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

  No man could measure up to Grandmother’s grieving perception of Percival.

  Percival was exemplary in many ways—his humor, his unfailing love and consideration, his gentleness, his intellect, his adherence to principles. Yet… even he did not follow the exact words spewed across the paper beside me.

  Grief did something to a person. All that pent-up love, with all its affection and tenderness, became directionless. A beloved person that passed was no longer receptive of such affectations, and so, a griever—Grandmother in this case—often harnessed her love into the memory.

  Irritating quirks became endearing; flaws became nothing more than silly habits; bellies became slim in the mind’s eye; jowls disappeared; hurtful recollections were buried in the grave alongside the dead.

  I bit my nails—another habit Miss Worthington abhorred—and wracked my mind. What was to be done? An impossible list, something I had not thought possible.

  The road before me was split.

  On one hand, I could return Lord Egerton’s affection. Henry would agree, despite his displeasure, to my match. He could not find fault with the marquess as far as the list was concerned.

  However, Lord Egerton was a man living his own set of rules. I hardly knew him, and I guessed he hardly knew himself either. He fit Grandmother’s list only because it seemed to match his own.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. Lord Egerton had sipped his tea at an abominably slow rate. I cringed, imagining mornings by his side. I suspected our conversations would be as tortuous as his prolonged cup—small segmented discussions with hardly any substance.

  The second road before me was blurry, bleak, and dark. I could forfeit my claim to Bridgestone, awarding it to Henry instead. My stomach rolled at the thought. I did not like to lose, especially something as precious as my beloved summer abode. And, what lay in my future if not Bridgestone? Would I ever find a man better than Lord Egerton despite my worries?

  Rain pounded against the window so violently that I did not notice the drawing room door open until Henry stood before me.

  “Ivy,” he said, bowing.

  I stumbled to my feet. “Henry.”

  He had not come to visit me since the refreshment-table disaster at Almack’s six days earlier. I had blamed it on the flooded roads—outings were near impossible. However, I knew better; Henry lived only two blocks away.

  His golden-brown eyes fixed on the letter on the sofa. He flicked his chin toward it. “I have come for your review. Late, I know. However, it seems I have caught you at the opportune time. I recognize your Grandmother’s writing.”

  I swallowed. Why did he not look at me? My heart lodged in my throat, throbbing in an inexplicable way. I picked up the paper and gestured to its place. “Will you sit?”

  He nodded, still avoiding my gaze.

  We sat, and the pouring rain seemed the only willing conversant. It knocked against the window so hard that I flinched more than once. The only thing louder than the raindrops was Henry’s brooding.

  I wanted to quote Grandmother’s letter. Beware of a man who sulks in too much silence. My lips tugged at the thought, yet his darkened expression warned me against teasing.

  Henry spun his thumbs around one another, and he opened his mouth more than once, as if he might speak, but then his jaw came forward and silence persevered.

  I settled on a less taunting topic. “Is your mother still in London?”

  “Yes.”

  I dropped my chin to my chest. Women did not frequently stay for only a week. “And she is…well?”

  Henry’s glance flitted to mine for the first time that morning. His lids flinched, and I wondered at the struggle playing across his dark lashes and glossy eyes. “Yes, she is well enough.”

  “Oh.” I had the sudden urge to reach for his hand, to ask him why he seemed so downtrodden. Was he still angry with me, or had his mother’s visit brought upon this bout of brooding? “You must allow me to call upon her, as soon as the rain stops. I would very much like to meet her.”

  He inhaled, and his dimples manifested—though he did not smile. “Would you truly?”

  I smiled. “Of course, Henry. You’ve become…” What had he become to me? I tucked a curly strand of hair behind my ear. “I would be glad to meet her.”

  Again, the rain filled the silence, and again, Henry spun his thumbs.

  The wrinkles near his eyes deepened, and his lashes tangled together in seeming concentration. My heart ached for whatever bothered him.

  “Henry,” I said, inching closer. I reached for him, touching his arm. “I am sorry if I am to blame for your mood. Our last meeting at Almack’s…I…we were speaking of Bridgestone, and I am fairly sure I took offense when I should not have. I understand your wanting Bridge—”

  He placed his opposite hand over mine. “Ivy.”

  Heat flooded my chest, rising higher until blood pulsed against the back of my neck and into my cheeks.

  “You never allowed me to finish speaking that night,” Henry said, oblivious to the effect of his touch. His eyes searched mine, deeper and deeper, until they fell to my flattened lips. “Bridgestone means everything to me. But your friendship? Ivy, I have tried desperately to keep my duties to Percival, my interest in Bridgestone, and your friendship separate.” He closed his fingers around mine. “I cannot say I have kept things as separate as I would like, but I have tried. I cannot have you doubting my loyalty as a friend.”

  I struggled to breathe. Sincerity poured over each of his words, and my heart seemed to melt into a puddle.

  “I am sorry I have been so hard on Lord Egerton. If you believe he fits the list, I will not protest.” He sighed and dropped his hand from mine. “He is a good man, perhaps better than I will ever amount to.”

  “Hardly.” I placed my hand on my cheek, and heat burned against it.

  “Then you will forgive me?”

  Laughter escaped my lips—a mixture of disbelief and relief. “Henry, you have little to apologize for. I, on the other hand, acted my part as a silly girl. I hope you will believe me when I say that this chance of winning Bridgestone has consumed me. I am not myself. Will you forgive me for my whimpering?”

  His lips broke into a soft smile, one that sent my heart fluttering. I adored that expression, that tenderness that stared back at me. “Always.”

  What was happening? I straightened. “Shall we get on with the review?”

  “If you would like.” Henry crossed his legs and leaned back, putting more space between us. “I imagine St. Vincent has been struck from the list of possible matches, for the second time.”

  “Do you doubt it?”

  Henry lifted a brow. “His efforts last Wednesday were quite gallant. I believe he searched for you the entire evening. Now, tell me what you have discovered about Egerton. Does he clink his coins with glee?”

  “No.”

  Henry dipped his chin, lifting a finger in the air as if to check off Grandmother’s requirement. “And what of his kisses? Does he command a repertoire?”

  I gasped. “Henry!”

  His laughter wrapped around me like a warm blanket. “I am only fulfilling my duty, Ivy. I simply must ask these things.”

  “Indeed. That tenet is only an inference. You know I will not be testing that one.”

  Henry’s gaze fell back to my lips. “A shame. You really ought to know how a man kisses before you chain yourself to him.”

  I was sorely tempted to swat him; he was incorrigible. “Henry, I believe there is nothing left to cover in my review. Let us speak of your quest. Have you decided to pursue your lady in question?”

  “That,” he said, standing, “is still to be decided. Though, I admit my interest has doubled.”

  “Doubled?” My jaw clenched, and I crossed my arms. “Who is she?”

  Henry flashed a mischievous grin. “You would like to know then?”

  I despised the idea of Henry pining for a lady. I wrinkled my nose and pinched my lips together. “On
ly because I might be able to ascertain her interest. A lady is prone to notice hints.”

  “Is she now?” Henry’s brows quirked upward, and he shifted his weight to one side. “I had thought men the better judge of such things.”

  I blew a puff of air against my forehead, sending a curl flying. “You mean like Lord St. Vincent?”

  Henry tilted his head back and laughed.

  I smiled, satisfied to know my part in producing that lovely sound. “Well, you cannot argue with me there, can you?”

  “No, I surrender. You are right, Ivy. A lady is much better at ascertaining the feelings of another lady, though I doubt they are skilled at understanding the hints of a gentleman.”

  I stood to meet his towering glance. “You would claim such, though I wonder at your proof.”

  He looked as if he might laugh, but he only shook his head. “All in due course. Now, if you will excuse me. I have matters to attend to—namely, my mother.”

  I flapped my Grandmother’s list in his direction. “As do I.”

  “Ah.” Henry took my hand and bowed. “I shall leave you to it then.”

  I trembled at his touch, and then, almost simultaneously, inwardly chided myself. I could not allow Henry, my greatest opponent in winning Bridgestone—no matter his kindness and alarmingly handsome face—to distract me from my prize.

  I pulled my hand out rather abruptly and curtsied. “Goodbye, Henry.”

  * * *

  Dear Father,

  Your arrival cannot come soon enough.

  I often tease you for your rational thinking and your fixation to details, but I could use such influence in my current situation. I am discouraged in my pursuit of fulfilling the provision. Further, I am beginning to wonder if Bridgestone is worth my entire future.

  You went through tests of sorts to win Mother’s hand. However, was not your motivation love? I imagine I could satisfy list after list if it meant securing happiness. Bridgestone, though dear in memory and lovely in detail and worth more than a thousand of my dowries, does not guarantee such bliss. But Father—I must know—is there anything that can guarantee happiness?

  The idea seems more dream than probable. Even you, who married for love, lost Mother in the cruelest of ways—and after such a short time! I wonder, do you think it matters whether I marry based on love or based upon Grandmother’s list of rules?

  Part of my discouragement stems from the list. Does any man fit such descriptions? Is this Grandmother’s way of teaching me the harsh realities of life by seeing the very place I love slip through my fingers?

  Ever your expectant daughter,

  Ivy

  Chapter 19

  The white stucco building towered over me. I sucked in a quick breath.

  “Nervous? Why ever would you be?” Grandmother steadied herself against my arm, and her raspy voice grated against my ears.

  I lifted my chin and determined to guard my composure against my grandmother’s unravelling attempts. I closed my parasol. “I have no idea why you would suggest such a thing. Henry is near family, and I look forward to meeting his mother.”

  The words were forced, much like the smile plastered to my face. I doubted Grandmother found my attempt convincing; I was not very convinced myself.

  She tugged at my arm and began climbing the steps. “We mustn’t stand in the street any longer, Ivy. If we dawdle, I imagine the rain may start up again, and we will be sequestered to our home. I cannot do with that.”

  I fluttered my lashes in irritation. Besides evening walks in Hyde Park and the occasional dinner guest, Grandmother’s social activities were still limited due to her half-mourning. I followed her up the steps and knocked.

  We were shown into the parlor, a room nearly identical in size to Grandmother’s but nearly twice as warm and inviting. The cream-colored walls were lined in bright tapestries, each depicting nature scenes.

  “Mrs. Thorne and her son will be in shortly,” the butler said before shutting us inside.

  I clutched my hands together to keep from trembling. As always, Grandmother was far too perceptive. I had not been able to stomach a single piece of food that morning. Morning tea was as close to sustenance as I came.

  Henry spoke of his mother with kindness. After all, his worries at seeing her at Almack’s had more to do with his affection for her than anything dreadful. Yet, I felt as if I stood on a ledge—one of significant height. Truly, I had prayed twice that morning in hopes that Providence might secure my favor with the woman.

  I flinched when the doorknob turned.

  Grandmother’s eyes widened, and her lips curled. “Dearest girl, you need not worry.”

  My lashes fluttered once more, though this time without my consent.

  The door swung open, and Mrs. Thorne stood in the doorway next to Henry. She stood a few inches taller than me, and familiarity cloaked her every feature. She smiled, and a set of dimples on her right cheek and chin appeared. Her auburn hair was streaked with white, yet the colors only added to her charm. Her eyes, nearly black, sparkled in the window’s light.

  Grandmother stepped forward. “Mrs. Thorne.”

  Henry’s mother took my grandmother’s hand. “Dear Lady Barrington. Has it truly been six years since our last meeting?”

  “Despicable if you ask me,” Grandmother said, tsking. She smiled, and her usual brashness softened. “How are you, my dear?”

  Mrs. Thorne looked to her son. Her voice was gentle. “I am fairly certain I will meet my death if Henry does not—”

  “Mother.” Henry shook his head, and his eyes darted to mine. “You must meet Miss Linfield.”

  Grandmother startled, jerking in my direction. “Oh yes. Come, Ivy.”

  My mouth went dry, and my stomach churned. I curtsied. “Mrs. Thorne, it is a pleasure to meet you. Henry speaks highly of you.”

  “Does he?” Mrs. Thorne smiled, and her eyes ran the length of my dress and back to my face. “My, Henry. You did not tell me Percival’s granddaughter was so lovely. I see now. She will do—”

  “Yes, well, I thought you should see for yourself.” Henry’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He shoved his hands into his coat pocket. “Shall we sit, Mother? I thought it bad manners to keep guests standing at the doorway.”

  My eyes widened. Was that a blush creeping up his face? I bit the inside of my cheek. I had never liked the look of embarrassment before; it only conjured my sympathies. However, the look suited Henry. If Mrs. Thorne and Grandmother were not standing so near, I might have teased him.

  Mrs. Thorne laughed, apparently as amused as me. “Yes, Henry, if you insist. Please, Lady Barrington, Miss Linfield, come and sit.”

  Upon the center table sat a plate of fruit tarts.

  The sight of food was enough to earn my stomach’s complaint. I placed a hand to my abdomen, thankful for Grandmother’s incessant chatter for once. Her conversation with Mrs. Thorne served as distraction from my body’s grumbles.

  Henry’s brows drew downward, and his lips pulled in concern. His stare held a question. He held his cup of tea in one hand and he drank, still observing me from above it.

  Unexpected relief came; Henry drank at a normal pace.

  Grandmother poked a crooked finger in my side, and I nearly jumped. “Answer Mrs. Thorne, Ivy.”

  My lips parted in surprise.

  Henry grinned, returning his teacup to the saucer on the table. “My mother has been debating over her gardens for some time. I told her you and Percival shared a love of gardening and that if anyone knew about roses, you did.”

  “Roses?” I asked, scratching at the back of my neck.

  “Yes, and which ones you prefer—climbing or bushes.” The edge of his lips lifted.

  I swallowed, and my eyes roamed the room as if an answer might be found amongst the furnishings. “I am not so much a gardener, Mrs. Thorne, as I am appreciative of nature. I think roses of every sort are worth planting. Percival planted a garden for me each year, and I believe he used both va
rieties.”

  Mrs. Thorne tapped her fingers against her arm. “I imagine I could tell my gardener to employ both. Tell me, Miss Linfield, has Henry told you about our home in Kent—Mayberry Hall?”

  I shook my head. “Henry has never spoken about it.”

  The wrinkles near Mrs. Thorne’s eyes wrinkled just as Henry’s did, and I found myself liking her for that fact. “Henry, you have not told Miss Linfield of Mayberry?” She turned back to me, and her smile lifted at an angle, just as Henry’s did. “Mayberry Hall is lovely, just lovely. Henry argues that Bridgestone is more beautiful, but I imagine he says that because of his admiration for Percival.”

  Henry’s lids lowered. “Mother, Miss Linfield does not wish to hear of Mayberry.”

  I certainly did. “I would be glad to hear of it, Mrs. Thorne. I would not be surprised if your Mayberry Hall did outshine Bridgestone.”

  Henry shook his head, and his auburn waves bounced. He pointed a finger in my direction. “Miss Linfield would like nothing more than to hear of Mayberry’s beauty...”

  Mrs. Thorne took a tart, and her eyes lit with excitement. “Mayberry Hall was once a medieval castle. Since 1490, the house has been in my family. Over the years, much of the building has wasted into ruin—you know how expensive these things are to maintain. However, the main hall and northern wing remain in pristine condition. I quite pride myself on the loveliness.”

  My nostrils flared inadvertently. I knew Henry had already inherited other properties and wealth, but I had never inquired about them. I had not wished to know the extent of his wealth nor the fortune that seemed to shine upon him. His inheriting Bridgestone was all that mattered, and I had spent my energy trying to prevent that from happening.

  “Mother,” Henry said, seeming to sense my rising irritation. “About the roses—”

  “No.” I clamped my lips together. I shook my head and forced a smile. “Please, Mrs. Thorne, do go on. Mayberry Hall sounds enchanting.”

  She nodded, her dark eyes widening to the size of walnuts. Her lashes were dark like Henry’s, though not nearly as thick nor as long. Men often received the characteristics that women longed for. “Oh yes, my dear,” Mrs. Thorne said. “My father spent significant resources renovating the house—or castle, more correctly. And the grounds! Hampton Court’s gardens can hardly compare, if I do say.”