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Of course, if Miss White were ever to learn of Harry’s contract to seduce her for money, she would never have anything to do with him again. It was one thing not to offer marriage, and another to inflict social ruin. Harry was glad to have sent her away. Not just to keep temptation out of his reach, but because if anyone deserved a change in fortune, it was Miss White.
He would do her the favor of keeping his distance. An easy feat, since they were unlikely to cross paths in the future. If her father were still alive, Miss White would receive some quantity of social invitations, but without the earl to sponsor her—and with Lady Quinseley letting it be known that the girl was nothing more than her chambermaid—Miss White’s name would be struck from Polite Society altogether.
All for the best, Harry told himself. He and his father were living proof of how dreadful aristocrats were. Miss White would be better off marrying some moneyed shipper or manufactory owner than selling her soul to the beau monde.
If the thought of her doing so curdled Harry’s gut with jealousy, well, he’d always been unreasonable. The sort of man who wanted more than he could possibly repay I kind.
The good news was, his encounter with Miss White—and the indecent proposal from Lady Quinseley that had prompted it—had forced Harry to take a long look in the mirror. The soirée might have been the last he’d seen of Miss Whiteandthe countess, but he would have to face himself in the looking-glass for many years to come.
Miss White’s narrow escape from both Lady QuinseleyandHarry himself had shown him he could not continue down the same path.
It was past time to become a better man.
From now on, Harry was going to be a good man. A gentleman worthy of the title. He would turn his reputation around. No more rakehell seductions was a nice start, but not the whole story. Harry also had to put the family finances to rights. He wasn’t yet the marquess, but if Father was only going to worsen the problem, it was up to Harry to fix it.
A task which was proving more daunting by the second. He had visited ten of the shops on his list, and every one of the shopkeepers had managed to produce more unpaid purchases than had been logged in the charts of accounts at home. If he didn’t curb his family’s spending and soon, Harry wouldn’t just need to marry an heiress—he’d have to wed an entire harem of them.
“Good afternoon, Lord Eagleton,” said the second modiste on his list. “Why, yes, I provided new gowns for Lady Christina at the start of the season. Such a lovely child, and so nervous about her debut this year. I do hope her suitors are clever enough to see past her shyness.”
Tina. Of course she must have gowns befitting a debutante.
The cost was… ye gods. Harry handed the paper back with shaking fingers. He, too, hoped the young bucks were clever enough to scoop up his sister, and fast. At this rate, Tina’s first season was destined to be her last. They could not afford a wardrobe this extravagant now, much less a new one next season, and the season after that.
Harry thanked the modiste and hurried back out into the street, where he rested his spine against the tall brick exterior until he could catch his breath. He summed the total debt thus far, and… Good God. Harry didn’t just need to marry an heiress. He needed to marry her by Friday.
He knew what his father would say.Tell Tina she’s The Huntress. If both of you marry for money, there won’t be anything to worry about.
But that was a lie. Harry worried about his sister constantly. He wanted Tina to find a love match. The last thing he wished to do was to trap his seventeen-year-old sister in a loveless marriage with some greasy old roué, just because the grasping lecher had deep pockets.
Only one of them would sacrifice romantic love to fulfill his duty to his family, and that person was Harry. He’d put it off for long enough. Time had run out. His hope of finding an heiress he alsoliked, a woman with whom he could enjoy mutual admiration and respect, perhaps one day blossoming into love—would have to stay just that: a dream.
He was The Huntsman. A cold, calculating fortune-hunter without a single heartbeat to waste. The next time an heiress, any heiress, appeared remotely interested in becoming his future marchioness, Harry would march her down the aisle, special wedding license in his pocket. No matter her age, or her intelligence, or her personality. No matter whether they suited, or could even stand each other.
No matter who his heart might want instead.
CHAPTER9
Bianca was perusing the Gladwells’ small collection of books in their front parlor when the sound of horse hoofs and carriage wheels crunched to a halt outside the open windows.
Usually, there was nothing more fascinating than peeking at someone else’s library. It was like having magic spectacles that could see through their exterior façade to the actual person they were inside. Reading their books was like making friends with their friends.
But this evening, she had not been able to concentrate on the titles before her. Miss Joy Gladwell and Miss Gwyneth Gladwell were to arrive home at any moment. Bianca had carried her bag of belongings into the guest chamber at Mrs. Gladwell’s insistence, but Bianca was not at all convinced her real daughters would welcome an interloper into their midst.
Less than two hours had passed, but the wait had seemed interminable. And now the moment of reckoning was here.
She took a bracing breath and stepped into the corridor just as Fenwick opened the front door.
To Bianca’s surprise, not one, not two, butsevenlaughing adolescent women bounced into the cottage like a herd of fawns gamboling in from the woods.
A blond young woman stumbled forward, with a pretty Black woman half-asleep on her shoulder. “Joy, fetch a pillow before Miss Drowsy drools all over my sleeve.”
A young woman with brown hair and a wide smile—presumably Miss Joy—motioned them ahead. “Go on, Doc. Put your patient to sleep in the guest chamber.”
Doc? The blond girl couldn’t be a day over sixteen. None of the young women looked older than seventeen or eighteen.
A slightly younger version of Joy—presumably her sister Gwyneth—fretted, “This is all Miss Peevish’s fault. I knew she fetched Miss Drowsy too much ratafia.”
“That isnotwhat happened,” grumped a young woman with dark eyes and light hair.
