The Heiress of Winterwood - By Sarah Ladd Page 0,51
crawling to my baby brother? I can handle the affairs here on my own.”
“That’s preposterous.”
William slammed the drawer shut. “You think it’s easy, managing an estate this size?”
“I think it’s easy to make foolish decisions.”
“Ah, I see. Any financial trouble that has befallen the great Eastmore Hall must be of my own doing. Perhaps you forget that I inherited this monstrosity and all the worries that accompany it. You, on the other hand, have been conveniently absent from any family issue, small or great.”
William’s sharp retort sounded suspiciously like an accusation. Graham squared his stance. “It was not my choice to leave. Or have you forgotten?”
William whirled to face his brother. Gone was his customary lighthearted nature. His response was one of a cornered animal, ready for battle. “You think you could have done better? I did the best I could with what I had, and I’ll not apologize for it. When someone wanted to buy some of my land—my land—especially the man I thought was to be my neighbor, I was well within my rights to do so. How was I to know you were going to sweep his betrothed out from underneath him?”
Graham shifted his weight as he contemplated his response. A million retorts fired in his head about responsibility and discipline. But now wasn’t the time. “Eastmore, and what you do with it, is your business. I have no say in it. What matters to me now is keeping Littleton away from Winterwood.”
William leaned against his desk. The hunting dog rose and trotted to her master, and William scratched her ear. “You know, there is a very simple solution.”
Graham snatched up his boot. “And what is that?”
William shrugged. “You will soon be marrying the answer to both our problems.”
Graham glared at his brother. “What are you suggesting?”
“Oh, come on.” William rolled his eyes. “Toss a little money at Littleton and buy the land for yourself. Make Littleton an offer he cannot turn down, and he’ll sell you the land.” A twinkle shimmered in his pale eyes. “And as for Eastmore, when you marry, we can use Winterwood’s money to set Eastmore’s finances right. All of our problems will be solved.”
Graham didn’t need time to consider his response. “No.”
William’s eyes widened in shock. “No? Why?”
“It’s not my money to give. I promised Amelia I’d not touch Winterwood’s money.”
A short laugh burst from William. “What are you, a fool? Well then, buy the land yourself. Your prize money is no secret. Surely you have such funds. And while you’re at it, perhaps you can help me a little.”
Graham snatched up his other boot and tailcoat. The dark blue wool wrinkled under his grip. “How significant is your debt?”
“Significant enough that I had to sell the west fields. That I am selling my best horse. Who knows what’s next?”
Graham paused and looked out the window. “If you want me to help, then I need to know a number, William. How much do you owe?”
William’s face blanched, but he set his jaw. “Seventeen thousand pounds.”
“Egad, William, how did you get yourself into such incredible debt?”
William’s eyebrows twitched. “You don’t know how it’s been. I—”
Graham shot his hand into the air to silence William, but he lowered it immediately. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know, and quite honestly, I don’t care.”
An awkward silence hovered between the men. Graham tucked his coat under his arm. “I’m going to Winterwood to talk to George Barrett. We’ll discuss this later.”
William stepped forward, blocking the threshold. “Like it or not, this is your family home too.”
Brother stared at brother. Unspoken words balanced in the empty space between them.
“I’ll help you if I can,” Graham finally said. “But Winterwood’s funds are off the table.”
The fresh scent of toasted bread, plum cake, and coffee met Amelia as she descended the stairs to the main hall. Whispers and clinking silver swirled in the morning air. The normally inviting smells of breakfast turned her stomach, and the tone of the voices tempted her to run back to her bedchamber.
When had her beloved Winterwood grown so cold?
Resolved to at least attempt to mend the rift between her and her family, Amelia forced one foot in front of the other. Her kid slippers made little sound as she stepped toward the breakfast room’s threshold. Her deliberately slow steps afforded her precious moments to attempt to hear the conversation. Uncle George’s strained voice reverberated from the room, but his words were undecipherable. She smoothed the pale pink sarsnet gown and adjusted