“Maybe any of them with her father’s money,” Matta muttered as she tucked the covers around her charge’s slim body. “Now go to sleep and save your dreamin’ for the nighttime.”
Obediently, Regan closed her eyes until Matta was out of the room. Her father’s money! The words echoed through her mind. Of course Matta was wrong, she reasoned. Farrell loved her for herself, because….
When she couldn’t remember a single reason that Farrell had given for wanting to marry her, she sat up in bed. On the moonlit night when he’d proposed, he’d kissed her forehead and talked of his home, which had been in his family for generations.
Tossing the covers aside, Regan went to the mirror, looking at herself in moonlight-silvered image. Her wide-set, blue-green eyes looked like they belonged to a child instead of to a young woman who’d been eighteen for a whole week now, and her slim figure was always hidden under loose, concealing clothes—clothes chosen by her uncle. Even now, her heavy cambric nightgown was long-sleeved and high-necked.
What could Farrell see in her? she wondered. How could he know that she could be sophisticated and graceful when she was always dressed as a child? Trying to smile in a seductive way, she pulled her nightgown off one shoulder. Ah yes, if Farrell were to see her like this, he just might do something besides kiss her forehead in a fatherly way. A very immature giggle escaped her as she thought of Farrell’s reaction to the coquetry of his sedate, gentle bride-to-be.
Quickly, she looked toward where Matta slept in the little adjoining dressing room and thought it just might be worth any consequences from her uncle to see her beloved’s reaction to her in a nightgown. After hastily putting on heelless slippers, she silently eased the door open and tiptoed downstairs.
The door to the drawing room was open, candles blazing. In a golden halo sat Farrell, and Regan could do little more than marvel at him. It was quite a few minutes before she began to listen to what the two men were saying.
“Look at this place!” Jonathan said vehemently. “Yesterday a piece of plaster scrollwork fell on top of my head. There I was, reading my paper, when a damned flower came flying at me.”
Farrell concentrated on the brandy in his glass. “It will all be over soon—for you at least. You’ll get your money and can repair your house or buy a new one if you want, but I have a lifetime of misery ahead of me.”
Snorting, Jonathan refilled his glass. “You make it sound as if you were going to prison. I tell you, you should be grateful for what I’ve done for you.”
“Grateful!” Farrell sneered. “You’ve saddled me with a brainless, uneducated, clumsy chit of a girl.”
“Come now, some men would be happy to have her. She’s pretty, and her simple-mindedness would be liked by a great many men.”
“I am not like any other man,” Farrell said warningly.
Unlike many people, Jonathan did not find Farrell Batsford intimidating. “True,” he said evenly. “Not many men would make a bargain such as you have.”
As Jonathan finished his third brandy, he turned back to Farrell. “Come now, let’s not argue. We should be celebrating our good fortune, not going for each other’s throat.” He raised his full glass in salute. “Here’s to my dear sister, with many thanks for marrying her rich young man.”
“And dying and leaving it all within your reach—isn’t that the rest of the toast?” After drinking deeply, Farrell turned serious. “Are you sure about your brother-in-law’s will? I don’t want to marry your niece and then find out it was all a big mistake.”
“I’ve memorized the document!” Jonathan said angrily. “I’ve lived in barristers’ offices for the last six years. The girl cannot touch the money before she’s twenty-three, unless she marries before then, and even at that she couldn’t be married before she was eighteen.”
“If that hadn’t been the case, would you have found someone to marry her when she was twelve perhaps?”
Chuckling, Jonathan set his glass down. “Perhaps. Who knows? As far as I can tell, she hasn’t changed much since she was twelve.”
“If you hadn’t kept her prisoner in this crumbling house, perhaps she wouldn’t be such an immature, uninteresting child. Lord! When I think of the wedding night! No doubt she’ll cry and pout like a two-year-old.”
“Stop complaining!” snarled Jonathan. “You’ll have money enough to repair that great monstrosity of a house of yours, and all I get for years of taking care of her is a measly pittance.”
“Caring for her! Since when have you left your club long enough to even know what she looks like?” Sighing heavily, he continued, “I’ll leave her at my house and then go to London. At least now I’ll have money enough to enjoy myself. Of course, it won’t be pleasant not being able to have my friends to my house. Perhaps I can hire someone to take care of a wife’s duties. I cannot imagine your niece managing an estate the size of mine.” Glancing up, he saw that Jonathan’s face had grown pale; his hands clutching the glass were white-knuckled.
Turning quickly, Farrell saw Regan standing in the light by the doorway. Acting as if nothing had happened, he set his glass down. “Regan,” he said gently, warmly. “You shouldn’t be up so late.”
Her big eyes were magnified by the tears sparkling in them. “Do not touch me,” she whispered, her hands clenched at her side, her back rigid. She looked so small, with her thick dark hair hanging down her back, swathed in a little girl’s nightgown.
“Regan, you are to obey me at once.”
She whirled on him. “Don’t use that tone with me! How dare you think you can tell me what to do after the things you said!” She looked at her uncle. “You will never get any of my money. Do you understand me? Neither of you will ever get a farthing of my money!”
Jonathan was beginning to recover himself. “And how do you expect to get any of it?” he smiled. “If you don’t marry Farrell, you won’t be able to touch the money for five years. Until now you’ve been living on my income, but I’ll tell you now that if you refuse to marry him I’ll throw you into the streets, since you’d no longer be of use to me.”
Putting her palms to her forehead, Regan tried to think clearly.
“Be sensible, Regan,” Farrell said, his hand on her shoulder.
She backed away from him. “I’m not like you said,” she whispered. “I’m not simple-minded. I can do things. I don’t have to take anyone’s charity.”