The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,10
thought Graham’s life was like? An adventure? If that were indeed the case, he should be so lucky as to lead a completely unadventurous life. He changed the subject. “What do you know of Amelia Barrett?”
William shrugged and stepped over to the sideboard. He uncorked a decanter of brandy and poured the amber liquid into the trumpet-shaped bowl of a glass goblet. “Want one?” Graham waved his hand in refusal, and William indulged in a long swig. “Miss Barrett? You’ve not fallen for her charms, have you? She’d be the one to pick, I’ll tell you. Rich as Midas, that one. And lovely.”
“I find it odd that a woman of her situation is not yet wed.”
“’Tisn’t odd if you know her uncle,” William exclaimed. “Keeps her under lock and key. ’Tis no secret he handpicked the man she’s to marry.”
Graham frowned. “I don’t find that strange.”
William threw his tawny head back and laughed. “Not strange, he says. I have it on good authority that dear old Uncle George has his sights set on Edward Littleton—that’s the scoundrel’s name—joining him in the family business.” William downed another drink and pointed his finger toward Graham. “I bet you ten to one that once the money from the Winterwood inheritance starts flowing into Barrett Trading Company coffers, things will suddenly get a little brighter for ol’ George Barrett.”
William’s words simmered in Graham’s mind. An engagement to a man of her uncle’s choosing? The possibility of her inheritance being used to support her uncle’s business ventures? No wonder Miss Barrett was dismissive about her engagement. And yet another reason why she might be eager to be free of it. A seed of suspicion planted itself in his mind. Could Miss Barrett have other motives for wanting to marry him besides her love for Lucy?
Graham resumed polishing. “Have you met Mr. Littleton?”
William nodded. “He visited here a fortnight past to inquire about Eastmore’s west fields. Seems that once he’s master of Winterwood Manor he plans to make a few, ahem, improvements.”
Graham stopped polishing. “What did you tell him?”
“What do you think I told him? ‘Sorry, my friend. Can’t risk Winterwood getting any larger, nor Eastmore any smaller.’” William finished off his brandy and grabbed his coat off the chair. “I’m off for a ride. Care to join me? I just bought a new stallion in Birmingham last month. Capital animal—fast as blazes. Runs as if the devil himself is at his heels and takes a fence like a dream.”
Graham shook his head. He needed to be alone. He needed to think. “Thank you, no. I need to see to some correspondence.”
William shrugged. “If you want to meet Mr. Littleton, there’s a dinner tomorrow night at Winterwood Manor. Did Miss Barrett mention it? I believe it is to celebrate their upcoming nuptials. I received an invitation. Wasn’t planning to attend, but now I think the evening could prove entertaining. What do you say?”
Curiosity prevailed. Graham took the pistol by the barrel and extended the handle to his brother. “I would not miss it.”
The sun had set, and night had descended upon Winterwood Manor. Flickering candles and a freshly stoked fire provided ample illumination for the expansive dining room, the yellow glow glittering off the silver service and gilded frames adorning the olive-green walls. Aunt Augusta and Helena sat near Amelia at the mahogany table, their upcoming move to London the topic of discussion for most of the dinner. But their cheery excitement just aggravated the heaviness of Amelia’s heart.
The captain’s refusal burned fresh in her memory, and every second that slipped past reaffirmed the consequence. Still, she harbored no regret for her actions. In fact, if she thought asking again could in some way sway the captain’s decision, she would ask him one thousand times. But with pointed melancholy she recalled the firm set of his square jaw and the determination in his gray eyes. He did not wish to marry, not even to secure a new mother for Lucy or the fortune that would come from being the master of Winterwood Manor.
She studied the lamb fricassee and sweetbreads on her plate and pushed at the food with her fork. Her aunt and cousin’s chatter continued. The sounds of their voices were so familiar, so much a part of her home. Ever since her father died twelve years past and named her Uncle George guardian over both her and the estate, Amelia had lived here at Winterwood with her aunt, uncle, and cousin. But in little