Page 99 of Anice’s Bargain

“I don’t love the Earl of Calville. I don’t even know him.” Cracks splintered through a lifetime of carefully spun dreams of marriage and love, threatening to shatter. But Ella held tight to the vision, as she always had.

She’d read enough tales and had heard enough stories from troubadours to know how a marriage built on love began. An honorable and wonderfully handsome man would notice her at a banquet, or something of the like. He would think her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen and then spend months wooing her, writing sonnets and bringing flowers in the hopes of securing her affections. Mayhap, he’d even give her a kiss.

Once he had proven his worth as a warrior to her father, and as a chivalric suitor to her, he would seek her hand in marriage. They would wed in an elaborate marriage with cloth of silver and gold sparkling throughout the church. Then they would have half a dozen children and live with their hearts glowing bright with their eternal love.

It was a dream she’d clung to. One that had helped her survive the attack on their castle when she was young, the dark days following her mother’s death, the sieges and every other terrible event in her life.

An arranged marriage was not love.

A hot tear slid down her cheek. When she was a girl, her father had promised her that she could marry who she liked. But even she knew the situation now to be out of his control. His drooping shoulders said as much, as did the deep creases lining his face.

The bag at her side wriggled where she held her pet squirrel. The poor thing had been in the woods several summers prior, near death when Ella had found him. Moppet, empathetic creature that he was, clearly sensed Ella’s unrest.

Ella pulled the squirrel from her bag and cuddled his furry warmth against her chest.

Marin recoiled. “Is that a rat?”

“It’s a squirrel,” Anice replied in a droll tone. “Be glad there are no acorns about.”

Ella’s comforting embrace with Moppet became protective. “His name is Moppet and he’s very sweet.”

Marin looked to Anice for confirmation, but she simply glanced away rather than verify Ella’s claim.

“Ella, sweeting.” Marin met Ella’s gaze.

Ella wanted to shrink away and keep right on shrinking until she fell through the floorboards, never to be seen again. She knew this tone of Marin’s. Ella didn’t remember much about their mother, but she recalled the same tone well, and the kind of request that followed such sweet endearments.

Ella choked back a sob. It was terrible and selfish, but she could not help the cry any more than she could stop the ache in her chest.

“I have it on good authority he is young,” Papa said. “Lord Bastionbury says the earl’s father only recently passed and left the earldom to him. He’s quite handsome, per what is said around court.”

Ella’s head snapped up. Lord Bastionbury was nearly a day’s ride away. As was Marin for that matter. Clearly it had all been discussed prior to that morning: her marriage, her life, the shattering of her dreams.

“Ella, you have been left to do as you wish for far too long.” Marin smoothed Ella’s long blonde locks. “That is my fault. I didn’t have the heart to be strict with you, not after Mother died. But you are a woman of two and twenty now.”

It was time to grow up.

Marin need not speak the implied words when they hung so clearly between them. There was no hope for any of Ella’s dreams. Her heart had been dashed upon the floor.

Papa’s life was worth all the love in the world, and Ella would be proving it with this action. She lowered her head and kissed Moppet’s twitching ear.

“I will do it,” she whispered. “I will marry the Earl of Calville.”

* * *

Bronson Berkley,the new Earl of Calville, had need of many things. Funds, with the king’s favor in supporting his newly inherited earldom, and forgiveness for the taxes the late earl had overlooked paying. What Bronson did not need, or want for that matter, was a wife.

Unfortunately for him, the king refused to give him anything without agreement to the latter. It was the reason for Bronson’s surprise visit to his boyhood home, prior to any consideration in accepting a new bride.

If Berkeley Manor was in good order, Bronson could put aside the idea of marriage and bide his time while he came up with an alternate solution. There had to be something else he could do to appeal to the king.

All hope was not yet lost.

Bronson’s horse slowed to a stop in front of the country manor house and his heart dropped into his stomach. Bits of plaster had crumbled from the exterior, revealing the cracking gray stone beneath, and the roof sagged inward like a sheet hung slack over a rope.

This was not the opulent home he’d grown up in, with the manicured lawn stretching before it, practically gleaming with wealth.

Any hope that the interior would be different was dashed as a pinch-faced woman showed him inside. If memory served correct, her name was Jane, or something of the like. The tapestries were faded and moth-eaten in areas, the carpets threadbare. Not a speck of dust coated any interior in the neat home, but it was evident that his father had not sent his wife’s stipend in some time.