Lowering his face into the cup of his hands, he mumbled, “Just so we’re perfectly clear, your name is . . .”
“Miss Winnifred Humphries.”
“Yes, of course.” Now he recalled everything.
She was the heiress he intended to kidnap.
Chapter 1
The week before
Winnifred Humphries never imagined that the sum of her existence would dwindle down to corsets and cakes. Cinched laces and afternoon teas. Whalebone and wedding plans.
Betrothed at the beginning of her second Season, she’d hoped for waltzes and even warm lemonade. Glittering chandeliers and moonlit terraces. Shared secrets and stolen kisses.
But those things didn’t happen to plump, freckled heiresses.
Resigned, she dutifully watched her fiancé dash off to his new barouche, the silver trim gleaming in the midday light like a freshly minted coin. Mr. Woodbine bade her no more than an absent wave, and his steps were far lighter in leaving the stately townhouse than in entering it.
Her own steps might have been nimble as well if she could breathe. But Mother—in her unending quest to have a slender and graceful daughter—ordered Winnifred’s laces drawn tighter for the special occasion of having Mr. Woodbine for tea.
Not that it mattered. He’d grimaced each time a morsel of cake had passed her lips. And because of him, she’d eaten the whole blasted slice. She hadn’t even been hungry.
Combined with tea, that last spiteful bite was expanding to continental proportions. The country of Plumcakia and all its inhabitants now dwelled inside her, some holding hand-hewn spears and waging war on her lungs.
Placing a hand over her midriff, she hoped for peace between nations. Then she returned to the parlor, prepared to beg her friends to loosen her laces.
Unfortunately, Mother was still lingering in the gold-chintz-papered room, fussing with red and pink roses in a cobalt meiping vase. Her keen gaze cut to Winnifred and she clucked her tongue. “I warned you against the plum cake, dear.”
Winnifred exchanged wry glances with Jane Pickerington and Elodie Parrish, who were sitting primly on the camelback settee. Her friends were well-acquainted with Lady Waldenfield’s ongoing and, frankly, futile pursuit of perfection.
Sinking down onto the edge of an upholstered chair, Winnifred was careful not to bend at the waist. She couldn’t risk a corset eruption, after all. Because of Mr. Woodbine and the troubling letter that arrived before him, the afternoon was already dreadful enough without the possibility of impaling her friends with shooting spears of whalebone.
On a brighter note, if she fainted and her head lolled onto the lofted expanse of her own bosom, she would surely smother herself to death and wouldn’t have to marry Mr. Woodbine. In addition to that boon, Mother could order her daughter’s corpse fitted into the newer fashions of narrow dropped waists and puffed sleeves without any complaint whatsoever.
Inhaling a sip of flesh-pinching air, she said to her mother, “As I recall . . . the words . . . ‘Try the cake, dear. It’s simply divine’ fell from your lips.”
“Yes, but I raised my brows as I spoke,” she said, turning to demonstrate.
A master of her craft, the subtle arch revealed a refined degree of censure and only a trace of wrinkles on her still-youthful countenance. Imogene Humphries certainly did not appear old enough to have a child of two and twenty. Ever-stylish in her violet checked silk tobine, she might have stepped from the pages of La Belle Assemblée. Her willowy figure hardly required the aid of a corset, and her golden hair was always artfully coiffed—unlike Winnifred’s unholy tangle of reddish-blond curls.
Thankfully, Mother had given up on taming it ages ago.
“With your wedding scarcely a week hence,” Mother continued, “you should be mindful of Mr. Woodbine’s moods. Surely you noticed the way he eyed your every forkful of cake with grim disapproval. He never does that with Lady Stanton. In fact, just last night, I saw them at a dinner party. And, by the by, she was wearing the most elegant gown of—”
“You do realize you’re admiring my fiancé’s mistress, do you not?” Winnifred interjected.
Her cheeks heated with embarrassment and her stomach roiled in suppressed umbrage. A volcano erupted on Plumcakia, killing all the natives and scorching the tender lining of her throat. She swallowed, too ashamed to look past the gold-inlaid edge of the low table and toward her friends.
“Pish tosh. That’s simply the way of things in our circle. Mr. Woodbine has had Lady Stanton’s companionship long before you came along. She was a poor, childless widow and his family forbade him from marrying her. It’s positively pointless to imagine that he would abandon her simply because he’s marrying a young woman whose dowry is too appealing to resist.”
Winnifred felt as desirable as the burlap sack a highwayman might fill with gold sovereigns. A lovely reminder that she was merely the vessel that transferred a fortune from one hand to another.
Of course, she wasn’t stupid enough to believe that he was marrying her out of affection. From the beginning, Mr. Woodbine could scarcely stand to linger in the same room with her.
It was her father who’d arranged the union. Paying no attention to Winnifred’s unwavering objections, Viscount Waldenfield had mulishly chosen Mr. Woodbine because he was third in line for a dukedom and poor enough to manipulate.
Among other disappointments, life had taught her that marriage was nothing more than an obligation to one’s family. So then why did her foolish heart still yearn for love? To find a man who might want her without condition or fortune?
“Now, now. There’s no need to turn all prickly,” Mother said, coming to her side to fuss over her chrome-yellow gigot sleeves, puffing up the left to match the right. Then she lifted a rosewater-scented hand to Winnifred’s cheek, her expression soft and solemn. “I’m only trying to save you from any romantic inclinations. I was once a young, wealthy bride, too, you know. Believe me when I tell you that it’s far better to have a firm understanding now, rather than to suffer disenchantment for the years ahead of you.”
For an instant, Winnifred could have sworn she saw the reflection of her own longing in her mother’s eyes.
Then Imogene Humphries stood tall and flitted an elegant hand in the air toward Jane and Ellie. “Now then, girls. Don’t let my Winnifred talk you into loosening her laces. She’s been attempting to bribe her maid with comfits all day. But I’m determined that she will make the ideal portrait of a bride by next week.”
Then, with a wink, she turned on her heel and sashayed from the room.
The instant the doorway was vacant, Winnifred slouched back onto the chair, her bustle crumpling like crushed dreams. “I can only hope that the world will erupt in fire in the next seven days. Do you think there are any volcanoes beneath London?”
Ellie sat forward on a huff, blowing her inky dark fringe from her forehead. Ever-quick to show her emotions, her amber eyes were fierce and her porcelain complexion hosted two spots of pink on the apples of her cheeks. “Winnie, you cannot possibly marry Mr. Woodbine.”
“Actually, she is capable of marrying him,” Jane added in her usual logical fashion, her topknot of wispy brown curls slightly askew. “Regardless of how it isn’t the sensible thing to do and will guarantee her misery for years to come.”