The Paper Marriage

“I’m the one you married.

“By proxy, I mean. I never deliberately set out to deceive you,” Rose said, “but what’s important is that I’d like to stay. That is, if you’ll have me.”

Matt steepled his hands before him, his eyes never leaving her face. He’d set grown men to trembling in their boots with just such a look. “Go on,” he prompted.

She caught her breath, prepared to plunge on. He had to admire the way she looked him straight in the eye, even knowing she’d been lying through her pretty teeth ever since she’d tumbled out of the wagon onto his doorstep.

“Well, the lawyer said I could behest my way out of it any time I wanted to as long as the marriage was never—that is, as long as we didn’t—And of course, we didn’t, so…”

We didn’t, but we will before this farce is ended, madam. We owe each other that much.

Dear Reader,

Have you ever been tempted to turn Mr. Wrong into Mr. Right? In each of our books this month, you’ll delight in the ways these least-likely-to-marry men change their tune for the right woman!

Mainstream historical author Bronwyn Williams returns to Harlequin Historicals—after nearly eight years—with a wonderful Americana book, The Paper Marriage. This is the second title in THE PASSIONATE POWERS miniseries, which begins and ends in Silhouette Desire. Here, you’ll meet sea captain Matthew Powers, the intrepid forefather to Jackson and Curt. After adopting an orphaned infant girl, Matt soon realizes he needs help—even if it means marrying. But the woman he weds by proxy—thanks to his matchmaking aunt Bess—never shows up. Instead, a friend of Bess’s arrives—a young widow who steals his daughter’s heart…and his own!

In Prince of Hearts, a medieval novel by debut author Katy Cooper, Edmund Tudor, the king of England’s youngest brother, must choose between the woman he has fallen in love with and his duty to his brother’s kingdom. Another talented first-time author is Julianne MacLean, who brings us Prairie Bride, a sexy Western about a recently jilted—and angry—Kansas farmer who advertises for a mail-order bride and finds himself falling in love with her despite her secretive past.

And don’t miss The Sea Witch, book one of Ruth Langan’s medieval miniseries SIRENS OF THE SEA. When a female privateer and a dashing sea captain team up to thwart a villain’s plot against the king, they must learn that their love can overcome even the greatest dangers….

Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

Sincerely,

Tracy Farrell,

Senior Editor

The Paper Marriage

Bronwyn Williams

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Available from Harlequin Historicals and BRONWYN WILLIAMS

White Witch #3

Dandelion #23

Stormwalker #47

Gideon’s Fall #67

The Mariner’s Bride #99

*The Paper Marriage #524

*Passionate Powers

To Rebecca Burrus

and all her friends at Carolina Living.

You’ve added a whole new dimension to our lives.

Becky’s Brats

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Prologue

February 27, 1898

The Outer Banks of North Carolina

The sound of rain drumming on the roof almost drowned out the sound of the crying baby. Matt wished it could drown out the memory of this infamous day. Wipe it clean from all their minds. They were still stunned, speaking in whispers, staring in horror at the squalling mite bound up in a blanket in the middle of the bed.

Billy was dead. Handsome Billy, with a slew of sweethearts in every port. Billy, who could win at cards and leave the losers laughing. Billy, who had gone to sea as a cabin boy when his family had died of the influenza and worked his way up to chief mate.

As captain, Matt was responsible for his crew, whether on land or at sea. He had warned the lad, but without following him every time he rode into the village, how could he know the boy would dally with a married woman and get her with child?

Hadn’t he carefully explained to both Billy and Luther that the village women were to be treated with respect?

He should have found himself another ship immediately after he’d lost the Black Swan. At sea, or in any port in the world, a man might get himself knifed in a brawl, but he was unlikely to be murdered by a maddened seaman who had been away from home for eleven months, only to come home and find that his wife had just given birth to a daughter.

“Cap’n, we’ll have to shovel more sand on Billy’s grave once this rain stops. It’s sinking in.” Luther, the youngest member of his crew now that Billy was dead, was pale as raw dough, his eyes still dark with the shock of it all.

Matt nodded. Every one of them, even old Crank, whose rheumatism scarcely allowed him to get out of bed on days like this, had gone out again and again to stand in the rain and stare down at the fresh grave, as if to convince themselves that it had actually happened. That some poor, wretched creature had shot his unfaithful wife, then come storming after Billy to put a bullet in his chest and, before anyone could stop him, turned the gun on himself, leaving a screaming newborn infant lying on the ground between the two bodies.

Hearing the first shot, Matt had rushed outside in time to see Billy fall. He’d yelled for Crank, leaped off the porch and reached the boy just as the wild-haired stranger had flung down a bundle and turned the gun on himself.

Billy had struggled to lift his head. “Dammit, boy, lie still! Crank, get me a rag—get help from the village!”

Without waiting for a response he had torn Billy’s shirt open, muttering curses and prayers in the same breath. “Get the midwife, dammit! Luther, go!”

There was no doctor on the island. The midwife was the best they could do. “Hang on, son, help’s on the way,” he said, wanting to believe it was true. Wanting even more to make Billy believe it.

“Cap’n, promise me—”

“Hush, now, it’ll be all right. Just lie still.”

“You gotta promise me—my baby—it—it—”

“Shh, the baby’ll be just fine, it’s you we’ve got to take care of now.”

But he knew even as he said the words that it was too late. They both knew it, yet Billy still struggled to get the words out, his blue eyes pleading desperately. “My baby—you gotta promise me, Cap’n—”

“Anything, boy, just hang on.”

“Didn’t mean no harm—her man couldn’t—he weren’t—able…”

“Ah, Billy, don’t die on me, dammit. Don’t do it, son!” Matt swore because he couldn’t weep. A moment later he stood and turned away until he got himself under control. Then, kneeling again, he examined both bodies and pronounced them dead.

It was Crank who rescued the squalling babe, wrapped it in one of his own shirts and carried it inside as gingerly as if it had been a basket of eggs. Luther brought the midwife, who did what was necessary for the infant with angry old eyes and a pinched, disapproving mouth.

“She’ll likely not live out the night. If she’s still here by sunup, you can sop a rag in water and give her a suck.”

It was all the advice the old woman offered before she climbed up into her cart and headed back to the village. The four remaining men stood helplessly and watched her ride off. Matt swore. Crank misquoted a Bible verse about the sins of the fathers. Peg, the ship’s carpenter, got to work on a casket while Luther rode back to the village, this time to fetch the magistrate.

It had taken the rest of day to untangle the wreckage. To cart the man’s body back to the village, to bury poor Billy, and to learn that the unfaithful wife had been from “away”—the native’s way of calling anyone not island-born.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Dick Dixon, the lawman, had said, “but she weren’t one of ours, so don’t look for help from that quarter.”

“What about the husband’s family? Surely one of them—”

“The poor bastard weren’t his. They’ll not take it.”

“Don’t call her that, none of this is her fault.” Even before the midwife had come, they’d discovered that the tiny thing wrapped in Crank’s shirt was a newborn baby girl.

“If I was you, I’d write to the boy’s family. Might be one o’ them’ll take it off your hands.”

“No help there. Billy is—was an orphan.”

“Well, I don’t know where the woman came from. Like I said, she was from away, been here about two years, I believe.” He stood, settled his hat on his bald head and turned to go. “Looks like you just became a father, Powers.”

“No, sir, that I did not.” Matt said quickly. He had promised Billy to take care of the baby, but he hadn’t promised to do it personally…had he?

On the other hand, until he could find someone to take the child off his hands, he was responsible for its—for her welfare. She was Billy’s, and Billy had been a member of his crew.

Before he left, the magistrate had sympathized but warned him again not to look for help from the village. “Meaning no disrespect, Powers, but after what happened, none of our women are going to come anywhere near your men.”

Which struck Matt as grossly unfair, but then, when had life ever been fair? Come a hard blow, a smart man trimmed sail, headed into the wind and rode it out.

Matt did the only thing he could think of to do: he reluctantly began a letter to his only remaining relative. Bess Powers was a meddlesome busybody who would never tell the truth when a lie would serve as well, but she’d always been honest in their dealings.

So far as he knew, he amended.

Chapter One

March 3, 1898

Norfolk, Virginia

Most of the mourners had already left. A raw, wet northeast wind whipped the black skirts of the lone woman who lingered, her veiled head bowed, beside the open grave. Nearby, the preacher eyed the lowering clouds as he waited patiently for Rose Magruder to pay her last respects to her grandmother’s mortal remains. He took out his pocket watch, glanced down quickly, then looked up at the sky again, and at the grave diggers waiting to finish their work.

Some distance away, a handful of servants huddled uncertainly, hoping the rain would hold off for another few minutes. Hoping Miss Rose would land on her feet, because the poor girl deserved better than she’d had these past few years.

Hoping even more that Mrs. Littlefield had left them the back wages she’d died owing.

On the other side of the plot, under the shelter of a massive magnolia, an elderly couple lingered, their heads close together as they carried on a low-voiced conversation. Bess Powers had been Augusta Little-field’s friend for more than forty years. Horace Bagby had been her lawyer for at least that long.

“Gussy would’ve told us all to get inside before we catch our deaths,” murmured the plump woman with the suspiciously red hair. “Poor Gussy, she was a tartar, but I loved her like a sister.”

“Gussy was always proud of what you’ve accomplished, you know. Used to read me every one of your letters while you were off on one of your travels.” The two longtime friends were among the few who had been allowed to call the late Mrs. Littlefield “Gussy.”

“Well, I’m home for a few weeks, at any rate. Horace, what are we going to do about that poor child?” She nodded toward the deceased’s only relative. “I suppose I could invite her to move in with me as a sort of secretary-companion, but you know how small my cottage is.”

Horace removed his derby, smoothed the few strands of hair laid carefully across his dome, and carefully replaced his hat. They both studied the lone figure dressed in black. Tall as a beanpole, Bess was thinking.

Slender as a willow, Horace mused, a romantic in spite of his elderly bachelor status. “Bess, I just don’t know. Right now all I can think of is how I’m going to break the news to her. I’d rather take a licking, and that’s a fact.”

“Poor child, you’d think she’d have earned a little peace after all she’s had to put up with. Never had a beau in her life, far as anybody knows. Gussy said she married the first jack out of the box after her folks died. Nobody had ever heard of the fellow. Then, less than two years later, the fellow up and died on her.

“Drowned, I believe Gussy said.” They stood in silent sympathy for the tall, plain woman who lingered beside the grave.

The handful of acquaintances who had braved the weather to attend the funeral had already left, eager to exchange this dismal place for a warm, food-laden parlor where they could enjoy a good meal while they speculated on how much the old girl had left her only granddaughter.

Not until the preacher finally led the chief mourner away did Horace tuck Bess’s hand under his arm and steer her toward the one remaining carriage. “Waiting hand and foot on Gussy couldn’t have been any picnic, either,” Bess remarked as she picked her way carefully around the puddles. “By the time Rose came to live with her, Gussy’s mind was already addled. Never was much to brag about, poor soul.”

Horace nodded. “Came on her so gradually, I kept telling myself she was just having another bad spell, but you’re right. She never was what you might call quick-witted. I tried to warn her about those funds, but by the time I found out what she was up to, it was already too late.” He sighed heavily. “And now there’s that poor girl yonder….”

“I know. I didn’t want to believe it, either.”

They followed the lead carriage, bearing the preacher and Augusta Rose Littlefield Magruder, granddaughter and sole heir to the late Augusta Littlefield, back to the Littlefield mansion.

Bess patted Horace’s black-gloved hand. “Never mind, we’ll think of something.”

The house was overheated. It smelled of wet wool. There’d be an enormous coal bill to pay once Rose had time to tackle her grandmother’s messy desk. Right to the end Gussy had insisted on keeping her own accounts. She’d allowed no one in what she called her office, a converted sitting room off the master bedroom that was kept locked, with the key hidden in one of Gussy’s bedroom slippers.

Rose had known where it was, of course, but neither she nor any of the few remaining servants would have dreamed of using it. A calm and contented Gussy had been difficult enough to deal with; an angry Gussy utterly impossible.

Now Rose sat numbly, half hidden behind a Chinese screen, waiting for this endless day to end. She would have given anything she possessed, which wasn’t all that much, to be able to close her eyes and sleep for a solid week.

Unfortunately, even if she’d had the chance, her mind would have refused to cooperate. She had grown up in a house nearly as grand as this one, but the thought of being solely responsible for her grand-mother’s entire estate was overwhelming.

Gradually, she became aware of a whispered conversation on the other side of the screen. She honestly didn’t mean to listen, but without revealing her presence it was impossible not to hear.

“…finally gone, I guess her granddaughter’s set for life, the lucky woman.”

“Lucky? If you ask me, the poor thing’s earned every dollar the old biddy hoarded all these years. Didn’t pay her servants worth diddly. Her upstairs maid came to work for me last fall, and she said—”

“Yes, but they say the granddaughter’s had a hard row to hoe. I heard her folks were killed in that awful train wreck near Suffolk, and a few years later her husband was murdered.”

“He wasn’t murdered, silly, he drowned. The way I heard it, he—”

“Black don’t become her at all, does it? If I was her, I’d use a touch of rouge.”

“For shame, Ida Lee, she’s a decent woman, for all she’s plain as a fence post.”

“The poor thing, they say she’s still grieving for her husband, too.”

What was that old saying about eavesdroppers? Rose wondered, amused in spite of herself. Black did indeed make her look sallow, but then so did everything else. Some kind soul had once called her un-fashionable complexion “olive,” and she’d latched onto it because it sounded better than sallow—even faintly exotic—but fancy words couldn’t change the truth.

And she was grieving. She would grieve for the rest of her life, but not for the lout she had married.

Rose Magruder had never been one to display her emotions. She had come to her grandmother a penniless widow. Since then she had been far too busy trying to keep up with the constant, confusing and often conflicting demands of her only remaining relative to do more than fall into bed each night, exhausted.

Of the staff required to maintain an eighteen-room mansion and the acres surrounding it, only three had stayed on until the end.

Rose fully intended to see that those three were amply rewarded for their faithfulness.

But first she had to find time to go through the mountain of papers her grandmother had left crammed into shoeboxes, hatboxes and goodness knows where else. She knew for a fact that the household accounts were in arrears, because several of the merchants with whom they did business had brought it to her attention.

Thank goodness for Horace Bagby. She didn’t know the man well, but he seemed both kind and competent. With the help of an accountant, which Mr. Bagby could probably recommend, they should be able to sort things out. Sallow or not, she had always had a good head for figures.

Not until the last of the mourners had gone did Rose discover that she might have saved herself the worry. Horace Bagby had stayed behind when the others left. He wished he’d thought to ask Bess to stay and help him with the unpleasant task. He hated tears, never had learned how to deal with them.

“As to the, ah—the will, I’m afraid the news is not good, my dear. Your grandmother’s estate is…well, the truth is, it’s mortgaged to the hilt and will have to be sold immediately to pay off creditors.”

He braced himself to deal with anything up to and including an outburst of hysteria. Mrs. Magruder fooled him. She shed not so much as a single tear. There in the gloomy front parlor, its windows shrouded in respect for the deceased, she sat quietly, her hands folded on her lap, her eyes somewhat swollen, somewhat pink, but quite dry.

“There now, we’ll come through this, my dear,” he said without the least notion of how he would bring about such a miracle. As the poor girl didn’t seem inclined to question him, he hurried to fill the silence with all the information he had at hand.

Rose sat quietly as the words droned on and on and on. Now and then a phrase would snag her attention.

Nothing left?

“—gambled away—risky investments—warned her, but you know Gussy, she was headstrong right to the end.”

Sold immediately?

“—lock, stock and barrel, I’m afraid. I’m sure we can think of something. That is, there’s bound to be a way—”

Rose took a deep, steadying breath. “Would it be possible,” she asked, her voice unnaturally composed, “to sell several pieces of my own jewelry? They were given to me by my grandmother, but legally, I believe they’re mine to do with as I wish.”

“Of course, of course, my dear, you’re quite right. I’ll handle it this very day, if you’d like.”

Technically, the jewelry, especially if it consisted of family pieces, could be considered a part of the estate, but Horace wasn’t about to let this young lady suffer for the mistakes of a weak-minded old woman. After asking her once again if she wouldn’t prefer to go and stay with friends, he reluctantly took his leave. Rose saw him to the door. Mentally she was numb. Physically, she was too exhausted to think about dragging her trunks down from the attic to begin the arduous task of packing. After a night’s sleep, she might be better able to think clearly.

Horace drove directly to Granby Street, where he sold the five pieces of jewelry, none of them particularly valuable. “It should keep her for at least a month, providing she’s frugal,” he confided to Bess that evening over teacups of fine, aged brandy. “Seems a sensible sort, but you never know. At least now she’ll be able to set herself up in a decent rooming house until she can find herself another husband. Shouldn’t take too long, even with mourning and all. She’s a bit long in the shank, but a widower with children might not be so particular.”

“If marriage was the answer to every maiden’s prayer,” his companion observed dryly, “the two of us wouldn’t be sitting here drinking brandy and smoking cigars.”

Horace lifted his teacup in silent acknowledgement.

Unable to sleep after all, Rose dragged her trunk down from the attic and began emptying the wardrobe, folding and packing layers on top of the layers she’d never even got around to unpacking. Most were black, except for a few old summer things and the wedding gown she’d saved as a bitter reminder of what could happen when a woman made the wrong choice. She’d been in mourning for so long, she’d almost forgotten what it was like to wear colors.

The next afternoon she divided the proceeds from the sale of her jewelry among the three remaining servants, thanking them again for their support. “I’m sorry it isn’t more. Goodness knows you deserve far more, this hardly even covers your salary, but it’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

They seemed to understand, to appreciate her appreciation, and they wished each other well.

Not until the last one had left did Rose allow her guard to drop. And then the tears came. She wept until her eyes were swollen, her throat clogged, her handkerchief a sodden lump. “Oh, Lord, this is a waste of time,” she muttered, and then cried some more. On the rare occasions when she allowed herself the luxury of tears, she made a fine job of it, weeping noisily until every last dreg of emotion was spent.

She cried for her parents—the charming rascal of a father she’d adored, her dainty, beautiful mother who had never quite known what to make of her gawky misfit of a daughter—and for the grandmother who had changed so drastically from the woman she dimly remembered from her childhood.

But most of all, she wept for her baby, who had never even had a chance to live.

Eventually she mopped her face, smoothed her skirt and stood before the heavy hall mirror, recalling the words her grandmother’s housekeeper had spoken when she’d tucked her share of the money in her purse. “There now, you’ll land on your feet, Miss Rose, you see if you don’t. You might not be much to look at, but you’ve got backbone aplenty.”

Not much to look at, she thought ruefully. Never have been. Never would be. At least she would never have to worry about aging and losing her beauty, which had been her mother’s greatest fear.