by Karen Tuft
Would have made sense, that is, she reminded herself. If she felt she must honor the vowel.
He tipped his head slightly to one side in inquiry, waiting for her to speak.
Fine, then. There was no time to waste anyway. “Why are you doing this?” she asked bluntly.
“Because I must, and I can,” he replied.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Are you accusing me of being a liar?” he asked in a low voice, the merest edge of challenge in his tone. And yet he still didn’t move. It was unsettling.
“No, my lord,” she said. She paused to choose her next words carefully—which truly was a difficult task, especially under the circumstances, for her words generally tended to proliferate from her mouth without her mind always keeping apace with them. “What I am saying is that I detect a flaw in your argument, and that the flaw makes me disbelieve your words. You say you must do this. Why must you? And while I agree that, based on what the solicitors have said, it appears you can do this, you have free will, and, therefore, you can choose not to do this.” Oh dear, in spite of her best efforts, she was beginning to babble; she only hoped her words had made sense.
“There is no flaw in my argument,” he replied. “I must do this. It is as much a matter of family honor for me as it is for you. And as you yourself just pointed out, I can.”
“You could tear up the vowel, as I suggested before,” she said. “Or burn it.”
“I could,” he agreed.
“But you won’t.”
“No.”
“I am newly betrothed, Viscount Farleigh, to the Earl of Kerridge, heir to the Duke of Aylesham. The marriage settlements are nearly completed, and then the formal announcement will be made. For me to cry off at this point would seem to lack honor as well, would it not?”
“That is for you to decide,” he said.
She leaned forward slightly in her chair. “It doesn’t bother you that you are, in essence, stealing the bride of someone who will become one of the highest peers in England?”
“No.”
She tried another approach. “Perhaps you would be better off finding a bride who hasn’t given her heart to another.”
That got a reaction from him. She saw a muscle in his cheek twitch ever so slightly. “Are you telling me that you have already given your heart to Lord Kerridge? So easily?” he asked. “How long have you known him?”
“Two weeks, nearly three.” Her answer must surely sound foolish. After a two-weeks’ acquaintance, had she given her heart to Lord Kerridge? Had she fallen in love in so short a time? Undoubtedly the man before her thought not. “Whom I choose to give my heart to is my concern, not yours, my lord, and shall remain that way.”
His questions got her thinking though. She rose and walked over to the window again. Clouds were beginning to gather—gray cumulus clouds that meant it would soon rain—and for a moment, she was reminded of the teasing she’d taken from her brothers a mere week earlier.
She was attached to Lord Kerridge, certainly, and had enjoyed his kisses, and . . . well, she had assumed love—deep, abiding love—would grow over time, as it had with her parents. “Love doesn’t necessarily follow a timetable. It can take years or merely a glance. Who is to say one way is better than another?”
He had followed her to the window, stopping mere inches away; she could sense him standing behind her and found his nearness disconcerting, but she refused to turn and look at him. This man, with his dark-brown eyes and his plain, neat clothes and his level voice and unsmiling mouth was impossible to understand.
“Two weeks—even nearly three—is not so very long,” he said in that low, even tone of his. “Perhaps after two or three weeks, you will find yourself attached to me instead, more so than you are now to him.”
“I doubt it,” she whispered. For some reason, she could hardly catch her breath.
“You may be right, yet I sincerely hope not, for both our sakes.” He laid his hand gently on her shoulder in a reassuring gesture that made her tremble nonetheless. “For you see, Lady Louisa, I refuse to withdraw my claim on the vowel. But I give you my word that I will do all in my power to make your life a happy one.”
She turned to face him, incensed rather than reassured by his words. “How can you possibly promise me that when you are giving me no choice in the matter? I shall marry you, and you shall make me happy, you say. I do not know you at all, my lord. I know nothing of your character or your intentions, beyond forcing me to atone for my grandfather’s selfish actions.”
“Nobody is more aware than I that I can offer you nothing but my good intentions at present. We both seem to be in the unwelcome and uncomfortable position of making things right for the sake of our families’ honor.”
“Honor,” she spat. “I am growing sick of the term. I do not understand the sort of honor you claim gives you the right to hold an innocent person accountable for something she did not do. It makes no sense to me, and I resent it.”
Lord Farleigh said nothing in reply. He simply stood there in front of her, his hands at his sides. She remembered the feel of his hand on her shoulder just a few moments earlier. An attempt at support, she supposed—or perhaps a subtle move to win her over. She didn’t know. She didn’t trust him.
She wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him. “Why are you doing this?” she asked again. “You yourself just said this is as uncomfortable and unwelcome to you as it is to me. If that is true, then don’t do it. You have the power to free us both.”
He remained silent and unmoving, holding her eyes with his own. They gave nothing away, those eyes of his. No emotion whatsoever.
How could she marry a man like that?
Perhaps she should shake him, if only to see if there was a man of feeling buried somewhere beneath his wooden exterior.
“You are truly not going to change your mind in this matter, are you?” she said, an awful resignation settling about her like a cheerless gray fog.
“No.”
She turned back to stare out the window, at the gathering clouds that matched her mood. It had been apparent to Louisa that Papa had been horribly distressed by his father’s actions. There was no more honorable man than her father, and the vowel had created a moral dilemma for him that offered no reasonable solution.
How could she back away from duty and honor simply because the choice wasn’t her preference? How could she, the noble daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashworth, look honor in the eye and then shrug it off as though it meant nothing when she knew of its importance to her family?
The answer was she couldn’t. Her very being wanted to push the viscount aside and run away and pretend that nothing had happened this afternoon. But she couldn’t. And with that reluctant acknowledgment, she knew what she must do.
She would be as honorable as Papa, heaven help her.
She sighed. “Very well. It would seem that honor requires I make good on the debt, my lord.”
Lord Farleigh bowed in acknowledgment of what amounted to her acceptance of marriage to him. “Let us rejoin the others, then, and inform them that we are in accord and the marriage will proceed.” He offered her his arm, and she laid her hand upon it, tacitly saying goodbye to her romantic dreams and expectations. There had been no suitor on bended knee asking for her hand this time, no kiss that hinted of romance and passion in her future, nothing but mutual agreement upon the resolution of a debt.
She had been invited to dine that evening with Lord Kerridge and his family. It wouldn’t be happening now. She must speak with him this afternoon and end their betrothal.
Lord Farleigh had suggested Louisa might form an attachment to him. She wondered if it would ever be possible. Right now, all she felt was bitterness toward the man.
“I hate you,” she whispered as he led her from the room.
* * *
“That went more smoothly than I expected,” Heslop said, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Yes,” William replied. They were on their way to Heslop’s London office in William’s newly inherited carriage, where they intended to review the details of the marriage settlement discussion they’d had with the Marquess of Ashworth and his solicitor after Lady Louisa’s agreement to the betrothal.
“I rather thought we’d be escorted out by our ears as soon as we presented his lordship with the vowel,” Heslop continued. “Instead, you now find yourself betrothed to one of the highest-born ladies of the ton, accompanied by one of the most generous dowries I’ve ever heard described in my entire career. I’m quite astounded, truth be told.”
William said nothing. He, too, had been shocked at the amount of money Ashworth’s solicitor had quoted. Only years of training had kept his jaw from hitting the floor, yet it was Louisa’s final whispered words to him that still rang in his ears.
“I suspect you have the Duke of Aylesham to thank for that,” Heslop said. “I rather doubt he’d have allowed the wife of his heir to appear in anything but the most recent fashions and the most expensive jewels, and would have been adamant that the lady’s dowry reflect and support his lofty expectations.”
“Louisa,” William said, breaking his silence.
“Eh? Beg pardon?”
“Lady Louisa. You called her ‘the lady.’”
“Ah, my apologies; I was speaking in theoretical terms. No insult intended.”
If William had been shocked at the size of Lady Louisa’s dowry, he’d been equally as shocked when the Marquess of Ashworth had simply stated the amount that had been agreed upon with the Duke of Aylesham and had done nothing to suggest lowering it. The marquess had had a variety of motives at his disposal he could have employed to do so—punishment to William for insisting the vowel be honored or an adjustment in the amount relative to William’s status as a mere viscount, to name but two. Instead, the marquess had sat silently by, much as William had, and had allowed the discussion of “pursuants” and “wherefores” to be undertaken by the two solicitors, only speaking when he was called upon to clarify a point.
The meeting had not been a particularly warm one, however, in spite of Heslop’s observation that it had proceeded smoothly. Even the fireplace in the marquess’s library had seemed unwilling to offer more heat than was absolutely necessary to keep the room less than frigid. Or perhaps only William had felt cold.
“Ah, here we are,” Heslop said as the carriage arrived at the building that housed his law offices.
“If you don’t mind,” William said, “I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll return home rather than join you inside.” He suddenly couldn’t face nitpicking over the details like a hawk over its latest kill.
“I understand,” Heslop said. “One can’t help but be rather dumbfounded by it all. What a stroke of good fortune for a young gentleman such as yourself. Quite a coup. Naturally, you need time to ponder it all. I shall endeavor to draft a document we can present to the marquess and his man within the next day or two. In the meantime, I suggest you think about how to proceed with haste in courting the young lady—er, Lady Louisa. I know you to be a sober sort of fellow, not inclined toward haste, but circumstances call for precisely that.”
“I shall call on you tomorrow,” William said.
“Haste,” Heslop repeated, giving William a stern look to underscore his point—as if William didn’t understand the stakes already. “Very well, then. Adieu.” The solicitor tipped his hat in farewell and went inside.
William gave directions to Walter the coachman to take him to the London house, which was part of the Farleigh holdings, where he’d taken up temporary residence. The carriage bumped along the cobblestones, and William sat back and listened to the clopping of the horses and usual noises of people going about their business. But try as he might, they didn’t drown out the discord of his own thoughts.
He’d found himself intensely drawn to Lady Louisa this morning—a turn of events he hadn’t expected. He should have anticipated it, but the forced nature of the betrothal had made it seem more of a necessary evil than an opportunity for courtship.
But today, a beautiful young woman had entered her father’s study, full of a brightness and joy William hadn’t felt in years. And she’d behaved in the most remarkable manner. She hadn’t fainted or wept when the situation had been explained to her, even though it had been apparent to William that the news had greatly distressed her.
The range of emotions William had witnessed flitting across her lovely face haunted him. When she’d entered the room, she’d worn an expression lit with curiosity yet shaded by concern. He had then watched shock, disbelief, anger, fear, resignation, and, finally, resolve take their respective places as the reality of the wager her grandfather had made had sunk in. She had not clung to either parent. She had taken the time, rather, to absorb the news and the effect it would have on her—and then she had confronted William in a passionate yet dignified manner. She’d even told him she hated him in a dignified way.
He thought he could marry such a woman.
He must, if he was to have any reasonable hope of saving the people who meant the most to him.
He climbed the steps of the house, opened the door, and then shut it as quietly as he could. No need to alert the housekeeper, Mrs. Gideon, of his presence—not when he needed time to himself. But it seemed that luck was on his side once again this afternoon, William thought wryly when Mrs. Gideon didn’t arrive to welcome him and share the latest Town gossip.
Luck was on his side. And wouldn’t that delight his father, may the cursed man forever roll in his grave. William had thrown the dice, had played the ace, had held all the trumps. He had been the victor. His father had won the wager, but William had taken the prize.
He dropped into the leather chair in front of the fireplace, unwilling to stir the coals and ease the coldness he still felt.
He would claim his prize; oh yes, he would. It went without saying that he needed Lady Louisa’s dowry and family influence for his people to survive. But Lady Louisa herself had set a long-frozen corner of William’s heart burning with the promise of something he had no name for and that he could not bring himself to refuse. He’d thought himself condemned to live a joyless existence in a loveless marriage, as his parents had done before him. If he were a better man, a stronger man . . .
He wanted to marry Lady Louisa.
He buried his face in his hands.
* * *
“I’m not quite sure I understand what you are telling me,” Lord Kerridge said to Louisa later that afternoon. “Let me see if I have got this straight—your grandfather lost a wager, and as a result, our betrothal is at an end before it could even be announced.”
She had told her parents after her meeting with Lord Farleigh this morning that as she had been the one to accept Lord Kerridge’s proposal, she would be the one to end it.
“But only think, my dear,” her father had said. “I have been the person negotiating with him and the Duke of Aylesham and their respective solicitors. Allow me to be the one to inform him and the others and take this burden from you.”
“No, Papa,” she’d replied. “I gave the earl my consent. I will be the one to withdraw it.”
And so she had sent a note to Lord Kerridge, asking him to call on her as soon as was possible, and now here she was in the same drawing room in which she herself had been given the unfortunate news of the vowel, having just told Lord Kerridge their betrothal was off. He looked austere and coldly furious and every inch the duke he would become someday. She studied his face, desperate to find a hint of the charming gentleman who had wooed her with flowers and stolen kisses, but that gentleman was not to be found.
“I agree that it’s confusing,” she said in an effort to placate him, shaken by his angry reaction. “I admit I, too, was terribly confused at first and didn’t believe it and was even shocked when it was all explained to me. Grandpapa never spoke of it to anyone. Even Papa knew nothing of its existence. Had we
known, I should never have accepted your proposal and gotten you and the duke and, oh, everyone tangled up in all this. You must believe me.”
“I find myself struggling, nonetheless, to comprehend what you are telling me. You would have me accept the notion that your grandfather lost a bet—one that occurred nearly thirty years ago, mind you—in which he wagered you, whom he didn’t even know would ever exist, and yet now you and your father both agree that it is binding?” The words he hurled at her hit their mark and stung.
“Yes,” she said—simply, for once.
“And so you are marrying this viscount, who has nothing to offer you but crushing debt and little, if any, social standing, while I, who can and have offered you wealth and prestige and more, have now been cast off. Jilted, as it were.”
“I am so terribly sorry.” It wasn’t as if she’d wanted any of this to happen, for heaven’s sake.
He shook his head in disbelief. “But it’s ludicrous, Lady Louisa! Completely illogical and utterly archaic—like something out of the Middle Ages or an old folktale or worse. I cannot fathom that either of you actually think you are obligated in any way to the terms of this . . . this . . . ridiculous vowel and these lawyers’ nonsensical drivel. And what does it say of the viscount’s character?” he added, rising to his feet and beginning to pace the room. There’d been a lot of pacing today. “I do not know the man, nor do I wish to. That he would hold you to this—why, it’s barbaric. Rather than the normal, refined discussions between families to determine marital property agreements meant to reassure everyone involved, he arrives with his solicitor and makes demands.”
“He didn’t actually demand. It was more a statement of fact,” Louisa carefully pointed out.
“That’s beside the point!” Lord Kerridge exclaimed, slashing his hand through the air angrily. Louisa recoiled; she had never seen Lord Kerridge angry before. It was a revelation. “Not only that,” he continued. “The timing of this is highly suspicious. If this vowel has existed for thirty years, why is it only now that this pathetic viscount, whoever he is, comes forward—immediately after you accepted my proposal, hmm?” He dropped back into his chair and drummed his fingers on his thigh as though pondering the merits of this last thought.