Captain Amberton's Inherited Bride (Whitby Weddings 2)

‘You accept?’ He wondered if he’d misunderstood.

‘Friendship. Marriage. The money. I’ll marry you.’

Chapter Ten

‘What would you like to do with the house?’

Lance shifted forward on the bench, trying to catch a glimpse of Violet’s averted face as they sat side by side in the rolling carriage. The tops of the moors were still covered in snow, but the valleys had cleared sufficiently for them to make the journey to Whitby without too much difficulty. The weather had improved markedly over the past week, so that it felt like spring today instead of winter. Now they were on the outskirts of town, two scant hours before their wedding, although there was somewhere else they needed to go first.

‘Sell it.’ She didn’t hesitate. ‘Unless you want to keep it?’

‘Not if you don’t want to.’

He shook his head, not that there was much point in doing so when she wouldn’t look at him, but at least she was speaking now, which was more than she’d done since breakfast. She seemed to be lost in her own thoughts, her small hands gripped rather than folded together in her lap, her jaw a tightly drawn line. If he wasn’t mistaken she was clenching her teeth. If she didn’t relax soon, then she’d break a tooth for certain.

He only hoped that it was pre-wedding nerves and not that she’d changed her mind and felt honour-bound to go ahead, although he was reluctant to ask the question out loud. It had been a week since she’d accepted his proposal and he’d thought that they’d been getting along well enough.

Admittedly, he’d been busy at the mine during the days, but they’d spent their evenings together in the drawing room, either talking or reading or playing cards. She’d seemed reasonably calm until that morning—happy, even. Strangely enough, it had felt good to make her happy, as if he were doing something positive for once in his life. To his surprise, he’d felt reasonably happy, too. He’d even been sleeping better. He’d never imagined spending his life with any woman for a prolonged period of time, even so much as a week, but he’d actually enjoyed being with her.

Today, however, was the real test. It was now or never. He’d given her as long as possible to be certain, but in another day, the terms of her father’s will would expire. They could either be rich together or poor separately, although, somewhat alarmingly, that seemed to be a more difficult decision for her than he’d thought. Dressed in a plain grey morning gown, her small face pale and drawn, she looked more like a woman on her way to the gallows than a bride on the happiest day of her life.

‘Very well, then.’ He did his best to sound cheerful. ‘I’ll ask Mr Rowlinson to look out for a buyer. I just wondered if you’d like to keep your own establishment in Whitby.’

‘No.’ She pressed the flat of her hand against her stomach. ‘After today, I never want to go back.’

He lifted an eyebrow at the uncharacteristic edge in her voice. Going to the house that morning had been his suggestion. He’d thought that collecting some of her own belongings might make her feel more at home in Amberton Castle, but apparently the idea had only made her feel nauseated. Now that he thought of it, she’d seemed to turn a little paler when he’d mentioned it, though she hadn’t objected. She hadn’t said much at all. Was that why she seemed so withdrawn then, or was he grasping at straws, trying to persuade himself that her behaviour wasn’t about their impending nuptials?

‘Violet?’ He reached across and folded one of his hands gently around hers. ‘We don’t have to visit the house if you don’t want to.’

She gave her head a small, determined shake. ‘It’s all right. I’m being silly, but I just never expected to go back there again. I know it’s only been a week, but it feels like an age since I ran away. So much has happened.’

‘Not all of it bad, I hope?’

‘No.’ Her lips parted, although she didn’t smile as he’d hoped. Her tone wasn’t particularly reassuring either. ‘Not all of it.’

Her fingers tensed beneath his as the carriage rolled to a halt. He looked past her, out of the window and up at the red-brick facade of her father’s mansion. Even in the bright morning sunshine, it looked gloomy and forbidding. And he’d thought that his mother’s architectural designs had been Gothic…This looked more like the stuff of nightmares.

He tightened his grip reassuringly. ‘If you don’t want to go inside, then let me. I’ll collect your things if you tell me what you want.’

‘No.’ Her voice sounded forceful, as if she were trying to spur herself on. ‘I’m not running away again.’

‘Then let me come with you?’

‘Yes.’ Her tone softened again. ‘Thank you.’

He smiled, relinquishing her hand as Martin opened the carriage door. She climbed down and he followed behind, berating himself inwardly as she mounted the front steps of the house. Damn it all, this was his fault again! Considering what she’d told him about her father, he ought to have considered how coming back here might affect her, but he’d been insensitive again and on their wedding day, too! It wasn’t exactly a promising start...

Oddly enough, there seemed to be no one around to open the front door, so he did it for her, leading the way into a vast, marble-floored hallway that echoed loudly with the sound of their footsteps. He looked around, repressing a shudder. It was the gloomiest, most spartan-looking room he’d ever been in, as if the owner had been determined to have as much space as possible and yet not to fill it.

‘Have the servants started packing up the house already?’

‘No. It’s always been like this.’ Her voice sounded strained. ‘I’ll go upstairs and fetch my things. It won’t take long.’

He nodded and wandered into the drawing room. Surely here the servants must have started putting ornaments and furniture into storage? But, no, there was no sign of trunks or boxes anywhere, nor any marks on the floor to suggest that anything had recently been moved. Unbelievably, the room must have been intended to be just as it looked, almost empty and cheerless, its windows draped with heavy velvet curtains to shut out all trace of the outside world.

His eyes alighted on two chairs by the fireplace, one large leather armchair and one small, uncomfortable-looking wooden one behind it. The other side of the hearth was empty. The sight made him unaccountably furious.

He swung on his good heel and strode determinedly out of the room. An ancient-looking butler had appeared from somewhere, though he seemed unperturbed by the sight of a stranger in the hallway. He simply stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking to all intents and purposes as if he’d turned to stone.