The earl lowered the mug and sighed, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “It is not right of me to criticize the dead, nor should I speak ill of his father to any man.”

What had this to do with Beatrice and him, with their marriage? Sebastian said nothing, waiting for the earl’s apparently idle remarks to become his opening move.

“I have told you this a hundred times—land is the only wealth.”

A hundred times? The earl had said that to him a thousand times. Every time his father had sold another farm, another parcel of acreage, he had heard the earl’s words in his mind. And faced with what his father had left of Benbury, he had recalled the earl’s words with bitter regret. If land was the only wealth, Lord Lionel Benbury had left his son nearly destitute. Thank God and the saints for his shrewd uncle Henry Isham.

“So when your father came to me to offer me the manor at Herron, I tried to persuade him not to sell it. He would not listen to me, Sebastian, so in the end I bought the land from him. I thought that if I had it, someday you might be able to buy it back from me.”

“Perhaps, my lord.”

He had been born at Herron, snug and sweet in the center of its fields; it had been the manor he had loved best, mourned the most when it was sold. Fat when his father had lost it, Herron had surely grown fatter with the earl’s management, putting it far beyond the reach of his purse for some time to come.

“I do not think Herron was the only land your father sold. Forgive me, but your father was a fool.”

He was, my lord. Sebastian could not say it, however true it might be.

“I cannot restore everything he sold, but this I can do. Herron is Beatrice’s dowry.”

“Herron, my lord?” Had he heard aright? His heart pounded heavily against his breastbone.

“There is one condition,” the earl said, “and on that I will not yield. Herron will revert to me or my heirs if Beatrice dies childless.”

“My lord, how is this? Your daughter may well be barren. It is certain she bore her late lord no children.” God help him if she were—he could not afford a childless wife.

The earl scowled at him. “You married her out of hand some years ago, Benbury. Do you dare to complain of her dowry now? I owe you nothing.”

Sebastian spread his hands. “Then give me nothing. At least then all I have shall be mine, not liable to be snatched away because my wife cannot bear a son.”

“I said Beatrice must bear you a child, not a son.” The earl held his scowl for a moment more. “Blessed Jesú, Herron can be yours by midsummer next year if you do your work well.”

He wanted Herron more than he could say, yet he feared to take it. How could he hold it? How could he bear to let it go?

I would rather have half its worth in gold, my lord, or a quarter’s worth, than have that land slip through my fingers once more.

He could not say that to the earl.

“Very well, my lord. Herron Manor is Beatrice’s dowry. I think it a far too generous dowry, but I am not fool enough to quarrel with you. You have my gratitude.”

The earl snorted. “Never tell a man he has given you too much. He might believe you.” He glanced at Sebastian. “Now, as to Beatrice’s dower property, I think a jointure would be proper.”

Sebastian raised his eyebrows. Give control of Benbury into Beatrice’s hands if she outlived him? “No, my lord.”

“No? After I have given Herron for her dowry?”

For a moment Sebastian was tempted to tell the earl to keep Herron if that was its price. Another idea occurred to him. “Let her have Herron for her dower. No less, since it is such a rich property. And no more, so that my son can manage his lands even as she lives.”

The earl opened his mouth as if to argue and then grinned. “Herron it is.” He leaned forward, the grin deepening until he looked like a small boy contemplating a raid on the buttery. “Let us see if we can come to blows over the details.”

Three hours later, wrung out from the effort of keeping his wits sharp enough to bargain with the wily earl and then to keep the lawyers from further entangling a tangled agreement, Sebastian signed his name to his marriage contract. The settlement was not as bad as it might have been, had the earl been inclined to take advantage of the situation Sebastian found himself in. If the terms did nothing to ease his worries, at least they did nothing to worsen them.

“All that remains are the banns and the wedding,” the earl said in a satisfied voice. “Afterward—will you keep your post at Court? Shall I see what I may do to obtain some favors for Beatrice?”

Beatrice at Court, where she could attract admirers as venal as Conyers? No, Beatrice would spend the rest of her life safely locked away at Benbury, no matter how she wept and pled. As for him, if he never returned to Court he would die a happy man. His father had insisted the only way a man could make his fortune was to orbit the king as the sun orbited the earth. Perhaps that was true, but it was also true, that there were few swifter ways to lose a fortune. Had he loved the intrigue and glamour of Court, he would still leave it; he could not afford its demands.

“No, my lord. We shall live at Benbury.”

“You will lose many chances at preferment,” the earl said, his brows drawing together over his nose.

Sebastian looked down at his hands. The earl was right; Court was the only place to dip into the largesse that flowed from the king like a river. Perhaps with time, Beatrice…

…Beatrice, a honey pot that attracted the worst kind of flies.

He raised his head and met the earl’s eyes. “Court life eats up everything my lands produce. I cannot afford it.”

The earl’s eyebrows rose. “Not even now, when you will have Herron…”

“Every year it costs more to live. You called my father a fool for selling his land. He sold his land because his expenses were greater than his income. I will not make the same mistake.”

“So be it. For myself, I shall be glad to have a man of your good sense in the county.” The earl rose. “And I have no doubt that my lady wife will be pleased to have Beatrice so close. Come, let us find them both and give them the happy news.”

In the hall a servant told them the countess, her daughters and their women had gone into the garden to enjoy a break in the morning’s rain. At the end of the passageway that led to the garden, the door stood open, a rectangle of blue-and-green light that dazzled after the dimness of the hall and passage. Following the earl, Sebastian passed under the lintel into the damp, bright garden.

The wet leaves glittered and the stones of the pathway steamed gently in the sunshine. The smell of earth, brown and rich, rose to his nostrils. To his left, Ceci walked arm-in-arm with her mother, their maids trailing behind. On his right, Beatrice walked alone, twirling a rose in her hands, her head bent. He wished he might turn toward Ceci; after last night’s puzzling and difficult encounter with Beatrice, he was not sure he was ready to face her again.

He rolled his shoulders to loosen them and straightened his back. Only a coward would run from a woman and surely he could rein in his anger enough not to berate her again. He turned to the earl and asked leave to go to Beatrice. A wave of the earl’s hand dismissed him. Moving quickly to outstrip his worries, he strode down the path toward Beatrice.

She looked up as he approached, the rose in her hand no longer spinning. He stopped five feet away from her, halted by her wary, somber look. Violet smudges underneath her eyes turned them gray, the marks dark against her pale skin. She looked like a woman who had not slept in a year.

His jaw tightened and unnamable emotion moved in his chest. Did she hate the thought of marrying him so much? He smoothed the furred collar of his gown. Her happiness with the match did not, could not, matter. They were married, and had no choice but to make the best of it.