The Unexpected Heiress Read online

  THE UNEXPECTED HEIRESS

  Merry nodded. “Thank you for all these lovely things, Phillip. Especially the journal. It’s simply beautiful.”

  “You’re beautiful.”

  The words hung in the air between them. He uttered them so easily, so softly, she wasn’t sure how to respond.

  No man had ever called her beautiful before. She’d never even been alone with a man like this before. It was quite intimate really. There was no one else around, no one to censure their words or their behavior. It made her nervous yet thrilled her at the same time.

  She thought of the other afternoon at Devon House when she had longed for him to kiss her. Now that they were quite alone, would he kiss her this time? She had never been kissed before. Did she wish for him to kiss her?

  Yes, she did. She absolutely did....

  Books by Kaitlin O’Riley

  Stand-Alones

  SECRETS OF A DUCHESS

  ONE SINFUL NIGHT

  The Hamilton Sisters

  WHEN HIS KISS IS WICKED

  DESIRE IN HIS EYES

  IT HAPPENED ONE CHRISTMAS

  TO TEMPT AN IRISH ROGUE

  HIS BY CHRISTMAS

  The Hamilton Cousins

  THE HEIRESS HE’S BEEN WAITING FOR

  THE IRISH HEIRESS

  THE UNEXPECTED HEIRESS

  Collections

  YOURS FOR ETERNITY

  (with Hannah Howell and Alexandra Ivy)

  AN INVITATION TO SIN

  (with Jo Beverley, Sally MacKenzie, and Vanessa Kelly)

  The UNEXPECTED HEIRESS

  KAITLIN O’RILEY

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  THE UNEXPECTED HEIRESS

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1 - New Chapter

  2 - A Man of His Word

  3 - You Can’t Judge a Book by Its Cover

  4 - At a Loss for Words

  5 - The Writing on the Wall

  6 - On the Same Page

  7 - In So Many Words

  8 - Turn the Page

  9 - Pen and Ink

  10 - Take a Page from My Book

  11 - A Picture Is Worth a Thousand Words

  12 - A Play on Words

  13 - Words to Live By

  14 - A Word to the Wise

  15 - Mum’s the Word

  16 - Weigh One’s Words

  17 - Word of Mouth

  18 - I Can Read You Like a Book

  19 - Get It in Writing

  20 - Word of Honor

  21 - Mark My Words

  22 - An Open Book

  23 - Every Trick in the Book

  24 - A Closed Book

  25 - A Word in Edgewise

  26 - By the Book

  27 - Write It Off

  28 - As Good As Your Word

  29 - Famous Last Words

  Epilogue - The End

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2020 by Kathleen M. Milmore

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4467-3

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4468-0 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4468-5 (eBook)

  For Jane . . .

  Acknowledgments

  The Unexpected Heiress, the last of the Hamilton family books, was written during an unbearably heartbreaking year of my life and I could not have gotten through it without the love and support of my incredible family and friends. Riley Anderson, your spirit encourages me to go forward each day. Cela Lim, Lynn Abbott, Gretchen Kempf, Jensie Kainz, and Jenny Goodenough, your kindness carried me through the days. Yvonne Deane and Kim McCafferty, our enduring friendship sustains me. Chris Robinson, your love and caring are worth more than I can say. Shelley Jensen, Billy Van Zandt, Scott Wheeler, Greg Malins, and Jeff Babey, your support and humor mean everything. Jane Milmore, Maureen Milmore, Janet Wheeler, and Jennifer Malins, you four are my inspiration and our little circle will never be broken.

  As always, I wish to thank Jane Dystel and John Scognamiglio for their patience and understanding this year. I am ever grateful.

  And to all the readers who love the Hamilton family, thank you for reading my books and enjoying my little stories.

  Note to Riley:

  Love you more!

  1

  New Chapter

  April 1895

  New York City

  The heavy mist surrounded her, engulfing everything in its path within its cold, gray, swirling clouds. Not knowing where to go or what to do, her pulse raced, and she found it difficult to breathe. She remained motionless, not making a sound, not daring to move.

  He was out there somewhere in the misty fog. Searching for her. Coming closer and closer. He would not rest until he found her. There was no doubt about that. And when he found her . . . She trembled at the mere thought, a shot of stark terror racing through her veins. There was no telling what he would do to her.

  He had already killed once, and he would certainly kill again. If only she could get away from him and get home safely!

  An eerie silence surrounded her. The heavy fog blanketed all the natural sounds of the woods. Not the twitter of a bird in the bare trees nor the scuttle of bugs along the crushed leaves and dirt at her feet could be heard. The only sound was the wild pounding of her heart echoing in her ears.

  After waiting for what felt like an eternity in the dampness, she ached to flee. The cold mist clung to her muddied skirt and jacket, and her long blond hair had come loose from running and spilled wildly around her shoulders. Shivering, she longed for the warmth and security of home, which was not far off. If only she could get there.

  Yet ice-cold fear filled her heart.

  She’d been so foolish to venture out alone in the first place. If she made a move now, he would certainly find her. Had he gone? Was it safe for her to escape her temporary hiding spot among the trees and make a frantic dash toward the safety of home before it was too late? There was no actual choice really, for the cloud of misty fog grew thicker, and the sky darkened by the second.

  Night was coming.

  The dark of night terrified her almost as much as he did. If she waited any longer, it would be too dark to see anything at all, and she would never make it back to the house alive. The thought of her warm, safe home and the protective arms of her family finally drove her to leave her hiding place. Taking a fortifying breath, she decided to run.

  It was her only option.

  Slowly and without making a sound,
she pulled her dark cloak tighter around her body.

  She took a hesitant and silent step forward, held her breath, and waited. Still, there was not a sound. Perhaps he had given up after all. Perhaps she had a chance!

  Wild hope surged in her chest, and she gathered all her strength as she began to run.

  Suddenly a brutal hand reached out from the fog, grabbed her throat, and—

  * * *

  “Meredith!”

  The demanding shout startled her, and Meredith Rose Remington dropped her pen, splattering black ink all over the paper she had just been writing upon.

  Frowning with annoyance, Meredith crumpled up the page. She hated being interrupted when she was writing, especially when she had just reached a very exciting part in the novel. It truly was the most crucial part of her story. Her heroine had just been cornered, and a dramatic plot point was about to be revealed. To be interrupted at such a pivotal moment in the story was simply maddening!

  But her aunt Delilah had never understood or really approved of Meredith’s desire to write.

  “You’re wasting your time scribbling such nonsense up there alone in your bedroom!” she would declare with a look of utter mystification on her face and, truth be told, a bit of disgust.

  Her aunt simply could not comprehend the fact that Meredith loved to write.

  Meredith needed to write. She simply had to write! The stories came to her without effort, without trying. They bubbled up within her, demanding her attention and clamoring to be told. The characters spoke through her, and she was compelled to write down their words.

  Ever since she was a little girl and first learned her alphabet, Meredith was writing. She loved everything about letters, words, and meanings. She loved to spell and use cursive handwriting. She loved pens, ink, and pretty papers. She wrote in diaries and kept journals and sent letters. She wrote heartfelt poems, amusing little plays, and involved short stories.

  Telling Meredith to stop writing was like telling her to stop breathing.

  “Your fingers will be permanently stained with ink if you’re not careful! No man will ever find you attractive like that. And then where will you be?”

  Her aunt Delilah would wail in despair time and again, her tiny nose wrinkled in disapproval and distaste while she clutched her hands tightly together.

  Delilah’s biggest worry was that Meredith would not find a man to marry her if she kept writing. She worried about it all day and all night, lamenting that her lovely niece had no interest in suitors.

  Meredith needed to socialize more, not spend her time holed up in her bedroom writing nonsense that would never amount to anything. Meredith shouldn’t keep to herself so much. Meredith should attend more dances and parties with people her own age. Meredith should be focused on finding a husband. There were no worthy prospects on the horizon, and, at the ripe old age of twenty years, Meredith was not getting any younger, and gentlemen did not wish to have old wives.

  Yes, her aunt Delilah worried, but Meredith herself was not worried.

  Finding a husband was certainly not something she concerned herself with. Marrying was not a priority for her. Not that she was averse to marriage. Meredith just figured it would happen when it happened, pragmatic girl that she was. And if it didn’t ever happen, well . . . she would be fine with that too.

  Oh, she knew she was attractive, with her soft chestnut curls, pert nose, and clear, blue eyes, and she could certainly be charming enough to make a man fall in love with her if she put her mind to it. And if she ever found a man that was intelligent, attractive, and caring enough to catch her attention, then all would be well. But until then, marriage wasn’t something that she worried about in the least.

  For the time being, she was more than satisfied with her burgeoning writing career.

  In the past year, she had sold two of her short stories and had them printed in New York literary magazines. What a thrill it had been to see her first story in Harper’s Magazine! It made her feel like a real writer. “Written by M.R. Remington” sounded quite elegant and sophisticated too!

  Now she simply needed to finish the book she had been working on for the past few months. Meredith was positive that it would be published one day. She just knew it deep in her heart.

  Yet her aunt Delilah thought about nothing else except finding Meredith a husband, now that she was twenty years old. As if Meredith would live a painful, pathetic, and lonely life if she remained unmarried. As if Meredith would be nothing without a husband. As if Meredith—

  “Meredith!”

  Startled again by the calling of her name, Meredith recognized that Delilah’s cry sounded more insistent than usual. With great reluctance, she stood and hurriedly wiped her inky hands on the cloth she kept on her writing desk for that express purpose.

  Her writing desk . . . Oh, how she loved her beautiful writing desk! It was an elegant cherrywood, slant-front desk, inlaid with a dark green tooled-leather writing surface, complete with lots of lovely secret, hidden compartments. There were a few nicks and scratches on it from years of use, but they only added to its charm.

  The desk had once belonged to her mother, and her mother’s mother, and that made Meredith cherish it all the more. The graceful desk carried the history of her mother and grandmother, and one day Meredith would pass it on to her own daughter.

  She wondered, if her mother had lived, would she be as worried as Aunt Delilah was that Meredith had not married yet? Somehow, she believed her mother would have naturally understood her only daughter’s desire to write and would not have pressured her to find a husband at all.

  At least that was what Meredith preferred to think.

  She lovingly touched the soft grain of the cherrywood desk with her fingers, the memory of her mother still strong within her, and sighed softly.

  “Meredith, please!”

  Her aunt’s tone was growing rather sharp as her impatience mounted, so with a sigh of resignation, Meredith raced out of her bedroom, down the upper hallway of their large brownstone, and into her aunt’s private sitting room.

  “Yes, Aunt Delilah?” Meredith said as she entered the ornately decorated space she had known since childhood.

  Hand-knitted lace doilies covered every tabletop surface, which were adorned with china figurines and crystal vases bursting with brightly colored silk flowers. The cluttered and overly ornamented room was quite in fashion, but Meredith usually found it more than a bit overwhelming. Her tastes tended to favor simpler, cleaner, and less-cluttered surroundings.

  “What took you so long?” Delilah’s words were filled with agitation. “You must make more of an effort to come when you are called, my dear. It’s disrespectful to keep me waiting like that.”

  Hiding her ink-stained fingers behind her back, Meredith wished she’d had time to wash her hands with the rose Castile soap. As she looked toward her aunt, Meredith wanted to say she was not a trained lap dog who would obediently come when called, but she kept the comment to herself.

  Instead, she began to explain, “I am very sorry, Aunt Delilah. I was writing, and I was at the most exciting part of the story when the—”

  “Yes, yes, I am quite aware of what kept you so occupied. Still, it is not an excuse to keep me waiting, Meredith.” Delilah wrinkled her nose in distaste.

  Delilah Remington was a tiny woman, built almost like a china doll, with pale skin, blond hair, and wide blue eyes. Although she was close to forty years old, she did not look anywhere near her age. Somehow her aunt managed to appear quite youthful and slender, nothing like the mother of two children tended to look.

  But Delilah Remington’s looks were quite deceptive. Her outwardly sweet appearance hid a steely and determined will. Meredith knew better than to argue with the woman who had raised her since she was ten years old and lost her mother.

  “Now, sit down, dear. I have some things to discuss with you, and none of it is pleasant.”

  Without a word, Meredith adjusted the black silk of her mo
urning gown and sat upon the burgundy, velvet-tufted sofa across from her aunt. She took a deep breath and prepared herself for she knew not what.

  The last few weeks had been tumultuous and terrible, to say the least. Actually, they had been quite heartbreaking. If Meredith had not had her writing to keep her mind occupied, she did not know what she would have done. Perhaps curled up into a little ball and wept ceaselessly in a corner?

  She raised her eyes to meet her aunt’s steady gaze and waited. One could not rush her aunt Delilah.

  Delilah folded her hands primly in her lap, and her chin rose in determination as she spoke, the hint of a British accent still recognizable in her voice even after fifteen years in the United States.

  “I have made a plan for us. Apparently, we cannot continue on as we have been. It seems they’ve left us no money, and we have no other recourse available to us. I have to provide for my children and for your future as well, Meredith. We’re going to leave New York. Just this afternoon, I booked us passage on a ship to London at the end of the week.”

  Meredith had to stop herself from releasing a shrill scream.

  Leave New York?

  What in heaven’s name was her aunt thinking? That was just it. She probably wasn’t thinking clearly at all. Meredith’s father had died only three weeks ago, and now Aunt Delilah wanted to drag her away from the only home she had ever known? It was unthinkable.

  Meredith had no desire to leave the pretty brownstone near Riverside Park where she had spent her entire life. She blinked back a sudden rush of tears as she stared in a mute and horrified silence at her aunt.