On his deathbed, Billy had told Jonathan of Marjorie’s existence for the first time, begging his partner to protect and look after his little girl. But as Jonathan’s gaze traveled down over the generous curves of her figure, he appreciated in chagrin that Marjorie McGann was not, in any way, shape, or form, a little girl.
“Hell,” he muttered, his genteel, ladylike surroundings forgotten, his tongue lapsing into the crude language of the Western mining towns and saloons he’d left behind. “God damn and holy hell.”
Chapter 2
He wasn’t at all what she’d imagined. With little information to go on, Marjorie had toyed over the years with two images of her father’s British partner—one a silver-haired gentleman in tweeds and brogues, with pale eyes, a horsey face, and a weak chin, the other a burly mountain man with grizzled hair and a graying beard who’d cast aside all traces of his heritage, wore flannel shirts and Levi’s pants, and cursed like the miner he’d become.
This man was neither of those. Or perhaps, he was a bit of both?
He did curse like a miner, as his oaths of a moment ago had made clear, though his British accent made the words seem more elegant than profane to Marjorie’s American ears. He was a big man, quite tall, with wide shoulders and a powerful chest suited to a man of the mountains, but he was lean rather than burly, with a tapering torso, narrow hips, and long legs. He wore neither flannel and denim nor tweeds and brogues, but instead an impeccably-cut, rather worn suit of charcoal-gray wool. His hair was neither fair nor dark, but halfway between, like tobacco—thick, short strands of dark brown shot with gold, and without a touch of gray.
Her gaze moved to his face, a younger one than she’d expected, but not the least bit horsey. Instead, his countenance was surprisingly handsome, with chiseled planes, an aquiline nose, tanned skin, and tawny hazel eyes. Clean-shaven, his face displayed a strong, stubborn jaw and a chin that was anything but weak.
That, she reflected, studying him, might be a problem.
“You’re Billy’s daughter? You are?”
Marjorie blinked, startled by the disbelief in his voice. “Yes, of course. What?” she added as he gave a laugh, for she didn’t see what he found amusing.
“You’re not—” He broke off and shook his head, rubbing four fingers over his forehead as if confounded. “You’re not quite what I was expecting.”
“I could say the same,” she countered with feeling.
“I’m sure,” he said, lifting his head, any trace of humor vanishing. “Since I’m the last person your father ought to have chosen to take care of you.”
Until she’d met him, Marjorie would have disagreed, for the fact that her guardian came from British society fit remarkably well with her own plans. But now that she’d met Mr. Deverill in the flesh, she wondered if he might be right.
Having a guardian at all was bad enough, but she’d hoped hers would at least be easy to manage. Sadly, as her gaze roamed Mr. Deverill’s strong, lean face and came to rest again on the hard line of his jaw, she feared this man would prove as manageable as a recalcitrant mule.
“I didn’t realize girls your age were allowed to remain in finishing school,” he said, bringing Marjorie out of these ruminations.
“I’m not a girl,” she corrected with asperity as she came into the room. “I’m a woman.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his voice grim, his blunt brown lashes lowering as he glanced down. “So you are. Unfortunately, no one bothered to tell me that.”
“Oh, I see,” she murmured, enlightened. “You were expecting braids and pinafores?”
“Something like that. Why are you still in school? Don’t young ladies have to graduate at some point?”
“I did, nearly three years ago. I have been a teacher here since then.”
“A practical course to choose.”
“Very practical,” she agreed, the admission bitter on her tongue. “Though hardly a choice, since I had nowhere else to go. My father, you see, did not want me with him.”
“I doubt it was a matter of what he wanted, but of what was necessary. The life your father led wasn’t appropriate for a young girl.”
In his infrequent letters, her father had given her that same excuse, and for over a decade, she’d believed it, sure that once she was grown up, things would be different. He’d want her with him then, she’d thought. They would be together again, like a real family.
Upon her graduation, however, her inquiry about joining him had been met with the same tired excuse couched in a new form. No longer was the life he led not appropriate for a young girl—no, it became inappropriate for a youngwoman, and with that new qualification, Marjorie had finally realized the brutal truth. Her father did not want her, and he never would, and all his talk of being together someday had been nothing but a pacifying lie.
All her illusions about a life with her parent had come crashing down, and she’d realized she would have to make a life for herself without him.
She had accepted Mrs. Forsyte’s suggestion to stay on at the school as a teacher, but it hadn’t been long before letters from Marjorie’s school friends had provided her with a new, much more exciting alternative, one that could give her the home and family she craved and did not involve asking anything of her wayward parent except a dowry.
Like herself, many Forsyte graduates were the daughters of New Money millionaires. Shut out of New York society and desperate for a place to belong, some of them had gone to England upon graduation, in search of titled husbands and a new life. Inspired by their example, thrilled by their descriptions of British society, Marjorie had decided on a new destiny for herself, never dreaming that her father’s death and his British partner would provide her with the perfect means to achieve it.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured. “But what happens now? Before sending me to you,” she rushed on, “Mrs. Forsyte informed me you are going to London?” When he nodded, she felt a surge of relief. “Perfect. Just what I was hoping.”
