to entrust to another pair of eyes.

Lucien dipped his pen into the inkwell and began to write. St Just stood in the way of his bid to build a mining empire; for that, the man must be ruined.

Something had ruined the relationship between Valerian and Philippa, Beldon mused, and not for the first time since he’d parted ways with Valerian at Roseland three weeks ago.

After seeing Philippa off in her coach bound for Cambourne, he had ridden with Valerian to Roseland, stayed a few days to see his friend settled and then turned for the Pendennys lands outside St. Mawes.

Today, as he rode home from his weekly visits with the tenants and his meeting with the vicar, the subject dominated his mind, perhaps because he had little else to think of. He was a social creature and this was a lonely time of year for him. There was small need for him to be in London and Philippa was busy with her own interests before she had to be back in town.

It wasn’t that he didn’t have options. He could go up to London anyway and Philippa would always welcome him at Cambourne. Roseland was close by and now that Valerian was home, he’d probably ride over to Roseland on occasion to ease the isolation he felt rambling around alone in the big Pendennys country house.

Certainly, he had options, but, in truth, his own estate needed his attention too. He’d worked too hard to save it from genteel poverty in the years since his father’s passing. Of course, he couldn’t take all the credit. Without the generous loan from the Duke of Cam-bourne, all the effort in the world could very well have been useless. When he’d first starting going over the ledgers, that fact had become glaringly apparent. Cam-bourne’s wealth had kept the Pendennys family afloat. He’d silently thanked the fates Philippa had married well, if precipitously, and at such a fortuitous time.

Beldon drew sharply on the reins, bringing his horse to a rather sudden and jarring halt. The answer to his riddle hit with full force. Cambourne’s money had been the ‘something’ that had come between Philippa and Valerian.

He kicked his horse into a hard gallop, covering the remaining distance home as fast as he dared. Once home, he raced into the estate office, pulling down old ledgers from the shelves. Beldon didn’t even wait to take off his coat, only taking time to strip off his gloves so as to turn the ledger pages better.

Hours later, when he’d finally removed his outer wear and his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves and eaten sporadically from the tray the housekeeper had sent up after she realised the young baron would not be swayed from his task long enough to eat in the dining room, Beldon had his answer.

The office was a mess, with books open to various pages strewn across any available surface. Ledgers from nine years ago had simply been a starting place. He’d had to go back further to determine why the Pendennys barony had needed the funds so badly in the first place.

What he found had been devastating. The office had paid the price of his sleuthing and so had his memories. It was almost like learning the life he thought he’d had was only an illusion. His father had not confided in him, not really.

He’d known about the loan from Cambourne, naturally. But he’d thought very little of it beyond the exorbitant expenses of a few years. Philippa’s Season and début were costly affairs coming on the heels of supporting his time away at Cambridge with Valerian. At the time, his father had only said that the wars with Napoleon had placed the economy under undue stress.

Beldon had believed him. When he’d taken over the reins of the barony, he’d not looked back far enough in the ledgers to see that while there was truth in what his father had offered as an explanation for Cambourne’s loan, there was also much else. The Pendennys finances had been in a slow decline for years. He could trace a string of investment losses and a decline in the production rates of the mines. Too much money had gone out and too little had come in to cover the losses.

The loan had been used to shore up the failing coffers and Beldon had used part of the funds later to diversify the family holdings. In anticipation of a future where the copper and tin mines wouldn’t produce as much ore, never dreaming that future was already coming to pass, Beldon had bought a tin smelter. Later, he’d invested wisely with the Perran Industries gunpowder works. Both had paid off handsomely. A tin smelter was to the mines what a miller was to farmers. Grain needed to be ground into flour and tin—well, tin needed to be smelted. The smelter would continue to pay out long after his own mines had exhausted their resources.

Beldon pushed a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. It was all embarrassingly clear now. They had been in dun territory and Philippa had been married to Cambourne in order to save the family—in order to save him, really. He was the heir. Without her marriage, there would have been little to inherit but trouble. All his life, he’d thought he was protecting his younger sister, watching over her at balls to see that she didn’t dance with the wrong sort of gentleman, making sure she went nowhere unescorted, and all the while she had been protecting him. There was a certain amount of guilt that went with that realisation.

Had she known? He remembered vividly the night he’d found her in the Rutherfords’ garden. She’d been crying although she wouldn’t admit it. At the time, he thought it had been the shock of the sudden engagement to Cambourne. Had she known why their father had favoured the match?

Beldon remembered too his brief encounter with Valerian that night. Valerian had been brusque and out of sorts. His friend had paused only long enough to tell him that Philippa was in the garden. The next weeks had been chaos. Valerian had gone and Philippa’s wedding had to be planned. He’d had little time or reason to ponder the turn of events or even to see his friend’s disappearance in connection with the wedding.

In retrospect, Beldon began to think it was highly plausible that Valerian and Philippa had met secretly in the garden and that she was crying for a different reason. He couldn’t quite puzzle out that bit yet. Still, on one hand he had more answers. Cambourne’s money had likely come between them. Cambourne’s money had not been a serendipitous godsend as he’d always believed, but rather a calculated move on his father’s part to save the barony.

Beldon took stock of what he had: some answers, more questions, and one damning hypothesis beginning to form—if the move to woo Cambourne had been planned, then Valerian had to have known, otherwise he would not have willingly stood down from his claims on Philippa’s hand.

The mantel clock struck midnight, late hours for the country. It was time for bed. He had a long day ahead of him, beginning with a ride over to Roseland.