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

  I tugged at the pins in my hair, releasing my blonde locks until they fell down my back. Amidst my crazed laughter came something else—tears. I had no idea what was worse, the requirements I had conjured in my mind or the strange set of romantic notions I’d received. Miss Worthington had well prepared me for the art of catching a man’s attention, but could I see into his heart enough to ascertain Grandmother’s wishes?

  I rubbed the places of tension along my scalp. One particular stretch of words concerned me above the others: A husband, of course, should a kisser be, but he must command a repertoire. A man’s kisses should have fire and passion, yes, but he must have the art of kissing kindly and gently too.

  How on earth was I supposed to know of such things without engaging in the act of kissing? The idea—wickedness itself! Would Henry take my word, and if he did, what would he think of me?

  Where was my pluck now? How would I rise and overcome this challenge?

  A tap at the gate sent me frantically wiping at my tear-streaked cheeks and dripping nose. Grandmother would not wish to see me like that. Like everything, she had opinions about tears—and they were unacceptable, a means of the weak.

  The gate to my garden creaked open. Henry ducked into the opening.

  My jaw jutted forward. “You.”

  He stepped through the hedge doorframe and beneath the shade of my oak. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Linfield, I hope you are not under the wrong impression.”

  “Oh?” I swallowed the remainder of my tears. My defenses ran as thick and high as the hedges surrounding me. “And what impression might that be?”

  “Please.” He came closer, sighing. “You understand my disappointment at the prospect of losing Bridgestone?”

  I wrapped my arms around my middle, looking away from his piercing expression. “I imagine so, but I do not think it compares to mine, Mr. Thorne. You have other properties and lands, some of which are renowned for their beauty. Percival left you the baron title. Why must you take Bridgestone too?”

  “You believe my desire for Bridgestone has to do with greed then?

  “Yes.” I inwardly cringed. “No? I am not sure.”

  Henry shook his head, his orange and brown waves bouncing in response. He lifted his hands to each side. “I cannot understand any of this, but I won’t deny you your chance at keeping this place and this garden.”

  My throat closed, and my voice came out a mere whisper. “Then you will surrender?”

  “Not quite, but I won’t make your challenge any more difficult than Lady Barrington already has. That letter is full of strange requests. You will have hard enough time fulfilling them without me stepping in your way.”

  A breeze filtered through the window, blowing curls across my face. I gathered my hair to one side, realizing the disaster I had become. “There are certain matters we must discuss. Certain items on that list are unmentionable…”

  Henry’s eyes lit. “You mean the repertoire of kisses?”

  I cringed, this time outwardly. “Yes, you mustn’t concern yourself with those matters. A woman of my station could not possibly experiment on that suggestion.”

  “I see.” He folded his arms, but his shoulders relaxed. “And mountains in the eyes—shall I leave that to you too?”

  A smile touched my lips. “Yes. The subjective matters must be left to my judgement. Agreed?”

  He returned my smile for one infinitely more natural. “Fair enough, but I will tell you—I am quite the expert on ‘animal grace’ and ‘petty prattle’ and the detection of a ‘vain peacock’.”

  I laughed. I was glad to see he thought my grandmother as ridiculous as I did; she had a flair for the dramatics. “Shall we be friends then, Mr. Thorne?”

  His smile softened, and he tapped a finger against a temple. “I have never endeavored to keep such a friendship—one of which I am competing against. However, I would be happy to be considered your friend. If you’ll call me Henry, for that is what you used to call me.”

  “Henry.” I nodded. My first season in London would be difficult enough; a friend, even one pitted against me in competition for Bridgestone, would be of comfort. “Friends then, and you must call me Ivy.”

  He shuffled backward, and his lips curved once more. “If you prefer it.” He paused near the gate. “I suppose you should take comfort in your name.”

  “My name?” I lifted a brow.

  “Have you ever seen the ivy growing on the gardener’s cottage?” Henry asked.

  I shrugged.

  “I thought you would have noticed. Despite all of Percival’s demands and the gardener’s efforts, despite the many times that ivy is cut back, it always grows back—and stronger.” Henry lifted his chin, and his eyes met mine with a fierceness.

  My cheeks burned. What was there to say? He did not owe me such kindness, especially when my victory threatened his happiness. I wondered at his game, if he had one at all. I sensed sincerity yet chalked it up to my own naivety. “I had not…I…”

  He turned, but before he was gone, he muttered a quiet farewell.

  * * *

  Dear Father,

  Since my correspondence only two days ago, the most startling of events—much more serious and shocking than the account of the turkeys—has taken place. It seems that Percival, only six months prior to his death, amended his will to make a provision for me to inherit Bridgestone.

  You may well imagine my surprise. You know how I love my visits here. The gardens, the library and Percival’s study, the country air, and the memories—bidding farewell to this place has hung heavy on my heart for some time. As such, I took great excitement at the possibility of calling Bridgestone mine forever more.

  However, with Percival’s provision came an absurd requirement: I must marry within my first season, all the while adhering to a ridiculous list of requirements (at Grandmother’s hand, no less).

  Such a turn of events has left my mind and heart in a state of restlessness. Should I try for Bridgestone when the odds are so against my success? You know how particular Grandmother is. Mother would have shuddered at such a list.

  Tell me what I should do, Father. Of all times to be separated, I feel our distance most keenly. There is no one in the world that loves me as you do. Please, write to me with your advice. I have written the particulars in the following pages.

  Your Daughter,

  Ivy

  * * *

  Dearest Daughter,

  I cannot say I am surprised at your recent turn of events. My mother-in-law was always one for surprises and stipulations. In gaining her approval for your mother’s hand, I was required to pass a series of tests.

  Ivy, do not be discouraged. Take heart. As with all rewards, the greatest payouts demand substantial investment. I have learned this in the financial world repeatedly but even keenly when it comes to matters of the heart. Lady Barrington’s requests, despite the unusualness of the entire situation, are not without merit. I have read the particulars repeatedly, and I am inclined to believe she has your best interest at heart.

  In any case, you may take comfort in my love. Bridgestone or not, I will be forever happy to claim you as my daughter. Do not settle for a man, no matter his propensity to earn you an inheritance, if he does not fulfill my requirement. He must love you singularly.

  Now, concerning your last letter. Your account of the turkey sent me into a fit of laughter. I have never heard of a groundskeeper so afraid, nor have I heard of a gentleman coming to the rescue in such an absurd but honorable way. I should very much like to reacquaint myself with Percival’s heir.

  Please send word of your safe arrival in London.

  Your Father,

  Samuel Linfield

  Chapter 7

  Grandmother’s head rested against the carriage window, and with each bump of the road, her jowls wagged back and forth. For the first time since departing Bridgestone, her snoring had quieted to sporadic puffs, and I chided myself for not taking advant
age of the moment and resting myself.

  However, I could not look away from her sagging and wrinkled face. Age had come with increasing effect to my Grandmother, particularly in the last three years. Her portrait, residing in Bridgestone’s family gallery, seemed to depict an entirely different woman than the one across from me.

  Grandmother was a living testament of time. Time neither stopped nor slowed, no matter how badly one wished it to. Life continued, sometimes with heart-breaking resolution. Death, pain and illness were inevitable in the lives of loved ones. The deterioration of one’s body was unavoidable. Full and pink cheeks became saggy white ones; blonde curls sometimes turned to bristly white wisps; memories had the potential to fade into oblivion, and, too often, senility invaded one’s once perfect senses.

  If only I had the power to stop time. I longed for a pause—a moment to collect my thoughts, to form my own opinions, or to contemplate before being forced into a decision. Yet, power over time did not exist for me or anyone, as the image of Grandmother so clearly communicated.

  Eighteen years old, and I felt unequal to the task before me. In trying for Bridgestone, I feared my own impulsivity and judgment. Perhaps, subconsciously, I welcomed Grandmother’s requirements for a husband—if only for the fact that I was not forced to draw my own, for I knew nothing of what would make a good husband beyond money and property and obvious traits of kindness.

  I feared that time would transport me, all too quickly, into a replica of the bitter and strange woman I knew as Grandmother. She was not altogether bad company; she often made me laugh. I admired her refusal to conform to the subservient role of Lady Barrington. Grandmother was fierce, stubborn, strong, and infinitely opinionated woman of action.

  But was there any softness left in her heart, or had life beaten it all away? Was there any faith left beside her cynical scoffs, or had the storms of life covered all hope of sunshine and joy?

  As the sole granddaughter, I was often surprised by her seeming indifference to my feelings. Even in advocating for my inheritance, Grandmother had forced her own agenda. Was there nothing she could relinquish—even my own choice of husband?

  Choice of husband. I scowled. Miss Worthington had rejected the notion of love marriages. “Impractical,” is what she called them. “Happiness cannot be built on another,” she had repeatedly told me. Instead, my tutor had advocated for rational marriages, unions built on mutual understandings, financial principles, family legacies, and joint tolerance. The idea seemed no different than a prolonged carriage ride—cramped, uncomfortable, bumpy, and stifling. I did not wish to spend my entire life in a carriage.

  I stretched my legs, placing my feet against the seat beside Grandmother. Was there not another method of traveling through life?

  Grandmother swatted at my ankles. “Ivy Estelle Linfield, for shame! Take your legs off my seat this instant.”

  I scrambled to tuck my ankles beneath my seat. “I thought you were resting, and…”

  “And you assumed such poor manners might go unnoticed?” She straightened. “Such behavior is unbearable.”

  I bit the inside of my cheek and looked to the window. I could feel my eyelids fluttering, as they did each time I felt irritated. “Do you mean to say you have never stretched your legs in all your carriage rides?”

  Grandmother clicked her tongue. “I have certainly never stretched my legs across the seats.”

  “A shame,” I said, leaning my head against the rest. “Particularly because there is no one to witness except me, and I would never utter a word. I cannot fault another woman, especially a relation, for stretching her legs.”

  She shifted in her seat. “I can wait. We have only another hour or so.”

  I nodded. I had not expected her to comply with the suggestion. I twisted my hands together. Since the meeting with Mr. Tuttle-Kirk, I had scarcely said two words to Grandmother. I wanted to ask her about the letter, yet my nerves seemed to get the better of me each time I saw her.

  “What is it?” Grandmother inspected her rings, spinning one so that the jewel faced up. “I can sense your anticipation.”

  I sighed. “You talk of propriety and manners. Yet…”

  “Yes?” Her voice cut through my nerves.

  “Yet, your letter. You as good as told me to kiss a man before becoming attached.” I blinked, and when she did not respond, I gasped. “Grandmother, you cannot wish me to fall under scandal or gain the reputation of being a tart.”

  She shook with laughter. “I suppose that suggestion was more of an inference. You must not take everything so very literally. I only meant that a man must have different sides to him—tender at some moments, passionate at others, and still rational at others. If you can find a man like that, his kisses and affection will also be varied. A lover that clings to habit is an enormous bore.”

  I blushed. Hearing my grandmother speak of kisses and lovers was worse than her scolding. “I am glad to hear it is only an inference. I see now.”

  “Do you? That is impossible, for you have never been married, and I have—twice!” Her nose pinched, and she lifted her chin. “And while you think such topics unmentionable, you will be grateful once you are married, granted you follow my counsel.”

  “I will take your word for it.”

  Her lips twisted into a pucker. “To be young and innocent again—what I would not give to relive that time, even for all your young naiveties and blindness.”

  “Why did you write the letter?” I closed my eyes. I had not meant to ask so bluntly.

  “Ah, the letter.” Grandmother waited until I met her amused glance. “You think I was ridiculous to suggest such things, but someday, you will thank me. I am quite convinced. However, the letter was not only written in your behalf, but also in Percival’s. I could not stand to see a man less than my late-husband running the affairs of my beloved home. I wished to ensure the quality of your choice.”

  My mouth dropped. “But you made no mention of wealth nor title nor family—the very stipulations you have spoken of to me countless times. Even in the last week, you have voiced your expectations no less than—”

  “Of course those things are to be expected, but those are minor details. The quality of a man is much more important.”

  Sudden humor climbed my throat. “And you think animal grace and height and the state of a carriage is more important?”

  Grandmother huffed. She set her hands in her lap. “I only mentioned qualities that I have found useful. I cannot vouch for a short husband who moves in rigidity. That is all. I doubt you will have trouble finding a man as outlined in my letter. I spoke with Lady Sefton of your inheritance. She has assured me that every reputable, single man of the ton will pursue you.”

  “She has spread word then?” My mouth went dry. I did not enjoy being made of a spectacle.

  “I am certain word has already spread about London.”

  I closed my eyes again. How in the world would I navigate this circus?

  Grandmother tapped my knees. “Are you not pleased? I have ensured your success. You will have the best of men after you, making your task all the easier.”

  I took in a deep breath and crossed my arms. “I think I should rest.”

  She clicked her tongue again. “Very well.”

  But I did not rest; I could not. I spent the remainder of the journey considering my future, and, like the bumps along the way, my confidence bounced up and down until we landed at the steps of Grandmother’s townhome.

  Chapter 8

  Let him walk solid, but always with an animal grace.

  “I do say, Miss Linfield, you are a vision this evening,” the man said for the third time that night. His steel-colored eyes unnerved me to the highest degree. He reminded me of an animal, set about its prey. I doubted this was the ‘animal grace’ Grandmother spoke of.

  I lowered my gaze. If all my nights at Almack’s were to be spent in such uncomfortable company, I would have to find companionship elsewhere. I clasped m
y hands together. “Thank you, Lord St. Vincent.”

  Lord Fenton St. Vincent, the Viscount of Scarsdale, had not left my side all evening. After the brief introduction made by Lady Sefton, the man had latched onto me like an iron cuff I could not shake off.

  “And have I mentioned you dance marvelously?” he asked.

  I studied his dark features. He was not a bad looking man, but his singularity of focus distracted from his high cheekbones and perfect-set black hair. Perhaps if he were to smile, I might find him agreeable. “You have, twice actually,” I said in a teasing tone.

  He did not think me funny. Instead, his brows drew downward. “Only twice? I should remember to make my compliments at least three times, Miss Linfield, for women do have a way of questioning anything a man says, assigning compliments as mere civilities, and I would not wish you to mistake my meaning.”

  His lips moved so quickly and tirelessly; how did he speak so many words with only a single breath to power them? I could only imagine if Lord St. Vincent were to offer a formal speech—the occurrence would be sure to be a lip-flapping record.

  “Shall I remark on your dancing again, Miss Linfield?” he asked.

  My name sounded worn on his lips. I scanned the room frantically. Where was Lady Sefton? I was beginning to doubt my grandmother’s choice of chaperone.

  The assembly room reached an impressive height, and crystal-ornamented chandeliers adorned overhead. The ballroom was larger than any I had experienced. The long, blue-velvet curtains hung around the doorways and windows and spanned the entirety of the floor-to-ceiling length. I could have spent the majority of my first evening admiring the gold accents along the balconies and adornments on each wall.

  “Your footwork is exquisite. Why, the way you lift your right foot—“

  I held up a hand, snatched from my momentary reverie. “Please, I have quite caught your meaning, and I am not like those other ladies you speak of, Lord St. Vincent. You must only compliment me once.”