by Jenna Jaxon
“No inconvenience in the least, Miss Forsythe,” Jack said waving a hand of dismissal. He settled back into the chair. “How may I be of service to you?”
She gripped her lace-edged handkerchief in one hand, the other clenched on the chair’s arm. Raising her chin, her deep blue eyes boring into his, she swallowed hard. “Would you marry me, Lord Manning?”
The outrageousness of the question itself warred with the astounding fact that a woman had the boldness to ask it. He’d certainly been right about Miss Forsythe’s distinctly non-ladylike manner.
As he paused, stunned quite speechless, her face had turned red, a flush that started at her ample breasts and continued to her bright red hairline. She bit her lips, then took a deep breath. “I know this is an exceptional request, my lord, and”—she stared at her lap, her hands shaking—“most forward for a woman to even ask it.” She glanced up at him, her eyes suddenly pleading. “However, my circumstances dictate desperate measures be taken.”
Cautiously, Jack eased forward in his chair. He’d recovered from the broadside hit she’d scored, but didn’t want to give the woman cause for hope. “I am not unaware of the honor you do me, Miss Forsythe, to think I might be able to aid you in your plight. But are things so very extreme? Can the circumstances be remedied only by your marriage to me? Or is there some other, less drastic avenue that may be undertaken to resolve it?”
She let out her breath with a forceful whoosh and her color subsided somewhat.
He was not unaware of the great deal of courage it had taken for the woman to propose to him. His estimation of Miss Forsythe rose, even as he cringed from the idea of marrying her. Not that she wasn’t comely. Rather the reverse. If only she didn’t remind him so much of his sister.
“I fear the only remedy is marriage, my lord, although I will confess it was my choice to ask you.” She looked at him frankly, as though a Rubicon had been crossed.
“I am flattered, Miss Forsythe.” Not really so much flattered as feeling trapped. Still, he had his engagement to Miss Carlton to stand between him and the woman before him. Lord, two damsels in distress in one evening was entirely too much. He should simply put an end to this interview by informing the woman of his betrothal.
Still, something held him back.
Intrigued by Miss Forsythe’s obvious distress, his inner knight sought to rescue this damsel as well. “Can you tell me the circumstances whereby you must marry?”
A deep blush returned to her cheeks, and she pressed the handkerchief there. “I fear I cannot reveal the reason, my lord, unless you agree to accept my proposal.”
“And I cannot accept it without further information, Miss Forsythe. You must see that,” Jack snapped. Did she take him for a fool to jump at her offer without a word of explanation?
“I understand that, my lord.” Her tone had hardened, as had her eyes. They glittered in the firelight like a pair of faceted sapphires. “However, I do have a reputation to maintain.”
“And you believe I would be indiscreet should you place your confidence in me, Miss Forsythe?” The temerity of the chit. Jack shot to his feet. “This alone makes it obvious we would not suit as a couple. Trust, I gather, is one of the most basic foundations of marriage. One that we do not seem to possess between us. I will wish you a good evening.” A curt bow and he headed for the door. Time wasted save for Braeton’s excellent whiskey.
“I am increasing.” The whisper of sound caught Jack with his hand on the door latch.
He whirled back toward her. “I beg your pardon?”
She had bent forward, her back bowed, her head on her knees, her entire body shaking with silent sobs.
Releasing the handle, he strode back to her, then stopped abruptly. At a loss, he shifted from one booted foot to the other, trying to think of something to say. Poor Braeton. No wonder he had looked haunted. For such a thing to happen to a woman under his protection could prove a blot on his reputation not easily erased in the ton’s eyes.
Not to mention the cost to Miss Forsythe herself. At the merest breath of such a scandal, her reputation would be in tatters. Circumstances mattered not at all. If she married the father, however… “I will not insult your intelligence by asking if the father knows. If you have come to me, he is obviously dead.”
Gasping in a breath, Miss Forsythe raised her tear-stained face to him and shook her head. “No, not dead.”
“Then why—”
“He is married.”
Jack hissed and sat hard opposite her. Gently, he took her hand. “Did he assault you? I assure you, if that is so, I will make it my business to see this man dance on the end of my sword.”
“No!” She clung to his hand with chilly fingers, as ferociously as if to stop him this moment from going to the duel. “You must not endanger your life because of my folly.”
“Your folly?” His fingers became as cold as hers. She had willingly lain with a married man? The narrow respect he’d had for Miss Forsythe vanished like the mist in the dawn’s light.
“I…I was—” She wiped her tears and tossed back coppery hair that had begun to straggle into her face.
It should have made her look more forlorn, more vulnerable. It did not.
“He approached me to comfort me and…in a moment of weakness I succumbed to his advances.” Haunted eyes stared straight into his soul. “There is no assault to be avenged, my lord.”
So, there it was. She had frolicked and now must pay the price. “Have you informed this man of the consequences of your weakness? He is as much if not more at fault for these wretched circumstances. Perhaps he might take the child after it is born.”
“No.” Miss Forsythe shook her head vehemently. “There is nothing he could do. I have no intention of telling him anything, now or ever. I will bear this shame as best I can myself.” She eyed Jack, a sliver of hope in her face. “Unless you can find it in your heart to keep me from it, my lord. That is why I begged my cousin to allow me to present my plea myself.” She hung her head, her voice low. “Ever since we met you have been kind to me. You more than any other gentleman of my acquaintance have shown me respect and compassion.” She dropped her voice to the barest of whispers. “I would be a good wife to you, I promise.”
Jack sank back into the chair, his head reeling with Miss Forsythe’s confidences. Trust him she must, implicitly, to have confessed so much to a man she barely knew outside the ballroom. Yet even on such short acquaintance she had read him right. He could no more divulge her story than he could his sister’s disgrace in March. This woman’s secret was safe with him. Regrettably, he could do little more than offer his sympathy and silence. “I am aware of the great trust you have placed in me, Miss Forsythe, and you may be assured my silence on this matter will be absolute. Unfortunately, I will be unable to assist you further than offering my sword in revenge or swearing my complete silence on the matter.”
Her face paled to the sickly color of new cheese. She clutched the chair once more to steady herself. “You will not marry me?”
Sadly, he shook his head, suddenly touched by her drooping countenance as hope fled. “I cannot. I am already betrothed to another.”
She jerked her head toward him, her eyes widening impossibly large. “You are betrothed? But I have heard nothing of such a thing. Eithne would have told me.” Stricken, she stared at him. “Braeton would never have allowed me to make such a fool of myself by asking you.” She spoke quicker and quicker, gathering speed as her thoughts raced. “How could you be betrothed and my cousin not know?”
“No one knows, Miss Forsythe. The betrothal was contracted mere hours ago. No one is aware of it save two others, myself and now you. I trust you will honor my trust in you on this matter until it is made public?” Regret stabbed him as her face crumpled.
“I had no idea, my lord.” She stared at the fire, slumped in the chair, her chest heaving uneve
nly. “Else I would not have troubled you this evening.”
“Are there any other gentlemen you or your cousin might approach? Surely…” Usually there were fortune hunters aplenty amongst the ton gentlemen who would take a lady in any condition in exchange for enough money.
“Surely there are other men Braeton might induce to marry me?” The bitterness in her words could almost be tasted. “Of course there are. We discussed them this afternoon. The list is not long, yet still impressive. Lord Mallory tops it as the best prospect. His wife has died leaving him already with two heirs of his own and no one to mother them. Another child would scarcely be marked upon.”
Her harsh tone wasn’t becoming, but Jack understood it. Miss Forsythe had tried to make her peace with the situation in the only way she could, meeting it head on. Perhaps it was the only way she could meet the world and come out whole in this matter.
“Then there is Lord Cryr. He’s on the list as well.” Her lips tightened.
“Cryr’s a good man. He might indeed be persuaded to step in and assist you.” How well his friend would suit this woman was anyone’s guess, but he was in rather dire monetary straights at the moment and would see the offer as a godsend.
“Yes, I have met Lord Cryr several times over the summer and winter Seasons. I did not form a favorable impression of the man.” Miss Forsythe sniffed. “He rather talks a lot about non-essential things.”
“Indeed?” That look down her nose spoke eloquently what her lips wouldn’t further profess. The lady had a decided mind of her own and would lead whomever Braeton finally persuaded a merry chase through hell and back most likely. He repressed a shudder, grateful for his escape.
“My cousin even suggested Lord Murchison if all else failed.” Her mouth firmed into grim lines.
“Good God.” Braeton couldn’t be serious. The whole ton knew what a depraved rakehell Murchison was. No man with a daughter, sister, cousin, or acquaintance would think of marrying his relative to Murchison.
“Of course, I refused that suggestion out of hand.” Miss Forsythe settled her gaze on Jack once again. “That is when I suggested you might be willing to help me.” She shook her head, sadness in her face as she tried to put her disappointment aside. “Again, I beg your pardon for dragging you out in the middle of the night.”
“No trouble, I assure you.” Jack felt at such a loss. As though he should be able to offer some other sort of solution to the lady’s problem other than just his regrets.
“Good evening, my lord.” She rose and curtsied.
My, but she was tall for a woman. Her chin came all the way up to his shoulder.
“Carter will fetch your hat and cloak and show you out. I thank you again for your trouble and your advice.” With a swift turn, she fled the room, her handkerchief fluttering to the floor.
Jack bent and retrieved the damp scrap of linen and lace and rubbed his thumb over the raised letter A. What was her first name? Alethea? He pocketed the scrap, looked longingly at Braeton’s decanter, before heading out the door himself. He had one more late call to pay before he could return home from this bizarre evening.
Chapter 5
Almost blinded by tears, Alethea ran for the staircase the moment she left Lord Manning’s presence. Building castles in the air fetched one nothing save fallen hopes and dreams dashed asunder. Lord Manning’s refusal of her proposal had shocked her more than she’d believed possible. She’d been so certain the kind earl would take pity on her, she’d neglected to prepare herself for the possibility of a refusal. Was this feeling of utter rejection what kept men hesitant when proposing? She understood completely if so.
She ought to go inform Eithne of the earl’s refusal. However, she simply couldn’t face her cousin at the moment. The shocked look on Lord Manning’s face, followed by one of deep pity, lingered like a fresh wound in her mind. Time enough in the morning when they must set about finding another man Braeton could induce to marry her.
Searching her pockets in vain for her handkerchief, she inelegantly wiped her streaming eyes on the sleeve of her maroon gown. What did her clothes matter now? The one whose eye they’d been meant to catch had forsaken her.
With a loud sniff, Alethea pushed the door to her chamber open. At least she could hide her sorrows here for a while in solitude.
Clemons, her maid, sat slumped in the boudoir chair, her head pillowed on her arm.
“Clemons. Rachael.” Alethea shook the girl’s shoulder.
The maid’s eyes fluttered open, a confused frown on her face before she bounded up. “Beg pardon, miss. I was resting my eyes for a minute.” Clemons stifled a yawn. “Are you ready to dress for bed? It’s about time, if you don’t mind my saying so. In your state, you need to rest.”
Alethea nodded, grabbed a handkerchief from her toilette table and pressed it to her nose. She hated crying, but she’d found herself nothing but weak and weepy for weeks. The fault of the child, perhaps? Everything was the child’s fault.
Thanks to her situation she had gambled and lost the one hope that her folly in September might have gained her: marriage to Lord Manning. She’d known for months she had little chance of him asking for her hand. So this predicament had seemed the perfect opportunity to try to snatch some happiness. Now she’d have to take what she could get and make do with it for the rest of her life. Not a pleasing prospect, but she’d manage somehow. A Forsythe never gave up.
Deftly, Clemons unfastened the maroon and gold gown, one of Alethea’s favorites. It enhanced the color of her hair and made her skin less sallow, showing her off to the best advantage before Lord Manning. At least that had been the plan. Apparently she needn’t have bothered.
“What did his lordship have to say, miss?” The petite maid stood on tiptoe to finish unlacing the gown.
“Certainly not what I wanted to hear, Clemons.” Alethea breathed deeply as the tight bodice relaxed. “According to him he is already betrothed. Very recently betrothed, to be sure,” she added grimly.
Had the man been truthful with her? He had the reputation of being a scrupulously honest gentleman amongst the ton. Or had he grasped the one excuse acceptable to keep him from offering his assistance as an honorable gentleman would?
“That’s a shame to be sure, miss. It would have been nice to marry a man you were fond of.” The tone of wistfulness in Clemons’s voice tugged on Alethea’s heart. “But that’s not to say another one wouldn’t suit you as well. In time.” Clemons had taken the gown into the dressing room and now returned with a white linen nightgown, frothing with lace. “Let’s get the rest of your things off, miss. Then we’ll whisk this on and pop you right into bed.”
The cheerful tone irritated Alethea’s jangled nerves, but the maid meant well.
“You’ve had no other thought on what to do about your interesting condition, miss?” The maid bent to pick up Alethea’s gold-buckled mules, then came to the bed, rubbing a spot on the suede.
“Short of returning to Ireland with a made-up dead husband, no.” Refusing to think about it any longer, Alethea slid beneath the covers, pulled the sheets up to her chin, and adjusted her pillows into a stacked mound. She always slept with her head well up.
“I’ve heard things, miss, in the kitchen and such.” Smoothing the covers down, Clemons kept her eyes fastened on the bedclothes. “About how if a woman doesn’t want to have a baby, there’s things she can do not to have it.” The petite blonde shot a look at her.
Alethea froze, staring into her maid’s astonishingly blue gaze.
Steadfastly, Clemons stared back, her eyes filled with dark knowledge. “There’s some would say such things are wicked and others who say it’s a blessing. Not that I know from my own self, mind you.” She knocked the dust from the pair of shoes with a soft clack-clack. “If you find you can’t face the other choices you’re faced with, miss, I can maybe find another way to help you.”
“Yes, miss. Anything else?” The quiet voice gave no hint of the dire suggestion she’d made.
“I think I shall ride first thing in the morning. Lay out the blue riding habit and wake me at eight.”
“Very good, miss. I’ll say good night then.” Clemons bustled away, leaving Alethea tense and shaken in the bed.
Much as she’d wept and moaned and cursed when she suspected she was with child, she’d never seriously considered trying to get rid of it. Whatever her own fate, the child was an innocent in all of it.
Her options otherwise were few. Lord Manning had been her best chance at the possibility of a happy life. With that avenue closed, she could marry whatever man her cousin could persuade to take her, or return to Ireland in disgrace with a pack of lies that would fool no one.
Or she could rid herself of the problem in a very permanent way. The risks involved were great. She might, in fact, die herself. Though not a religious person—the Anglican Church had never interested her much—her early teachings had instilled a deeply ingrained sense of morality. She’d not take Clemons’s suggestion lightly, but she would add it to her ever-shrinking list of solutions to her problem.
* * * *
Pounding on the door of Dunham House, the residence of his brother-in-law the Marquess of Dalbury, Jack glanced over his shoulder at the feeble light of the moon and shivered. Lunatic indeed. Dalbury was likely asleep in his bed at this hour, or his wife’s bed even more likely. The man would scarce appreciate being jerked awake at this summons, but damnation, Jack had to talk to someone about this impossible situation. The only one he’d trust with the thorny problem was Kat’s husband. A far cry from his estimation of the man nine months ago.
At last the door creaked open. Grayson, the butler, candle in hand, peered out into the darkness. “Lord Manning? Come in, my lord. Is something amiss at this hour? Shall I fetch his lordship?”