Page 2 of Ella’s Desire

A hot tear slid down her cheek. When she was a girl, her father had promised her that she could marry who she liked. But even she knew the situation now to be out of his control. His drooping shoulders said as much, as did the deep creases lining his face.

The bag at her side wriggled where she held her pet squirrel. The poor thing had been in the woods several summers prior, near death when Ella had found him. Moppet, empathetic creature that he was, clearly sensed Ella’s unrest.

Ella pulled the squirrel from her bag and cuddled his furry warmth against her chest.

Marin recoiled. “Is that a rat?”

“’Tis a squirrel,” Anice replied in a droll tone. “Be glad there are no acorns about.”

Ella’s comforting embrace with her pet became protective. “His name is Moppet and he’s very sweet.”

Marin looked to Anice for confirmation, but she simply glanced in the opposite direction rather than verify Ella’s claim.

“Ella, sweeting.” Marin met Ella’s gaze.

Ella wanted to shrink away and keep right on shrinking until she fell through the floorboards, never to be seen again. She knew this tone of Marin’s. Ella didn’t remember much about their mother, but she recalled that same tone well, and the kind of request that followed such cajoling endearments.

Ella choked back a sob. It was terrible and selfish, but she could not help her sorrow any more than she could stop the ache in her chest.

“I have it on good authority that he is young,” Papa said. “Lord Bastionbury says the earl’s father only recently passed and left the earldom to him. He’s quite handsome, per what is said around court.”

Ella’s head snapped up. Lord Bastionbury was nearly a day’s ride away. As was Marin for that matter. Apparently, it had all been discussed prior to that morning: her marriage, her life, the smashing of her dreams.

“Ella, you have been left to do as you wish for far too long.” Marin smoothed Ella’s long blonde locks. “That is my fault. I didn’t have the heart to be strict with you, not after Mother died. But you are a woman of two and twenty now.”

It is time to grow up.

Marin need not speak the implied words when they hung so obviously between them. There was no hope for any of Ella’s dreams. Her heart had been dashed upon the floor.

But Papa’s life was worth all the love in the world, and Ella would be proving it with this action. She lowered her head and kissed Moppet’s twitching ear.

“I will do it,” she whispered. “I will marry the Earl of Calville.”

Bronson Berkley, the new Earl of Calville, had need of many things. Funds, the king’s favor in supporting his newly inherited earldom, and forgiveness for the taxes the late earl had overlooked paying. What Bronson did not need, or want for that matter, was a wife.

Unfortunately for him, the king refused to give him anything without agreement to the latter. It was the reason for Bronson’s surprise visit to his boyhood home, prior to any consideration in accepting a new bride.

If Berkley Manor was in good order, Bronson could put aside the idea of marriage and bide his time while he came up with an alternate solution. There had to be something else he could do to gain favor with the king.

All hope was not yet lost.

Bronson’s horse slowed to a stop in front of the country manor house and his heart dropped into his stomach. Bits of plaster had crumbled from the exterior, revealing the cracking gray stone beneath, and the roof sagged inward like a sheet hung slack over a rope.

This was not the opulent home he’d grown up in, with the manicured lawn stretching before it, practically gleaming with wealth.

A pinch-faced woman showed him inside. If memory served correct, her name was Jane, or something of the like.

The interior of the manor was as dilapidated as the outside. The tapestries were faded and moth-eaten in areas, the carpets threadbare. Not a speck of dust coated any interior in the neat home, but it was evident that his father had not sent his wife’s stipend in some time.

His stepmother, Brigid, approached him with a look of kindness, executing a respectful curtsey. She no longer appeared as young as she did in Bronson’s memory. Her brown hair had lost its rich luster and the smile she’d always readily given him had dimmed to nearly nothing.

“My Lady Brigid, if I may,” he said softly. “What’s happened?”

Her face flushed, and he immediately regretted the question.

“Forgive the appearance of your home, my lord.” She ducked her head, revealing the top of her wimple where several small holes showed against her dark hair beneath. “We’ve tried our best.” Her gaze wandered the room, no doubt seeing everything through his eyes.

“Please call me Bronson as you did before.” He took her hand in his. Her nails were bitten to the quick and rough calluses rasped against his palm. No doubt she was doing as much work as the servants. He gave her fingers an affectionate squeeze. “I’m still the same lad from fifteen years ago when you married my father.”