The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,2
cousin had taken her in. Certainly, she hadn’t had any other relatives. Father had been wise to arrange for Sir Vincent to be her guardian, should anything unseemly happen to him.
Unfortunately, it had.
Portia sat opposite her guardian. “Cranston mentioned you wanted to speak with me. I was late. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I didn’t want to discuss that,” Sir Vincent said, and Portia’s back eased.
“My aim is to make you happy,” Sir Vincent continued.
Portia nodded.
This wasn’t the first time Sir Vincent had said this, but he hadn’t said it so passionately since Portia had first been called to the headmistress’s office on that horrible day. Sir Vincent had traveled to the school to deliver news of her father’s death himself.
“What did you want to tell me?”
Sir Vincent suddenly glanced at his lap. “It’s about your father’s will.”
“His will?” Portia had not expected Sir Vincent to say that. Perhaps she’d thought Sir Vincent might express the importance of not leaving the townhouse without informing her, or of repeating various negative things the servants had said about her, but she hadn’t thought he’d mention her will. “My father died four years ago.”
“Yes, indeed.” Sir Vincent scratched the back of his neck, even though she was certain she’d been informed in finishing school that neck scratching was unaristocratic. Sir Vincent always seemed to do an excellent job at doing the proper thing, even when that involved taking in the daughter of a distant cousin.
“As you know, your father was a wealthy man,” Sir Vincent said.
“Yes.”
“He’s always provided for you, even after his death.”
“Yes.”
“That will continue, whatever happens.” Sir Vincent’s gaze was oddly serious, and he sighed, blowing out a plume of ashy smoke from his thin lips. “I promise.”
She nodded.
“It just won’t continue to the same extent.”
This time, Portia jerked her head toward him. The rim of the desk was suddenly much less interesting than before. “Excuse me?”
“You might not be the heir to your father’s estate, but your father had set aside a large—very large—quantity of money for you.”
“I know.”
Sir Vincent’s face reddened. “Unfortunately, you will only receive that money if you marry.”
“Excuse me?”
“Before the end of the year.” Sir Vincent didn’t meet her gaze.
“I don’t understand. How is that possible? Where will the money go?”
She drew back. Had it been...lost? Had vandals broken into the bank where it was stored? Had some ship carrying expensive spices sunk? Or had Sir Vincent invested it poorly? She disliked the faint suspicion that grew in her, but she could not banish it. What was Sir Vincent speaking about?
“Should you not marry promptly, the money will be donated to your father’s former school in Scotland.”
She blinked. “Do they require money?”
“It seems as a child your father dreamed of seeing a building with his name on it on the school grounds.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
“Your father thought very strongly of the importance of male and female roles. He didn’t want you to inherit money without the guidance and wisdom of a male companion in your life.”
Portia stilled and drew her legs underneath her chair.
“Accounting—truly, any mathematics—is a skill better suited for males.”
“Because they’re allowed to learn it.”
Sir Vincent frowned, and a line appeared between his eyes and moved up over his brow, like an enemy’s ship’s mast.
“Has a solicitor looked at the will?” Portia asked. “Perhaps there is something someone could do. Some clause.”
Sir Vincent nodded, and his gaze drifted to the side. “I thought of that. Wills are complex documents. But—er—in this case, there is no leeway.”
“Oh.” Portia’s shoulders slumped down involuntarily, and she forced them up.
She wasn’t going to let Sir Vincent see her unhappy. They might live in the same house, but they were scarcely family. He was still a man to be intimidated of and grateful to. If she ever forgot that, she could trust the servants to remind her.
“That’s one reason why I didn’t tell you sooner,” Sir Vincent said. “I was hopeful the will was not as severe as indicated.”
“So it’s quite severe?” she asked.
Sir Vincent nodded. “As you know you have a fortune of two thousand pounds a year. Should you not marry, that fortune will be limited to fifty pounds a year.”
Her eyes widened. “Fifty pounds a year?”
He gave her a sad, understanding smile she immediately despised. “It is possible to purchase less expensive gowns.”
“Of course.”
“Most women make their own clothes.”
“Er—yes.”
“And you have many clothes left.”
“Oh, indeed. But I only meant—”
“That fifty pounds a year is not much to live on?”
She nodded.
“You can be a companion to someone,” Sir Vincent said. “Or