“Can you believe the Duke of Nottingvale’s sister is marrying a tailor?” Olive made an expression of faux shock as she gestured with her hands. “His Grace is toasting now, but I can only imagine what his face looked like when he first found out.”
Papa screwed up his features and clutched his chest in an exaggerated parody of apoplexy.
She grinned at him, over-large teeth and all. Her father’s love was unconditional. “I’m glad for her. They seem to suit each other well.”
“About that.” Her father’s typically merry eyes grew serious. “I’ve decided on a husband for you.”
The words pelted Olive like icy snowballs.
“You what?” Her cold fingers shook in the wind. “I don’t need or want a husband.”
“I shall give him one hundred percent of my shares in the farm,” Papa continued relentlessly, “upon your marriage.”
“Our farm?” There was no reason to feign apoplexy. Olive was certain her heart was exploding right out of her chest. Her gestures were sharper. “Why would you do this?”
“You need a husband, daughter.”
That was the last thing she needed.
Olive wanted to be respected on her own. Considered as capable as any man. She’d thought she was, at least to her father.
“No.” She shook her head, negating with her fingers. “You’re hamming me.”
“You spend almost all of your time with me or on the farm. You do nothing for yourself, and little with your friends. You deserve an opportunity to relax.”
She gaped at him in disbelief. “You think marriage means less work for a woman?”
Long ago, Olive had decided to do whatever it took to be independent. Yes, she spent every possible moment raising the horses, training the horses, checking that the stable hands were properly attending to the horses... And she wouldn’t trade a single moment of it.
She loved her life.
Papa pushed open the front door to their home and gestured her through. “I’m getting old, Olive. I used to be helpful, and now I am not.”
“Our farm makes more than enough money to employ as many hired hands as we need.” She shoved her pelisse onto its hook. “Besides, I can—”
“You can do anything the stable hands can. I know that. But now you won’t have to.”
The back of Olive’s throat pricked with heat. She’d dedicated her entire life to proving herself as deserving an heiress for the farm as any male heir, and she still wasn’t good enough.
Even when she was the only one, her father would still rather find someone else.
Her hands trembled. “I cannot believe you would betroth me to some random—”
“Not random.” Papa’s eyes held hers. “You’ll marry Elijah Weston.”
The breath rushed out of her lungs with such force that Olive staggered backward until she regained her equilibrium. No.
Her lips parted, but she could not force herself to repeat that name. The mere thought of him turned her back into a sobbing, humiliated fourteen-year-old.
“It’s a means to an end.” Her father shifted his weight as if he knew just how much he was hurting her. “I’m old. It’s time to heal the rift between our families. Three decades of rivalry is long enough. We are stronger united.”
Papa didn’t think Olive had deficiencies after all.
He simply had ulterior motives.
“That’s not better.” Her muscles rebelled at the injustice. “Using me as an inducement is worse, no matter your reasons. The answer is no. I won’t marry any man, and especially not that man.”
“I shan’t debate you on the matter. You’re of age, so legally I cannot force you. But marriage to Mr. Weston is the only way you’ll have my shares in the farm.”
“How can I have them at all?” Her spine collapsed against the wall. “You’re giving control to him, not me.” She could not bring herself to form his name. “I’d rather stay enemies forever than to see that happen.”
Olive’s father and Elijah Weston’s father had grown up together. Inseparable, bosom friends, practically twins—despite their differences in class.
Mr. Weston’s father was Lord Milbotham. He’d been born with a silver spoon and a courtesy title. As a wealthy marquess, he needn’t ever lift a finger if he didn’t wish to.
On a lark, Papa and Milbotham began a stud farm together, just outside London. As the partnership grew, so did their business. Their horses were celebrated at Tattersall’s, the farm famous throughout England.
Olive did not know what had caused the falling-out, but it had been swift and destructive. The rift occurred about the time both men had married. One day, Papa and Milbotham were partners, and the next they were dividing their beloved farm between them.
Milbotham kept the land, and the prestige their farm had built. All Papa got were a few horses. Milbotham had no doubt cackled over that swindle.
Until it turned out Papa was brilliant. His stud horses quickly eclipsed those of Milbotham, which of course could not be allowed to stand. Thus began decades of war as breeding rivals, then racing rivals. The conflict and determination rose with each passing year.
Her father did not engage in vindictive competition with anyone else. Just the marquess. Papa was mortal enemies with Milbotham because he had once loved him like a brother. There was no other way he could have been hurt so deeply.
And now he expected her to marry Milbotham’s son? The one who had humiliated her so deeply, Olive still awoke gasping in the night? Her hands clenched.
Elijah Weston and his father were pustules of deceit and destruction.
They could not be forgiven.
“No.” She straightened her spine off the wall. Olive was stronger than that. She hadn’t seen Weston in ten long years. His specter could not harm her now. “I will not—”
Three loud raps sounded against the knocker.
A distraction. Thank God. “Someone’s at the door.”
Papa’s eyebrows rose. “It must be Weston.”
“What? How could he arrive from London so fast?” Understanding dawned. Hurt prickled beneath Olive’s skin; a thousand tiny blades. She tried not to show her pain.
