“Then do not raise the rent,” Grace said, regaining her faculties and immediately snatching her hand from his.
Sir Donald shook his head. “I regret I cannot do that.”
“Then allow me to say that while I appreciate the honor you do me with this proposal,” she said, her shock giving way to a sarcasm she could not conceal, “I regret my answer must be no.”
Sir Donald looked not a whit dismayed. “I would not be so hasty,” he replied softly, his gaze still upon her. “What I offer is not to be dismissed lightly. Wealth, privilege, a fine home. I would see that your sister wants for nothing. Indeed, she would be most welcome to make her home with us. She would not have to leave her beloved Lincolnshire.”
Somehow, Donald Franklin had discovered the one thing that could force Grace to hear him out without slapping his face: Mercy’s ardent desire to remain in Barton.
Grace forced herself to think of something that would overrule Mercy’s preference. “I don’t love you.”
“Perhaps not at present,” Sir Donald replied. “I’m sure you’ll see my merits soon enough.”
She knew him to be a vain fellow, but his persistence was beyond imagining. “Surely you don’t expect me to believe that you love me, either. You hardly know me.”
“Really, Miss Barton, don’t underestimate your charms." He ran his gaze over her body in a way that made her understand that he knew all he apparently wanted to about her. “And of course, there is the value of your family name. Don’t you think you could appreciate being married to a member of parliament?”
That he was ambitious as well as vain was not beyond her expectation; nevertheless, it had not occurred to her--or even the Hurley twins--that he might aspire to political power.
Yet now, when she looked at him and thought of his vanity and ambition and sudden, unexpected desire to be connected to an old family name, she could easily believe it.
She could think of no one worse to represent her county than this conceited, arrogant and greedy man. “You suppose that by marrying me you will advance your own career?”
“I do, and so does Lord Denburton,” he replied, naming a man who had been successful in fielding candidates who were sure to do his bidding for years.
“But I am penniless,” she noted, wondering why this particular point hadn’t stopped him before.
“You are also a very beautiful woman,” he said in what she assumed he intended to be a romantic manner.
He looked like a fool.
“Do you think I could ever be so desperate--”
He held up his hand to silence her. “I would not be too impetuous, Miss Barton,” he said harshly, with a spark of anger in his eyes. “Not when you have such limited alternatives, unless you quite fancy the idea of spending the rest of your life in a workhouse." He took hold of her hand again, so firmly that he hurt her. “I am making you an honorable offer in good faith. Will you not at least do me the courtesy of thinking about it before giving me your final answer?”
Whatever Grace thought of his offer--and at the very least, she considered it outrageous--her mind told her to be circumspect at present. After all, the three-month period he had set to raise the rent was arbitrary, to be extended or shortened at his whim. “Very well,” she said. “I will think about your proposal.”
“Excellent!" he declared, lifting her hand to his lips to kiss it.
She managed to subdue a shudder, yet she could not refrain from tugging her hand away as soon as possible.
He realized the meaning of her action, and a scowl darkened his features. “I have not taken offense at your manner because I knew my proposal would come as a shock to you,” he said, his voice full of menace. “However, Miss Barton, you would do well to remember that I have a long reach. And an even longer memory.”
With that final threat, he retrieved his horse and led it out of the shed.
Grace started to shiver and drew in a great, shuddering breath. She couldn’t marry Sir Donald. Not if she had to become a beggar in the streets.
She heard a small sound, and instantly remembered the stranger sleeping not so far off. Her face flushed with shame at the thought that even an unknown person would have heard Sir Donald propose to her, and she quickly moved to the stall to look at her uninvited guest.
Still asleep, thank heavens, and his presence still a secret. She regarded him for a long moment, marveling that a man so handsome, who had apparently at one time been well-to-do, and who had, perhaps, had a home and a family, was now reduced to sleeping in a stranger’s cow shed. This could be their fate, if Sir Donald would not lower the rent.
Then she realized with some surprise that she was also feeling a sense of relief. Surely Mercy would not be willing to stay in Barton if her sister’s marriage to Donald Franklin was to be the price. She would still be loath to go, but Grace would not be to blame.
And if the only alternative was marriage to their landlord, she would far rather depend upon the compassion of strangers.
For now, her first duty was to Mercy, weeping in the house, so she quickly left the shed.
Lord Elliot Fitzwalter slowly opened his eyes and gazed at the roughly shingled roof over his head. He could hear rain hitting the wooden wall at his back. After a long moment, when his eyes had adjusted to the dimness, he realized he was in an outbuilding of some sort. He could glimpse dark sky through the slats, and supposed that meant it was evening.
Straw. He smelled straw, which wasn’t unexpected since he was apparently lying on it, in a shed with a…cow, he thought, nearby. What had happened to the nag?
Hadn’t he just heard voices? Where had the people gone?
He sat up and ran a hand over his face. His head ached, and so did his back. His shoulders felt as if somebody had been trying to rip them from the sockets.
Where the devil was he, and how had he gotten here?
He sneezed violently, from the straw, he thought, although his clothes were wet. God, he smelled like an old, wet sheep. No doubt he looked worse.
He stood up shakily, the movement making his head hurt even more, and stepped out of the stall. The cow in the next stall stared at him.
Nothing and nobody else present. Only a cow and himself.
Yet he knew he had heard voices, and somebody must have brought him here. He closed his eyes and tried to remember, focusing his efforts on the voices. There had been a woman and a man, talking in low, intense tones. Not friends, judging by the hostility in their voices.
Still, that didn’t mean it hadn’t been a farmer and his wife, perhaps one of whom did not relish the idea of giving a stranger shelter, not even in their shed. Country folk could be very suspicious of strangers, he knew, and a glance at his clothing confirmed that his appearance would not be in his favor.
It would probably be a good idea to expect hostility. It was an even better idea, he thought, to lie back down and rest. Surely after more sleep, when his clothes were a little drier and he was a little more himself, he would find a way to charm his rural Samaritans.
After all, he was a very charming young man.
Elliot started as the door of the cow shed opened again and, although he was cold, damp, very hungry and dry mouthed, he quickly lay back down as if still asleep. It would be wiser to feign such a condition until he knew exactly who had taken him in.
“Grace!" said a female voice. A young woman, he thought. Too mature for a child, but young yet.
“I