A Provision For Love (Entangled Inheritance Book 1) Read online

  “Yes.” Henry rose and pointed at me. “For Miss Linfield still keeps hold of my letter.”

  My eyes bulged, and only then did I realize I clutched Henry’s letter to my chest. I flinched and extended the paper to Henry. “Here, keep it, if you will. I certainly do not plan to.”

  “You do not wish to keep it?” he asked, pursing his lips.

  I shook my head rather frantically. Why would he ask such a thing? “Take it, Henry.”

  But he did not, and, even more illogical, relief settled over me; I did like his letter, more than I cared to admit. My mind raced at the implications of my actions and feelings. Why had I allowed Henry’s letter to affect me? Why had I kept it in my hands? Perhaps more pressing, why did I feel nothing but girlish blush at Lord Egerton’s poem? There was no meaning to the marquess’s words, no genuine emotion—only empty, pretty nothings.

  “What say you, Miss Linfield?” Lord Egerton said, sitting beside me. “Shall we liven the evening with a few parlor games of our youth—Buff Gruffy, Snap Dragon, Bullet Pudding?”

  I lifted my hand to my head and sighed. I was about to do the unthinkable. No. No, no, no. But I felt a spectator of my own actions. My lips moved without my consent, and I wanted to curse. Yet, the words were true. “Forgive me, Lord Egerton. I am feeling faint.”

  He took my hand. “Goodness, Miss Linfield. Allow me to fetch you a cup of tea.”

  The exit of the marquess brought an onslaught of questions.

  “Are you well, Miss Linfield?” Miss Clawson asked.

  Miss Hawkins linked her arm in mine. “Shall I fan you?”

  Mr. Perry offered me his handkerchief, which served no purpose at all. I was light-headed, not teary nor suffering from a runny nose.

  I shook my head and closed my eyes. I gripped at my temples, willing the room to stop its dreadful spinning. “Thank you, but I will be well enough as soon as I have a cup of tea.”

  When I opened my eyes, Henry stood in front of me. His face was marked with lines—lines near his brow and at the creases of his eyes, lines near the edges of his lips and near his chin. His voice was low. “Ivy, what’s wrong?”

  I blinked slowly. Henry’s features were so different from those of Lord Egerton. Henry’s face lacked the symmetry of the marquess, the regal presence, the smooth and soft skin. Instead, Henry’s sun-tanned jawline showed evidence of evening beard growth, his lips curled unevenly on one side, and the two dimples on his right cheek and chin were absent on the left.

  Henry was indisputably attractive to me, despite his insatiable desire to humiliate me.

  “Ivy?” Henry repeated.

  I flinched and tried to recover from my incoherent thoughts, but I could not seem to pull my gaze away from his. I inhaled. “It is only a dizzy spell, Henry.”

  He crouched in front of me, surveying me further. “No, I think I must escort you home. Lady Barrington would not wish you to stay if you are unwell.”

  I did not protest in the least. I had no rational reason to leave; the headache would pass. However, I could not endure another moment in that oversized parlor. The words of both Lord Egerton’s and Henry’s letters grated against my nerves. Humiliation had overpowered my senses, but even worse, the words served as a warning. Was I doomed to a marriage of pretty nothings if I ended up with the marquess?

  I knew so little about love; it had never been part of the marriage equation. Yet, hearing the marquess’s empty words struck me with an even greater emptiness—an emptiness that, strangely enough, filled my entire being.

  Love, the mystery that it was, knocked against my chest. I would have to answer to it, for I could not bear the hollowness.

  Chapter 15

  Dear Father,

  I am glad to hear Grandmother took pity on you and your poorly trained ear. I took note long ago that you never used a hymnal at Church, though I attributed it to your religious devotion. I laugh at that now, knowing instead that your knowledge came in attempts to sway Grandmother.

  I should like to hear of more of the tests Grandmother put you through. I hadn’t the slightest idea she did such a thing, though now, I am not surprised at all. Please tell me another story. Perhaps it will ease the burden I feel in making a match.

  A season is not as long as I first supposed. Already, a month and half has passed. Grandmother says I am becoming quite fluent in London ways. She even patted me on the back last week when I complained about the food at Almack’s. Apparently, anybody who is anyone knows the food served there is stale and second-rate. I laughed. Can you imagine being congratulated for a complaint? From Grandmother, I suppose you might.

  Lord Egerton seems to check every item of the list, but can a person be everything right yet still lack something?

  You asked for a description. Lord William Egerton could be considered tall, though I have seen some men taller. He has a classical-Grecian look about him. I would even compare him to one of those statues I saw when touring with Miss Worthington—he possesses a strong build, symmetrical features, and a chiseled facial structure. His eyes are blue, and his teeth are nearly perfect and white. His hair is blond, and that is my only complaint. If Providence had seen to bless him with even more charm, a touch of red to his hair would have done the trick.

  As for your bit of amusement, I attended a dinner at Lord Egerton’s parents’ home, the Duke and Duchess of Pemberton. In an absurd turn of events, Lord Egerton and Henry competed in a contest of love letters, and I was appointed judge. You can imagine my humiliation at having to read such things aloud. Henry’s letter, in particular, was difficult. Not surprisingly, if you have paid attention to my characterization of him at all, he mentioned turkeys! Turkeys, of all things! I thought I might die of laughter, but then nobody else laughed and I felt quite silly.

  Dear Father, please say you will come to London. I know you do not like the expense nor the people nor the business of it all. However, you are as caring a father as I’ve ever seen or known. I believe you might help me sort out this mess.

  All my love,

  Ivy

  * * *

  I dropped a lump of sugar into my tea. The liquid swirled with each spin of the spoon, and I became mesmerized with the pattern of small waves and the spiraling tea leaf.

  Grandmother cleared her throat, squinting in the afternoon light. The back porch was usually warm, and the one rose bush looked as if it might offer a bloom soon. “You have not added so much sugar to your tea since you were a child.”

  She awaited a response, as if her observation was a question instead.

  I tasted my tea and nodded. “Yes, I suppose you are right.”

  “Take care not to rot your teeth. Queen Elizabeth’s teeth were in horrible order. You, Ivy, are no queen, and so you must take precautions.”

  I dropped another lump of sugar into my tea. “Queen Elizabeth died over two-hundred years ago, Grandmother. I believe most people’s teeth were rotten then, and as you said—I have not put so much sugar in my tea since I was a child.”

  “I am only trying to offer wisdom.” Her narrowed eyes closed to slits, and I recognized her look of concentration. Her nose pinched, and when she opened her eyes, she stared into nothingness. “I remember my mama giving me advice. I never took it well, much like you. I had the strangest notion that I needed to find out everything for myself. I just about drove my mama to the mad house. I remember she told me not to walk in a new pair of boots, but I was too excited. I promised to keep them clean.” Grandmother paused, scratching a finger beneath her mob cap. Her lips trembled, and for a moment I thought she might laugh. “Mama never bought me new boots again.”

  I held my breath, waiting for my grandmother to say more. Percival once told me that when a person speaks about the past, and their eyes grow glossy and tired, I ought only to listen.

  Grandmother’s dark eyes clouded, as if memories had snatched her from her frail body. Then, with a sharp inhale, she returned to her faculties. Her eyes blinked rapidly. “In any case, I
vy, there are things you should listen to, advice you ought to take. You must think me an old bat with my lists and constant criticisms, but I only wish to help you.”

  “I know.” I pushed my teacup to the center of the table. “I do know. You are right about so many things, including my insatiable need to find out some things for myself. This whole amendment to the will—what if I cannot find and attach myself to a man that meets the requirements? Can any man meet such a list?”

  Her thin lips curled beneath her graying teeth. “My dear, I wrote that list with Percival in mind.”

  Emotion stabbed at my throat, and I struggled to swallow. No matter the gray and lilac fabric of her dresses, Grandmother was still in full-mourning and would be forever. A love like theirs was rarer than royalty. Percival had no equal.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Grandmother, I have to ask. Did you…the letter…” I shook my head. I could not bring myself to ask the question knocking against my lips.

  “Did I write the letter after his death?”

  I dropped my hands to my lap. She and I were cut of the same cloth, and her guessing at my thoughts should not have surprised me.

  She tapped her fingers against the table. “Is that what you were going to ask?”

  I wrinkled my nose, shrugging.

  Her voice turned scratchy, and laughter mixed with each syllable, as if she could do nothing more to keep from crying. “Yes. Percival made the provision and I was to write the requirements, but I waited too long. I waited until he was feeble and dying, and all I could think about was the perfect man I had married. I want the same for you.”

  I wiped at a lone tear escaping down my cheek. I hated tears; they were most disobedient, never coming in times of need and always showing themselves at the least inconvenient times. I reached for her hand. “I miss him too.”

  She startled at my admission and stood. Her legs shook. “I do not feel the need for tea anymore. I shall return to my bed for a nap.”

  I rose to assist her. “Grandmother—”

  The sight of the two figures in the doorway silenced me. The butler stepped onto the porch, Henry in tow. “Lady Barrington, Mr. Thorne has come to call.”

  My hands fell to the back of my chair for support. Henry took his duty far too seriously.

  Henry bowed. “I hoped to catch you at tea. I doubt I will enjoy a cup inside again, so long as the weather agrees.”

  Grandmother snorted. She flicked her chin to the sky. “Clouds are already coming. I was just telling Ivy I am to take a nap.”

  “Now?” Henry frowned.

  “Oh, goodness. I do not intend to keep you from calling.” She waved a hand at Mr. Elliot. “Do not mind them. It is only Henry. However, if you, Elliot, could assist me to my room. My legs are shaking abominably today.”

  Henry waited until they were gone to greet me.

  I curtsied, but the effort felt strange. Henry was not a stranger, yet not family. I gestured to Grandmother’s chair. “Will you take tea?”

  “Thank you.” The sun played across his features, illuminating the flecks of fire in his auburn mane and casting a shadow beneath his dark lashes. “Are you recovered from your headache?”

  I poured and handed him a cup of tea. “Yes, and I am ashamed to have claimed such frailty.”

  His hand lingered near mine. “You mean you were not actually ill?”

  I pulled my hand away. “I was ill…I only mean that I am ashamed to have fallen to such weak tendencies.”

  Understanding flickered across his features, and he shook his head. “I would not worry about that. Now, tell me, have you framed my love letter yet?” His tone was so casual and flippant. He took a biscuit from the platter. “Well?”

  I forced a smile, though my heart sank. “More likely I would frame Lord Egerton’s poem.”

  Henry scoffed. “You are not serious?”

  I avoided his gaze. I remembered nothing but a few words from Lord Egerton’s poem—fairest, divine, stars, desperation; the kind of words most any love poem contained. “Yes, well, at least the marquess composed a poem.”

  “Yes, I see.” Henry laughed, and his brown eyes glistened. He wiped a hand over his mouth. “Then you missed my entire point. The marquess’s letter was a cheap imitation of Shakespeare’s works, which, as you already know, I think are mawkish. Did you find Egerton’s superior only because it was a poem? If I had rhymed, would you have liked mine better?”

  I bit my tongue to keep from speaking. In truth, I had read Henry’s letter countless times. I adored every word; I rather wished Lord Egerton had written it. I lifted a brow. “Perhaps. I would like to hear your attempt at poetry.”

  My response earned another hearty exult. Henry massaged at his brows. “A poem, let me take a stab at it…” He tapped his fingers together. “Upon our recent meeting, you tried to raise a squabble—”

  “Squabble?” I shook my head. “Not a promising beginning.”

  Henry’s eyes narrowed. “Hush. I will have to begin again. Upon our recent meeting, you tried to raise a squabble, but then into the kitchen garden you did quietly hobble. It only took one single sound, a bold and wild gobble. Your heart took flight, and then your knees began to wobble.”

  “Oh, dear.” I pursed my lips. “I did not think such poetry existed.”

  He lifted a finger to his lips, and his eyes seemed to light. “The idea, you say, of a gentleman chasing a bird, is nothing but most outrageous and absurd. But in my act, you caught wind of the unheard, and truthfully, you felt that my heart was spurred.”

  A smile cracked through my efforts. “How do you contrive such outrageous rhymes?”

  “I find the words come rather naturally, actually.” His lips spread into a glorious grin, and my heart pounded in response.

  I fanned my cheek. Henry was the only person I knew that could write turkey poetry and earn a smile. He was far from ordinary. Even his hair…auburn hair was not the fashion at all, and yet, I surveyed Henry’s face and hair once more.

  I rather liked his dimples and his freckle beneath his left eye, his dark lashes and his crooked smile. There was something to be said for different; the ton was full of so much the same.

  “Do you think I should set out to follow in Lord Byron’s footsteps?” he asked.

  I laughed. “Do be serious. You can be serious, can’t you?”

  Henry nodded, and his shoulders caved forward. “I can be rather dull, actually.”

  I shook my head. Dull was the last thing Henry Thorne proved to be. “Now, you are here for the review. Shall we get on with it?”

  “If we must.” Henry released a slow breath.

  “Mr. Perry is out of the running.”

  Henry took a long sip of his tea before responding. “And what is his offense?”

  “Vanity,” I said, clearing my throat. “Does he preen in front of mirrors? Forget him. Harsh is the life of a wife condemned to live her days in the company of a vain peacock.”

  “Mmm, the letter.” Henry folded his arms. “Did you witness Mr. Perry preening in front of a mirror?”

  I swallowed. “Well, not exactly—”

  “Then you cannot count him out.”

  My mind spun. “I thought you wished to inherit Bridgestone. Why do you care if I decide against Mr. Perry?”

  Henry jerked backward. “Ivy, that list your grandmother gave you is not comprised of itemized justifications for judgement. The tenets are only inferences, ideas. Mr. Perry’s fashion choices are eccentric, I will give you that, but he does not parade around the room as others do…as Lord Egerton does.”

  I gasped. “You believe Lord Egerton to be vainer than Mr. Perry?”

  Henry pursed his lips. “From what I gather.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek. The marquess was handsome and fashionable, but nothing so flowery as Mr. Perry. “Do explain yourself.”

  Henry released a long, slow breath. “Vanity encompasses more than admiring one’s own reflection. Vanity includes admiring
anything about yourself to an excessive degree. The way Lord Egerton parades around the ton—haven’t you noticed how he thrives off others’ perceptions of him? Even at the dinner party, his attitude of superiority was unmistakable.”

  I shook my head. “Henry, that is not true. Lord Egerton is confident.”

  “Oh? Then his embellished love letter was not proof of his need to impress?”

  “And what of yours?” I asked, lifting my chin. “You seemed just as willing to display your talents.”

  Henry’s eyes widened, and he lifted his brows. “You think I accepted Egerton’s challenge in order to prove my skill?”

  I scrunched my nose. “Did you not?”

  “Goodness, my intentions do get lost in my attempts.” He pushed his hands through his hair and sighed. The sound embodied discouragement.

  I tugged at my dress. “Then what did you mean by writing that letter?”

  He tapped his finger on the table, shaking his head back and forth. His gaze lifted to mine. “I thought it obvious. Egerton’s address was no better than Shakespeare. Ivy, when you read my letter, you laughed. You smiled. I should think that my point was made to those that listened. Real affection is not so neat as a poem. There are shared experiences, even senseless ones like the turkey-attacking incident. There are understandings between those that love each other. Describing beauty is nothing of real affection—" He blew out a puff of air that ruffled a wayward wave. His glance flitted over my features, and I wondered at his thoughts.

  I swallowed when the silence became unbearable. “But speaking of beauty, when expressed to a loved one, is welcome. A lady likes to know her intended cares for her in that way too.”

  “Does she?” Henry’s voice fell softer than usual, causing my pulse to race.

  “Yes.” I offered him another biscuit. “Now, shall we have your review? Have you found a lady you wish to become acquainted with?”

  He straightened in his chair, refusing my offering. He wrung his hands around the napkin at his lap. “To appease my mother?”

  I nodded.