Until on the fourth day, her ease abruptly ended. The morning dawned chilly and wet enough to deter the keenest huntsman. When her father requested her presence in the music room after breakfast, she should have guessed what was in store.
“You wished to speak to me, Papa?” She stepped into the lovely room with its view of Ferney’s extensive gardens, today gray under sheeting rain. Even for someone used to fine houses, the Hillbrooks’ home took her breath away. She was grateful she’d had a chance to see it.
Or she had been grateful until she glanced past her father’s sturdy form to where Desborough stood near the window.
Oh, dear God, no.
She tensed like a deer scenting the hunter’s approach. No, worse than that. A deer caught in a trap.
“Lord Desborough requested a private word, Marianne.” First thing, her father had been glum because of the weather. Now he sounded as if his horse had won the Derby.
She supposed in a way his horse had. Since he’d reluctantly accepted that Camden Rothermere would never be his son-in-law, he’d pressed hard for this union.
“Lady Marianne, I hope you can spare me a few minutes.” His lordship stepped forward and gestured to a couch near the gleaming Broadwood piano.
“I’ll leave you then.” At a glare from his daughter, her father stopped rubbing his hands together. “No need to hurry. In the country nobody thinks twice about two old friends having a quiet chat.”
Her father didn’t want her using propriety as an excuse to back out. But the minute Marianne entered this ambush, she’d realized that any retreat only delayed the inescapable. Lord Desborough had come to Wiltshire to propose. Her father had brought her here to accept her future as Lady Desborough.
She squared her shoulders and mustered a smile for her sedate suitor, even if somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of her dreams splintering. “Shall we sit down, my lord?”
Her father grinned. “That’s it, my girl. No need to stand on ceremony with a fellow who’s known you since you were toddling.”
Desborough cast her father a worried glance. Mention of his age was hardly likely to recommend him to a woman so much younger. Despite everything, Marianne found a grim amusement in her father’s blundering tactlessness.
Her papa cleared his throat, backing toward the door. “I’m off for a walk in the gallery. Heard tell there’s some fine pictures here. A man needs to see fine pictures.”
Her father possessed a large collection of old masters inherited from previous Seatons. Marianne knew for a fact that he couldn’t tell his Rembrandt from his Gainsborough. Although she’d once overheard him commenting favorably on the abundant charms of a fleshy Rubens when he hadn’t known she was within earshot.
No, her father would linger in the Hillbrooks’ long gallery for one reason. It had nothing to do with art appreciation. He waited for news of his daughter’s engagement.
He loved her, but she always felt that was conditional on her obedience. Accepting Desborough would finally achieve his approval, especially after the disappointment with Sedgemoor. She wished that fact gave her more satisfaction.
As her father closed the door behind him—Desborough’s proposal rated concessions that Elias’s hadn’t—Marianne sat on the blue and gold couch. Her pulse was measured; her calmness this time was no sham. Resignation wasn’t a romantic response to a proposal, but it was the strongest reaction she could muster. After a hesitation that hinted his lordship was more nervous than he appeared, Desborough joined her, maintaining a decorous distance.
“You must have an inkling of what I’m about to ask you, Lady Marianne,” he said quietly, watching her with a concentration that made her want to squirm. A lifetime of training was all that kept her unmoving. Her martinet governess had instilled the rule that ladies did not wriggle.
“My father isn’t the most subtle of men,” Marianne said with a trace of a smile.
“No, but he means well, and he loves you dearly.”
Yes, he did. And since her mother’s death eighteen years ago, he’d pinned all his hopes on his only child. Marianne had tried to please him, even at seven understanding his inconsolable grief at losing his wife.
When she didn’t speak, Desborough went on. “He would be happy if we made a match of it.”
She’d known what was coming—the stupidest girl in England would know—but hearing the words shook her. “My lord, I—”
Desborough raised one hand to silence her. “Thomas, please. I hope we’ve achieved sufficient intimacy to use Christian names.” He subjected her to another of those searching regards. “I hope we’ll achieve a relationship even more intimate.”
So much for resignation. Every muscle tightened in rejection. She could hardly endure the idea of Desborough using her body.
Marianne wanted to beg him to stop, but she stifled the plea as she remembered the eager light in her father’s eyes. An eager light missing since last year’s setback with Sedgemoor.
After a pause which he clearly hoped she’d fill with some encouraging remark, Desborough went on. “Of course, no lady should marry purely to please her father. I’m hoping that over the last months you’ve come to realize how genuinely I admire and esteem you.”
She needed to say something. She forced words through a closed throat. “I’ve enjoyed your company, my lor—Thomas,” she said in a low voice, staring into her lap and wishing fruitlessly that she was a woman who aroused more than admiration in the males of her acquaintance. Wishing that she aroused a fraction of the passion that her former suitor shared with his duchess.
Wishing was a waste of time. She didn’t love Desborough, but he was a good man. There were worse fates than marrying him. Even if right now, she couldn’t think of any. She swallowed and told herself that bursting into tears would be an unforgivable breach of good manners.
“Because I admire and esteem you, Marianne, I would count myself blessed if you consent to be my wife.”
She made herself look at him. For his age, he was an attractive man. A thoughtful face, alert brown eyes, brown hair with a hint of silver at the temples. A distinguished man. Wealthy Conscientious. If he pledged himself to her, she could rely on him.
A faint smile lightened his austere features. “I believe at this point, it is usual for the lady to respond.”
She swallowed in a vain attempt to shift the emotion jamming her throat and straightened a backbone already as stiff as a ruler. She’d have a fine, useful life as Lady Desborough. And he’d give her children. She dearly wanted children to love, children who wouldn’t care that she was an heiress or famous for her perfect behavior.
“Marianne?”
She’d been bred to marry a powerful man like Desborough. If her heart cried out for something more, she could learn to close her ears to its demands.
One day.
He must think her a lunatic for dithering. After all, this proposal was as inevitable as Christmas. “Thank you, my—Thomas. I’m flattered by your interest.”
“More than just flattered, I hope, my dear.” As if to underline their new closeness, he took her hand. When she started, he cast her a quizzical glance. “Don’t say you’re surprised. Your father gave me to understand that our inclinations followed a similar path.”
“Not surprised, but—”
“We have so much in common.” He paused. “Not least that our first matrimonial choices turned out to be unwise.”
Lady Sophie Fairbrother’s elopement had left him the butt of gossip. They did indeed share more than just her father’s regard. “I didn’t like all the talk.”
“Neither did I.” He looked unexpectedly approachable. She remembered that she’d always liked Lord Desborough. She told herself that forty-five wasn’t old. After all, at twenty-five, she wasn’t exactly a blushing debutante herself.
His hand tightened on hers. She didn’t mind his touch, but felt no particular thrill either. Perhaps that was a good thing. She’d never enjoyed emotional storms. Lord
Desborough would be a solid, conformable, sensible spouse.
That description shouldn’t make her want to howl in despair.
When again she didn’t answer, he continued. “We’ve both been through the mill, Marianne. Now everything has turned out for the best. Lady Sophie wasn’t the wife for me and pardon me for saying so, but Camden Rothermere has proven himself unworthy of you.”
“You don’t mention…affection,” she said slowly, although the idea of Desborough professing undying love made her stomach curdle.
“I’m convinced affection will grow with time. I hope you already consider me a friend.”
She nodded, even as her heart sank. “You’ve always been very kind.”
“Kindness and friendship form an excellent basis for marriage. We’re both past the age of romantic nonsense, thank heaven.”
I want romantic nonsense. I want someone to love me.
Of course she didn’t say the pitiable words aloud.
She’d immediately discounted Elias’s declaration. He loved her money. In her life, she’d seriously considered marrying two men. Camden Rothermere, Duke of Sedgemoor, and Thomas Wilkie, Earl Desborough. Neither had pretended to love her.
The strength of her longing to be more, to be enough, would have astonished anyone who knew her. Sorrow clogged her throat and made it difficult to speak. But speak she must.
She raised her chin. It was childish to pine for some mythical beau who wanted her because without her, his life turned into a barren desert. “My lord, you honor me with your proposal—”
“My dear Marianne,” he said with a warmth she’d never heard before. “You make me the happiest of men.”
Staring into his face, she was shocked to see that while he didn’t love her, he wasn’t averse to sharing her bed. Perhaps passion might have a chance after all. She tried not to gag at the images invading her mind.
She withdrew her hand and dredged her soul for the words that would make her this man’s wife. “Thomas, this is—”
His eyes brightened and he leaned forward, making the couch seem suddenly uncomfortably cramped. She licked dry lips and made herself speak.
What emerged wasn’t what she expected to say or what he expected to hear.
“I beg your indulgence and ask for a few days to consider my answer.”
Chapter Four
* * *
“Sidonie, my dearest darling, what are you up to?”
At her husband’s sardonic question, Sidonie Merrick, Viscountess Hillbrook, raised her head from the letter she was writing. The stark gray light through the window illuminated her like a woman in a Dutch painting. She’d bundled her glossy mahogany hair into an untidy knot and her deep bronze merino gown made her skin glow like a pearl. Jonas was always conscious of his wife’s beauty. Sometimes, like now, her loveliness struck him like a physical blow.
Which didn’t mean he trusted her ingenuous smile. “I’m telling Pen about our house party.”
Jonas’s eyes sharpened on Sidonie where she sat at the large, masculine desk she’d ordered to replace the useless piece of feminine frippery he’d originally chosen for her sitting room. Sidonie had expressed blatant contempt for its practicality. His wife was closely involved in his activities and took responsibility for running his estates, while he concentrated on trade and manufacturing. He usually counted her as his greatest business asset—but not today.
“I’m sure you are. Is there anything you’d like to tell your husband?”
She rose with the grace that even after two years of marriage set his heart stuttering. “I love you?”
The canny wench knew how to reach him. Until Sidonie’s advent in his life, love had been a rare commodity. Now thanks to this remarkable woman, love was the very air he breathed.
“Are you asking me if you do?”
She stretched up on her toes to brush her lips across his. “Aren’t you sure?”
He stared down into her shining brown eyes and because he couldn’t help himself, bent for a more leisurely kiss. When he raised his head, he was pleased to see that she looked considerably less arch. Instead she regarded him through a dreamy glow.
Sometimes the power of what he felt for Sidonie terrified him. He’d learned young that solitude was the safest option in a world more inclined to cruelty than kindness. Occasions like this reminded him that, inexplicable as it seemed, she loved him, too.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he murmured and caught her upper arms in his big hands. “Even if I want to take you over my knee right now and spank you.”
Her eyes sparkled with mockery—and a trace of excitement. “I might enjoy that.”
“Then I definitely won’t spank you,” he said, tucking the idea away for revisiting later. She retained the power to surprise him, his gorgeous wife. His headstrong, self-willed, meddling wife. His voice firmed, partly to remind himself that he hadn’t come in here to flirt. “You’re out to scupper my plans for a deal with Baildon.”
This time she didn’t bother pretending innocence. “I’m out to achieve a friend’s happiness. That’s much more important than a few pennies in the family coffers.”
Despite his vexation, he couldn’t contain a grunt of laughter. “A few pennies? Those fields in Hampstead promise to make me thousands. Do you want our children to starve, madam?”
It was Sidonie’s turn to look unimpressed. “Doing it too brown, my love. If you never lifted another finger, our children could eat truffled pheasant off gold dishes until they’re ninety.” She paused. “Child, that is. Unless you know something I don’t.”
He’d dearly love to add another occupant to the nursery where his daughter Consuela slept in luxury. His wife distracted him from his point. Deliberately, he knew. “You’ve put Elias Thorne up in Barstowe Hall.”
Barstowe was the Merrick family seat, a rambling Jacobean manor of no particular distinction adjoining Ferney. Jonas had devoted most of his life to getting his hands on this tangible symbol of his inheritance. Once he did, after his marriage, the house had been too full of bitter memories. He and his bride had soon settled into Ferney, the elaborate palace he’d built to undermine his vile cousin’s pretensions to the Hillbrook title. Jonas was currently renovating the ramshackle old place with a view to leasing it.
“How did you know?” Sidonie asked without a trace of apology.
“My love, Barstowe is next door. How did you expect me not to know?” He drew a long-suffering breath. “Mrs. Bevan saw lights last night so I went over after breakfast to check. Imagine my surprise to find Cam’s brother-in-law camping in the south wing.”
“I would have told you,” she said uncomfortably. “But I thought you wouldn’t like it.”
“Damn it, Sidonie, I don’t,” he said with an edge and turned to face out the window. “It was underhanded.”
“I know,” she said quietly from behind him. “And you’re right to be angry.”
“This infernal house party is meant to get Baildon and Desborough on board. Thanks to last year’s antics from Cam and Harry, I’ve had difficulty gaining a hearing.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I’ll ask Elias to leave today.”
He hated that subdued note. “You can’t help matchmaking. In this case, you’re misguided. I have it on good authority that Marianne intends to accept Desborough.”
“Her father’s?” Sidonie’s skepticism was audible.
“Well, yes. They’re suitably matched and she’ll make the perfect political hostess.”
His wife sighed behind him. “Poor Marianne, consigned to marriage with a man almost twice her age, and fated to politeness for the rest of her days.”
Jonas hardened his heart against the regret in his wife’s voice. “She’s been bred for it.”
“She’s not a prize ewe, Jonas.”
“No, but she’s also none of our business.”
“She’s a friend. That makes her our concern. I want her to have a loving marriage. A meeting of minds and hear
ts.” Her voice lowered. “A marriage like ours.”
“Oh, hell, Sidonie, what am I expected to say to that?” He turned at last to find her watching him with a pleading light in her eyes.
She looked so disarmingly earnest. “You could say you’ll help me to throw Marianne and Elias together.”
He took her hand. How could he cling to his displeasure? “My darling, Elias needs to marry an heiress—and quickly. He must view Marianne as an easy solution to his monetary woes. She’ll be better off with Desborough whose regard is at least sincere.”
“I don’t believe that about Elias,” Sidonie said stubbornly.
“You know Peter left the Thorne finances in complete disarray.”
“Yes, but I also saw the way Elias and Marianne looked at one another last Christmas.”
“That was months ago.”
“And how they looked at one another at the Chetwell ball last week.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“You made me one.”
Impatience firmed his lips. “If I get involved in this mess—and I’m not saying I will—I’ll lose any chance of convincing Baildon or Desborough to work with me. They’re men of influence.”
“If they keep alienating people like Cam and you, I suspect their influence isn’t going to last.”
“Perhaps. But I have plans for that Hampstead land.”
“You’ll find somewhere else.”
“Your confidence is reassuring.”
“I can’t see a clever man like Elias being poor forever.”
“I admit I was struck with his acumen when he worked with Cam on that canal scheme. And he’s quick to find possibilities in new ideas. I hear he’s involved in using steam to power transport.”
Sidonie’s smile was wry. “Be careful. You’ll talk yourself into agreeing with me.”
A short laugh escaped him. “The Thornes are reckless by nature. Elias’s dabbling in science could merely be another symptom of inherited rashness, like Peter’s gambling.”
Three Proposals and a Scandal: A Sons of Sin Novella Page 3