The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(12)

She stood and dipped a curtsy. Ripples of heat radiated up her arm from where his hand held hers. The warmth he created with a mere touch could melt the sea ice in the Arctic Ocean.

With an elegant turn, the marquess extended the same greeting to Faith, who did her best to curtsey. To his credit, he didn’t bat an eye at her sister’s difficulty mastering the movement.

“Mr. Victor Hart.” Her old friend stood tall and didn’t shy away from the formidable ducal heir in front of them.

“I’m McCalpin.” The marquess shook Hart’s hand in greeting. “Allow me to introduce my brother, Lord William Cavensham.”

Lord William greeted everyone. The smile he extended to Faith was simply spectacular, but Faith pulled her hand away as if wary of the gentleman before her.

She’d do well to follow Faith’s lead. These two men were stunningly handsome and could steal every argument she possessed. She released a silent sigh.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” The smile on Lord McCalpin’s face transformed him from a handsome mortal to a breathtaking Greek god. “I think we’re long overdue for an introduction.”

“Indeed.” March cleared the bevy of bullfrogs that had decided to take up residence in her throat.

The marquess quirked an eyebrow, then smiled warmly. “Follow me.”

Her stomach slipped to her knees along with the delicate cherry tart she’d eaten. Her perfect man was the new trustee, and she needed his help. That was the only reason she was there. If she kept up that mantra, she’d survive this interview. With a hefty dose of apprehension, she followed him to the far end of the room.

Beside his massive desk, the marquess turned and faced her direction. He extended his arm toward her with his palm face up. Without thought, March clasped his large hand tightly in hers. He would quickly deduce her desperation if she didn’t comport herself with a little more dignity. His hand contained an inherent warmth and strength that caused a slight tremble to erupt from her toes to her head.

“I thought we’d already introduced ourselves,” he whispered with a wink. “But if you’d like me to do the honors again, I’d be happy to.”

After a slight bow, he released her hand and again, motioned toward a chair in front of his desk. The impish smile on his face could’ve charmed a roomful of sour dowagers.

She pressed her eyes closed in an attempt to settle the butterflies that flittered in her chest. He was simply pointing what seat she was to sit in, and she had thought he wanted to take her hand again.

He must think I’m an artless fool. Good God, could this be any more mortifying?

Faith and Hart settled on a lush sofa toward the entrance of the room, but March felt the comforting heat of her sister’s gaze on her back. She took a deep breath to gain some order over her scattered senses. Her family’s welfare depended upon her surviving this conversation and convincing the marquess to release her money. His brother settled in the chair next to her.

Once seated behind his desk, Lord McCalpin leaned forward to close the distance between them. “Miss Lawson, tell me about you and your family,” he commanded in a low, composed voice.

March answered quickly over the cacophony of her beating heart. “I seek the money my father left me.”

He tilted his head and lifted an eyebrow.

Her cheeks flamed, but she continued to blather on without answering his request. “In truth, I turned twenty-five over three months ago. I’m not certain why you haven’t released my funds. Whatever the reason, I just want to clear up this misunderstanding and get my money.”

There was no question. She was an absolute utter buffoon.

The way she’d bumbled her presentation proved it. She stared at her clasped hands so she’d not have to witness his inevitable disdain. There was no turning back now.

Normally, men didn’t have any impact on her. She was not a woman whose looks lent any type of persuasive power to an argument with the opposite sex. She’d always prided herself on her wits and ability to negotiate the highest sale prices for the estate’s wool. It was more productive than a coy smile or a dramatic bat of the eyelashes, neither of which she had mastered effectively. Nevertheless, what little talent or intelligence she possessed had completely deserted her.

“Humor me before we discuss money,” McCalpin drawled. “In reviewing your family’s situation, I’ve discovered there’s not a guardian for your siblings or the estate named in your father’s documents. After Lord Burns’ death, no one has helped you, I take it? How have you managed?”

“I live with my two sisters and our brother, Bennett. I’ve been running the estate for the past eight years.” She delivered a slight smile. “I plan to retain a solicitor. I … we need a guardian appointed for the estate. I’m perfectly capable of looking after my family.”

His mouth dipped into a frown and, for a moment, his eyes studied her with a curious intensity. “Miss Lawson, you have my sincerest apologies for not contacting you sooner after Lord Burns died. We’re both aware that you’re not of age to receive your trust money. I had my solicitor review the documents to insure I was correct, which he verified. You may not receive your inheritance until next year.”

With a slight shake of her head, she struggled to comprehend. If the man had jumped on his desk and danced a jig naked, she wouldn’t have been more shocked. “Sir, does my trust not end when I’m twenty-five? I was born in 1788, making me, indeed, of age.”