Captain Amberton's Inherited Bride (Whitby Weddings 2)

for her to be so strongly affected by a man she didn’t even like? Because she didn’t like him...did she? No! She had to remind herself of that fact. Not so much had changed between them since that morning. And yet she had, a small voice at the back of her mind whispered. Once upon a time she had liked him, far more so than his brother, and not just because Arthur had been so completely uninterested in her. Lance Amberton had been like no one she’d ever met before, charming, irrepressible and ridiculously handsome, with a streak of rebelliousness and aura of potent masculinity that had been both shocking and dangerously attractive at the same time. Alarmingly, it still was.

Attraction. Was that what she’d felt five years ago? She hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself, but now the feeling was back, stronger than ever, and she could no longer even pretend to deny it. She was attracted to him—and he’d been ‘quite taken’ with her, or so he’d said.

Had he really meant it, or had he simply been trying to persuade her to marry him? She didn’t think he would lie, given how brutally honest he’d been in every other regard, and he had seemed to like her five years ago. If she hadn’t known better, she might have suspected that he’d been flirting with her at the ball, but she had known better. Her father had warned her about rakes and fortune hunters beforehand, reminding her of how small and insipid she was, of how unscrupulous men would try to take advantage of her wealth, and yet...

She sighed. She’d spent so many years believing the worst about herself that the possibility of somebody actually admiring or liking her for herself had never even occurred to her back then, but if Lance was telling the truth, then maybe she hadn’t been so unappealing after all. Had he really found her attractive? Was it possible?

The peculiar throbbing sensation in her stomach was back, as if she were longing for something, even if she didn’t know what. Of course, if he had actually been ‘taken with her’ at the time, his feelings were clearly very different now. He’d told her last night that she was the last woman in the world he would ever have chosen to marry, that his only motive was her fortune. Whatever interest he might once have had was obviously long gone. All he wanted now was her money, just as her father had always said would be the case. Lance was only more honest about it than most fortune hunters.

Not that she wanted him to want anything else, she reminded herself, no more than she wanted any kind of romantic attachment. Attractive as he was, she wasn’t fool enough to offer her heart to such a notorious ladies’ man, even if she were tempted to do so, which she wasn’t. There were other things she wanted—places to visit, sights to see, a whole world to experience away from Whitby, none of which involved Captain Lancelot Amberton.

In which case, why shouldn’t she marry him on the terms that he’d offered, freedom in exchange for her fortune, not to mention an equal share in the money? His proposal was a surprisingly fair one. He wasn’t trying to deceive her, or intending to squander the money as she’d first suspected. He must surely have been joking, albeit in poor taste, when he’d said that he intended to drink himself into oblivion. And she did owe him a debt. Despite his apology that morning, she still felt partly to blame for his banishment. If she married him, it would go some way towards repaying it...

She rounded a corner and then stopped. She’d been so lost in thought that she’d come upon the heart of the maze unawares, but there it was, just as he’d said, a large stone with a metal sword protruding from the top. She ran forward and tugged on the hilt, but the metal was welded fast to the rock. Probably there was no other half to the sword to extract, but the effect was still enchanting.

There was a sweet-looking arbour in one sheltered corner of the clearing, too, though even a quick glance showed that the wood was rotting and the rose bushes on either side, which must once have trailed elegantly over the trellis, were hopelessly overgrown. It was a pity to see a place once so obviously loved now so neglected. If she stayed, then she’d have to do something about restoring its former loveliness...

If.

She leaned back against the boulder and clutched the edges of her shawl tightly beneath her chin. She’d never expected to marry, but she’d always assumed that if she did, then it would be for love. Ianthe and Robert seemed to have such a marriage, but how often did that happen? Could someone as small and strange as she was ever be so lucky? In which case, perhaps she ought to consider Lance’s offer after all...

But this was exactly the situation she’d been afraid of, that she’d let herself be persuaded into following her father’s orders, into letting him govern her life even after his death. If she agreed to his final demand, then it would be as good as admitting that she’d never break free of him, never be free to make her own choices...

On the other hand, Lancelot Amberton hadn’t been, would never have been, her father’s choice. If she married him, then she’d only be submitting to the wording, not the actual intention of his will. If Lance was genuinely offering her freedom, then it wouldn’t be a real marriage anyway, would it? He’d said they could live on their own terms, in whatever way they chose. In one way, it would be the perfect form of revenge...

She pushed herself away from the rock and started back through the maze, ashamed at the thought. She oughtn’t to think of revenge. Whatever her father had done, he’d done to protect her, to ensure that she was looked after. All his controlling behaviour had only ever been for her own good. That was what he’d said—what she’d had to believe. Why else would he have treated her so badly, keeping her bound by his side for twenty-three years, demanding that she live her life in the shadows, unable to make acquaintances, let alone friends? Why else would he have kept her a prisoner?

She staggered as the numb, hard feeling in her chest, the ice that seemed to have settled there when Mr Rowlinson read out the will, splintered apart suddenly, letting loose a wave of pent-up emotion. How could her father have done it, not just the will, but all of it?

She’d been asking herself that question for weeks, but now it was more than a question. It was a burst of anger, fierce and hot and all-encompassing. And she didn’t really need to ask why because she already knew the answer, had always known it deep down, only some vestige of loyalty had stopped her from acknowledging the whole truth. He’d done it because he could, because he’d wanted to control every aspect of her life, because he’d wanted a nursemaid who would never leave him, but most of all because he’d blamed her for her mother’s death.

That was the truth that no one had ever spoken out loud, though there had been hundreds of clues over the years. So he’d made her feel worthless, telling her that she was small and insipid and unattractive, and he’d made her believe it, too. He’d been punishing her for something he’d never even told her about and now she was simply furious. Why shouldn’t she want revenge? What she really wanted was to scream and to shout and to rail at him, but since she couldn’t do that, why not marry Lance, a man he’d despised, instead? When she’d run away from Whitby, she’d thought that she’d been running away from the pair of them, but the truth was that they weren’t on the same side at all.

She charged out of the maze as if there were hounds on her tail, though strangely enough her mind felt clear. No matter how painful the truth, just acknowledging it made her feel better. She still didn’t know if she could marry Lance, but there was one thing she definitely wanted to do, one way to show that she wasn’t going to be controlled any more.

She ran back across the lawn and through the front door, discarding her damp shoes by the fireplace and hurtling upstairs to her room. Then she sat in front of her dresser, staring into the mirror as she tried to summon up the nerve to continue.

Oddly enough she already looked different. The last time she’d looked at her reflection had been the evening before she’d run away, when she’d stood in front of her long glass, pale and nervous, looking to all intents and purposes like the child her father had always told her she was. Yesterday, she hadn?

??t looked at herself at all, too ashamed by the failure of her plans to do so. But today...

Today there were subtle but noticeable differences, as if all her features had come into sharper focus overnight. Today she looked like someone with her own mind, who’d taken the first step, however faltering, towards securing her freedom and becoming her own woman.

There was only one problem, one she intended to remedy straight away. She twisted her shoulders, looking at the long lengths of her silvery-blonde hair with dislike. It fell, as it always had, in an inflexible straight line to her waist. Her father had never let her wear it up, insisting that she keep it down like a girl even when it had become ridiculous to do so. She reached up and twisted the lengths around her hands, coiling it up into a bun. The effect was...also ridiculous. With her tiny size, she looked as if she were wearing a cat on top of her head. Which meant there was only one thing to do.

She rang the bell for Eliza and asked for a pair of scissors, waiting patiently for her return before setting to, hacking away at the long lengths until her hair fell to a point midway between her shoulders and ears. It wasn’t much of a rebellion, she conceded, but it felt like a start, as if she were cutting away the ties of her old life and starting anew.

Then she looked at her reflection again and wondered if she’d just made a terrible mistake. Piles of white-gold lay on the floor around her feet like another snowdrift, but what remained on her head looked as if it had just been mauled by the same animal it had just resembled.

‘What do you think?’ She looked up at Eliza hopefully, though one glance at the maid’s expression was enough to confirm the worst. ‘Is it so very bad?’

‘It’s not good,’ the girl answered awkwardly. ‘Perhaps you’d let me try, miss? I cut my brother and sisters’ hair and I don’t do too badly. Yours is a bit straighter than theirs, but if we neaten it up at the sides...’ She tapped her chin thoughtfully. ‘Maybe if we tuck it back behind your ears? That would frame your face nicely.’

‘Would it?’

She relinquished the scissors at once. Anything was worth a try, she supposed, since there was no way to make any more of a mess than she already had. Then she squeezed her eyelids shut, listening in silence to the click of the scissors until she felt a brief tap on her shoulder. Nervously, she opened one eye, then both in amazement. Only a few minutes had passed, but she could scarcely believe the transformation. Eliza had trimmed what was left of her hair into a neat line around her chin. It looked and felt wonderful.

‘I feel so much lighter.’ She twisted her head, looking at it sideways in the mirror and marvelling at the cool feeling of air on her neck. ‘Thank you.’