Miss Bradshaw's Bought Betrothal

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Extract (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#ulink_fd397bc5-ab97-5e71-8c58-5d812e9a7bed)

May 1816

There was no escaping the fact that the Marquis of Stanford was drunk. Although inebriation was a state that he was known for, even during daylight hours, the assembled guests were still surprised that he had chosen to be in that state today. While the older generation muttered that it was poor form and gazed at his new fiancée with outright pity, absolutely everyone knew that the only reason the handsome, if slightly dissipated, Marquis was marrying Evie Bradshaw in the first place was because he desperately needed her money.

Some of the younger guests, including Evie’s two stepsisters, found the spectacle hugely entertaining. It was hardly surprising, they had muttered maliciously behind their fans, because Evie was such a Plain Jane after all and so very dull. The poor man would need all of the Dutch courage he could consume just to kiss her and that was if he even saw her in the first place because she did have a tendency to fade into the background and become invisible.

What none of the roomful of guests knew, including her spiteful stepfamily, was that Evie was absolutely delighted that Fergus Matlock, third Marquis of Stanford, had turned up to their unexpected and impromptu engagement party completely foxed. For the sake of appearances, of course, she pretended to be crestfallen and embarrassed by her fiancé’s slurring and swaying. And best of all, she had not even asked him to arrive drunk, which was, for want of a better word, perfect. But inside her less than impressive, slightly plump exterior, Evie was dancing. And turning cartwheels. And positively whooping with joy.

Her spur-of-the-moment plan to escape her tedious, invisible life was working. In a few hours, she would finally leave Mayfair, ostensibly to ready the dissolute Marquis’s house for a wedding, but in reality she would buy her own house instead. Independent. Uncriticised and guilt-free. The hands on the ornate mantel clock could not turn quick enough.

The root of her current misery, her cold fortune-grabbing stepmother, marched towards her, disapproving lips more pursed than usual. Grabbing her by the arm she dragged her back into the alcove. ‘Evelyn, it is time that you put a stop to this sorry excuse for an engagement at once. Everybody would understand and your father, God rest him, would never condone it. Look at the state of that man—he is a disgrace. I simply cannot, in all good conscience, allow you to marry him.’

‘Fergus is probably suffering from wedding nerves. He is only a little bit drunk.’ No, he wasn’t. He was positively steaming. ‘He will not be like that for the wedding. He has promised.’ Not that there would be a wedding. This was a business transaction. Pure and simple. The five thousand pounds it had cost her was nothing compared to the price of her freedom.

Hyacinth Bradshaw’s lips almost inverted in protest as she looked down her nose at Evie. The woman hated being thwarted, especially by her disappointing stepdaughter, and would normally deal with her quiet acts of defiance with cold, vocal disdain. Unfortunately, Evie’s surprise engagement had pulled the rug from underneath her stepmother’s feet. Hyacinth was now painfully aware of her precarious financial situation, so she had stopped shy of her usual vindictiveness in an attempt to appear like a concerned mother who only wanted what was best for her daughter. It was a façade that really did not suit her. Ten years ago, Evie might have fallen for it—would have desperately wanted to fall for it—but too much water had gone under that particular bridge in the intervening years.

‘Your father, God rest his soul, would not wish for you to marry such a libertine. Surely you know that Stanford is only marrying you to get his hands on your money?’ The same money that Hyacinth was determined not to lose. Money that her father’s second wife firmly believed should be rightfully hers. The money she freely spent like water whilst constantly berating her stepdaughter for everything from her appearance to her dull conversation.

‘Fergus is very fond of me.’

‘Nonsense! You have always been such a silly girl, Evelyn. Why on earth would a handsome marquis...?’ Realising her mistake, Hyacinth bit back her usually cutting criticisms of her stepdaughter’s many shortcomings. The expression on her face made it plain how distasteful she found it. For several seconds her cheek muscles quivered before she forced an approximation of a smile that didn’t quite work. ‘Why on earth would a handsome marquis, who clearly enjoys the hedonistic delights of the gaming hells and brothels, want to marry anyone unless he was seriously in debt? I am sure that if you cast your net wider you will find a more suitable man to marry, given time. This has all been so very hurried. Perhaps I could help you find him? That is what your father would wish for if he could.’ Although up until this moment, Hyacinth had been most scathing about the chances of Evie finding anyone who was desperate enough to be prepared to marry her. She was too fat. Too plain. Too dull and far too old now for anyone to wish to be saddled with her. Evelyn should be content with the life she had and she would always have a home with Hyacinth. Of course, what she would have said to Evie, if she were being completely honest, was—you cannot leave because somebody has to pay the bills. ‘Besides, this is most improper, Evie. I do not like this silly idea you have to move to his estate before you are properly wed.’

‘It is hardly improper. Great-Aunt Winifred is coming with me, so I will be correctly chaperoned, and there is a great deal of work to do on poor Fergus’s estate to get it to a state in which it will be presentable for the wedding. He will be staying at the inn for the sake of propriety, so you have nothing to be worried about. Besides, he will probably have to return to London almost immediately so Aunt Winnie and I will be alone. In a month, or two, I am...’

‘Winifred is not a suitable chaperon!’

A little devil within her decided to have another poke to see if it could get a rise out of Hyacinth. ‘I have asked repeatedly if you and my sisters would accompany me—it would be so nice if you would. If Papa had still been alive, he would have insisted that we all travel together as a family.’ As if they had ever been a family.

Her stepmother snorted and fidgeted uncomfortably. ‘I cannot drag the girls away from London now. Not while so much is still going on. Rose is fresh from her first Season and several eligible gentlemen are actively courting Iris. To take them away from all of the entertainments in town would be nothing short of cruel. We will come up for the wedding, of course, or when the ton retire to their country estates for the summer, although it is my sincerest wish that you will come to your senses first and call it off. You are simply being selfish leaving like this, with only three days’ notice, too! I have never known such a hasty engagement. Your dear father must be spinning in his grave.’

As Evie was a coward who never, ever argued back in case she did send her father spinning in his grave, she changed the subject. ‘This is a lovely party, Mother.’ The room was filled with Hyacinth’s cronies. Aside from Great-Aunt Winnie, Evie did not call a single person present her friend. All of her childhood friends were now married and had abandoned London years ago. Not that there had been many of them after her mother fell ill and Evie had been dragged from her own life to nurse her, then soon after had to become a nursemaid to her father as well. Clearly fate had always intended she be left gathering dust on the shelf.

‘It was the best I could manage on such short notice and on such a tight budget.’ Hyacinth loathed the very idea of a fixed budget. Up until Evie’s father had died, she had spent with impunity and found Evie’s control of the purse-strings galling. ‘I fail to understand why you would wish to penny-pinch for your own engagement party.’

‘I have hardly penny-pinched, Mother. There is plenty of everything and our guests do not appear deprived.’ And Evie could not quite bring herself to waste good money on this mockery; not when she had so many plans for her inheritance.

‘On the subject of finances,’ Hyacinth said too casually, ‘I am a trifle confused as to how all this is going to work, Evelyn. Running this house is expensive.’

How many times in the last few days had they had a version of this conversation? Living entirely rent free in what was now Evie’s house in Mayfair was never going to be good enough for her stepfamily. Her father had insisted that Hyacinth should keep everything that she had been bequeathed by her first husband and had left her several thousand pounds a year, so she was hardly on the cusp of entering the poorhouse. As far as Evie could recall, she had never seen the woman spend a farthing of her personal hoard. She much preferred to leech off Evie. ‘I shall continue to pay for the staff in my absence, so I doubt that you will have to dip into your own—’

‘It is not for myself that I am worried. My dear girls, your dear sisters, have grown up accustomed to a particular standard of living which has led them to expect a certain kind of future. I only hope that I can maintain it on my frugal allowance, I would hate to see their chances of making a suitable match quashed because we cannot afford to attend all of the right entertainments.’

Hyacinth’s definition of frugal left a lot to be desired. ‘Surely I am allowed to have a future, too?’ Evie even managed to look winsome as she said this, but perhaps the wistful sigh was laying it on a bit thick. Her stepmother’s lips pursed again and it took her a moment to choke out a reply.

‘Of course, my dear. You know that I wish you every happiness.’ Just in case Evie changed her mind and threw them all out of her Mayfair town house. ‘But I am neglecting our guests.’

Hyacinth wandered off, leaving Evie alone hiding in the alcove and watching the festivities from a distance, as usual. Theirs was, at best, a very distant relationship. Even though they had lived in the same house for ten years, any conversation between them longer than five minutes was intolerable for Hyacinth. Her stepdaughter was merely a means to an end. If she had not had substantial ‘means’, Evie was in no doubt Hyacinth would have happily severed all contact between them as soon as her second husband was in the ground.

‘Their’ guests were either friends of Hyacinth’s or people Hyacinth was keen to befriend. Her stepmother was determined to climb her way into the upper echelons of society by whatever means she deemed necessary. Unfortunately, the upper echelons were less keen on welcoming the social-climbing widow of a merchant into their ranks, but Hyacinth still persisted. Tirelessly.

Evie had no interest in the higher echelons, or the lower ones for that matter. To them, as she was to practically everyone, she was invisible. As a result, she had not bothered ordering a new gown for her final appearance in London society. What was the point? Hyacinth’s seamstress despaired of her drab and plump stepdaughter.

Evie couldn’t blame her. Her unfashionably generous figure was a difficult canvas. In fine fabrics, it resembled a bag stuffed full of onions and heavy wool just made her wideness wider. As much as Evie hated to agree with Hyacinth about anything, she did agree with her stepmother’s often lamented assessment of her unfortunate appearance and the fact that one could not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, no matter how much money one paid the modiste.

Seeing her standing alone in the corner of the room, her awful fiancé raised his glass in the air in a silent toast, but made no move to come towards her. She waved politely for the sake of the charade and did her best to ignore the rising bile in her throat.

It was difficult to find anything to like about Fergus. He was a selfish wastrel with excessive spending habits. He was also entirely untrustworthy—character traits which had made him the perfect choice. He desperately needed some money and she desperately wanted to be free of Hyacinth, but lacked the courage to tell her. As soon as she had realised that he had a small estate in the north, a good week’s drive away from London and in a part of the country Hyacinth would never visit, she tentatively offered him a bargain. On the verge of bankruptcy and with debt collectors hammering on his door, the Marquis of Stanford was delighted to accept.

The house, a place to live whilst she bought one of her own, far, far away from all the awful memories of Mayfair, was the most important part of their bargain. A house. On her own. To do whatever she wanted. No longer the nursemaid, pitied old maid or the source of the funds. Or the dutiful daughter who had promised her father to treat his second wife as she had her own mother. This house was a painful reminder of that vow which Hyacinth took every opportunity to remind her of. The north was a place where she hoped she could reinvent herself, be happy and finally climb out of her chrysalis.

She did not expect to emerge like a butterfly—butterflies were far too lovely an insect for Evie to aspire to—but she was quietly confident that she could perhaps be a moth. In the dark, when nobody saw them, moths still flew. In the north, without all of the responsibilities and reminders of London, there were hundreds of things that she was desperate to do. Yes, indeed, Evie had great plans for the future. And they very definitely did not include the Marquis of Stanford. Fergus could pickle his organs back in London after she was safely ensconced in the north, with her blessing. Quite frankly, she did not care if she never saw the dreadful man again.