The Bartered Bridegroom

by Teresa DesJardien

  The words came then, because his expression was kind, not severe. She stared down at her hands clasped within his, speaking low so Miss Irving could not hear. She told him all, down to the falsity of the betrothal to Lord Benjamin, that it was to last only one month.

  “And at the end of the month?” he asked gently.

  “I am to cry off, and that will be an end to the matter.” She dared to look up at him through her lashes. “At the end of the month I will be free again. I will be one-and-twenty, and I can then rebuild the old cottage near Meyerley Creek.”

  He made a face. “Meyerley Creek? That is a very wet place, my dove, and that house half crumbled.”

  “The house is solid enough despite its outward appearance,” she told him, just as she had the day they’d driven to view her

  admittedly meager dowry. “Still, I would like to rebuild it, of course, and I have been assured by my father’s steward that drains could be routed into a pond. That would make it so the lower land could—”

  “Could, could, could,” Mr. Cullman chided lightly with a small crooked smile. He had a wonderful smile, even when it was touched with rue. He placed a finger to her nose. “But ‘could’ is not for today. Today, unfortunately, is for this new betrothal of yours.”

  She did not quite know what to make of the mix that showed on his face, of sorrow and something like amusement.

  “I did not know what else to do,” she explained. “I would have thought Papa could settle any debt, so this must be very large. I had to help him. I did not think Papa was that imprudent in his gaming ...” Her voice faded away; the idea had been nagging at her. Papa had gambled extravagant amounts before, she knew from other prior black moods, but never outside his ability to settle. This was ... odd behavior on his part, to say the least.

  “I think, my dear, your papa thought you could do far worse in marriage. Myself, for instance.”

  Katherine leaned toward him, knowing her eyes were rounded by surprised disbelief. “You also think Papa knew about you? That he guessed we were . .. becoming close?”

  Mr. Cullman nodded. “He must have guessed. To give him his due, he was only thinking of you, Miss Oakes, when he thought to make other arrangements for you. After all, Lord Benjamin is the son of a marquess.”

  This must be the truth, since Katherine had also wondered if it might be so! She recalled that faint hesitation before Papa had bowed to Mr. Cullman last night—Papa did not approve of the man. It was obvious.

  He had thought to do better for his only daughter . .. but Lord Benjamin? And, she realized with an internal gasp, the luck would have to have run the opposite way: The man must have lost a fortune to Papa, not Papa losing to Lord Benjamin! It must have been an amount large enough to force Lord Benjamin, in effect, to sell his name, his self, in exchange for release from the debt.

  But, why then only make Katherine promise to be betrothed for a month, with no marriage pending at the conclusion of the

  designated time? How could a betrothal settle a debt between Lord Benjamin and Papa? Papa would demand marriage, for only a wedding could serve to better his daughter’s social standing.

  Had Lord Benjamin seen the refusal in her eyes, and realized he must keep her at his side if he were to have any chance of persuading her otherwise? Did he secretly hope to woo and win her?

  “I do not know ...” Katherine said slowly, doubt and confusion reigning no matter how she turned the puzzle of this betrothal before her mind’s eye.

  “Miss Oakes.”

  “Katherine. Call me Katherine,” she said a little breathlessly, her thoughts churning yet.

  “Katherine,” Mr. Cullman said softly, and he smiled at her. His smile was enough to draw her focus away from the enigma of Lord Benjamin’s offer, to gaze into Mr. Cullman’s dark eyes, so unlike Lord Benjamin’s.

  “You must call me Cyril, when we are alone like this,” he said, his voice a caress.

  “Will we be?” she asked, knowing the question was coy, but wanting an answer. “Alone like this, in a month?”

  “It is my dearest wish, now that you tell me how things go on.” His hands squeezed hers, and she wished she could unfold her cupped hands to squeeze his back.

  This was wonderful! She could settle the debt between her father and Lord Benjamin—whichever way that debt ran—and Cyril was not offended. He would not be driven away by the ruse. He understood! He meant to call upon her. She could have her cottage at Meyerley Creek, and quite possibly restore her betrothal to Mr. Cullman—Cyril—as well. All it required was the passing of a month’s time, regardless of who had lost to whom. She had an agreement with Lord Benjamin, and she would see that it was kept, but she would not, could not be wooed by him.

  What had been a disaster early this morning had evolved into a matter of utter satisfaction. Lives could be built around that idea, around the aspiration to find satisfaction.

  But what of love? Katherine heard the tiny question in the back of her thoughts.

  She looked up into Mr. Cullman’s eyes and she thought... it was difficult to be sure from his expression, but she thought

  Cyril was trying to tell her he would wait for her. He must be at least a little wounded—but he did not chide, or scold, or demand. He did not speak of feelings at all. Of course, by choosing silence, he also did not speak of love.. . .

  But he was without doubt correct—this was not the time for such declarations. It was enough that Cyril was tolerant of this bizarre circumstance. His willingness to perceive this betrothal for what it was and to take no lasting offense that Katherine must play it out, was enough for today. Really, the man was almost too good to be true—and it was Katherine’s great good luck that she had caught his eye back in Bexley.

  Cyril rose, but not before pressing the back of each of Katherine’s hands to his lips. “My dear, until we meet again,” he said, and his gaze lingered flatteringly on her mouth. Then his gaze dropped lower, to the fichu she had pinned carefully low within the bodice of her gown, that her “charms” not be too obscured by the gauze folds. He’d never given her such an openly . .. invitational look before. What was she to make of the frankly appreciative caress of his gaze but to reaffirm he wished the month were already gone and behind them?

  “Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly.

  He bowed and exited, leaving Katherine in a warm fog of serenity that all would work out, all would be well.

  Miss Irving looked toward Katherine with open curiosity, but Katherine felt no compunction to comply with her chaperone’s silent request for details. The less Miss Irving knew, the better, especially if Katherine wished to receive Mr. Cullman as a caller. And if Katherine wished to be alone again with Cyril, with no chaperone at hand at all, there were ways to achieve that end, too.

  What would Miss Irving say if she knew Katherine had two fiances: one public and false, one secret and real?

  She picked up her stitchery as Miss Irving sat down nearby to do the same, but after a couple of stitches the tambour was put aside again and forgotten, as Katherine rose to move and stare out the window.

  Gazing at nothing in particular, she tried to unravel the knotted sensation in her stomach. All was well. All was in place. All was set to turn out for the best. .. but if her gambling papa had taught her nothing else, he had taught Katherine that when things seemed their most risk-free and set for a golden outcome, that was the time when disaster fell.

  His dictum had proven itself time and again at the horse races—all the predicting in the world, all the calculating and studying and knowing a horse’s best times in hot sun or clinging mud could not mitigate the element of chance. Sudden calamity occurred. An ankle broke on uneven turf; or a usually timid horse jostled in the crowd just right so as to find itself springing ahead of the horde; or a jockey could not keep atop the horse’s back. Chance made the unpredictable happen. It made unsuspecting losers rejoice, and broke customary winners’ hearts.

  Katherine stared out the window, and
wondered at the vague sense of unease she felt. Cyril had not chided her nor given her his adieux forever. He had looked upon her with admiration, with—call it as she’d seen it—a kind of hunger. His had been a proprietary glance—like the glance any eager bridegroom extended to his beloved. All was as right as it could be, for now ... was it not?

  It was then that what Cyril had said repeated in her mind. “How can I explain my sorrow at my folly? At that cur’s cunning?” he had said. He’d said it as soon as he’d entered the room, even before he’d shown her the bridal announcement. He’d certainly said it before she’d had an opportunity to explain how Lord Benjamin had come to ask for her hand.

  Cyril had already known something of last night’s events, Katherine realized with a gasp. Beyond what the news sheet had said. Even more, he had been involved in some way in last night’s debacle, for he had claimed a part in it by saying he was sorrowed at his own folly.

  Katherine leaned back in her chair, her thoughts whirling, her hands unsteady where they fell together in the folds of her gown. She saw Miss Irving glance at her, frowning just a bit before turning back to her stitchery.

  Katherine saw that she was being handed the truth in little pieces, little moments of insight. She wondered fleetingly if she would ever really be told all, ever totally comprehend the goings- on of this odd affair? A few more things had fallen into place, because Cyril had shown he already knew a wager had taken her hand from his and placed it—however temporarily—in that of Lord Benjamin.

  Clearly, Papa had arranged something. A wager? A fixed wager? Papa, who hated cheaters?

  No! No, it was not possible. Papa would not violate his own rules of conduct—and surely not in the matter of a betrothal! Then again, Katherine had been willing to believe that he had overplayed his ability to pay, so how sure could she be of her papa’s ideals?

  What was possible, what seemed born of the particulars, was that Papa had somehow contrived to engage both men in a matter resolved by a wager. Had Mr. Cullman been deep in his cups? Was that the nature of his “folly”? Or had his folly been not seeing Lord Benjamin’s “cunning,” as Cyril had called it?

  Cyril had lost this wager, clearly. Why did he not tell her? Katherine winced—how would one explain such a thing? Or .. . she lifted her head slowly, finding another explanation, one that made more sense of both Cyril’s and Papa’s actions. If Papa had wagered too deeply, to the point of ruining his estate ... could Cyril have accepted the wager, even lost deliberately, in order to help Papa?

  It was at least possible he had surrendered his betrothal for the month Lord Benjamin needed, in order to assist his fiancйe’s father. . . . Possible, but how likely? Surely such thoughts were half mad.. . .

  But, no, wait. The pieces of this riddle were all there. They just needed to be sorted through. Think! Was it so impossible that Cyril could have lost on purpose? Cyril’s losing on purpose even made sense of his lack of outrage over last night’s events, his tolerance today.

  He had to know Katherine would be hurt to learn Papa had treated her future as a chit in a game of chance. So .. . perhaps he acted as he had in order to protect her?

  The lingering glance he had given her—that had surely been a silent promise, had it not? That their time together was not at an end? That one day he would explain, when the raw edges of this wound had healed a bit? Perhaps when he was actually the son by marriage and not just the hidden fiancй he had been until now?

  He would be free to explain all, in a month.

  Until then, she did not doubt he would hold his tongue on the matter . . . but she supposed she had the right of it anyway. Lord Benjamin, after all, had said that there had been a secondary wager, his being betrothed before morning—obviously that wager had stood between him and Cyril. But how had Cyril come to offer or take up such a foolish wager?

  “How can I explain my sorrow at my folly? At that cur’s cunning?” Cyril had said upon greeting her today.

  There were only two answers: that he’d been protecting Papa somehow: or that Cyril had been deceived—and it had to have been Lord Benjamin who had done the deceiving; Katherine could not believe that Papa would condone cheating.

  Then there was the biggest question of all, the one she came back to time and time again: Why?

  Could there be some standing feud between Cyril and Lord Benjamin? Was taking away Cyril’s betrothed an act of revenge on Lord Benjamin’s part? Is that why he only required Katherine’s playacting at a betrothal and not a marriage? To offend or humiliate Cyril, while never having to end the “game” with an actual wedding—which, she felt sure, was the last thing Lord Benjamin wanted with her.

  But... how could this folderol be meant to embarrass Cyril, since no one knew of his betrothal to Katherine in the first place . . . ? And why such a nonsensical scheme? She’d heard of this manner of folly being wagered upon in the betting books at the gentlemen’s clubs.. . . She shook her head, hardly able to conceive of it, even though she knew fortunes had been won and lost on something so inane as whether or not a certain raindrop would fall to the bottom of one window before another.

  She’d have to ask Cyril to explain his part in all this. In a month—for she had no doubt he would hold his tongue until then, until Katherine had publicly ended this fiasco.

  She rose from her chair and stepped to the shelf where she stored her journals, the ones in which she recorded racing results. She pulled out one of the large books, running her hands over the binding, seeking the comforting touch of the familiar. Early this morning she had settled her future—well, her ability to live at Meyerley Creek anyway—to her liking and she ought to be as satisfied as a cat who’d been at the cream . .. but she frowned down at the leather binding in her hands, and remembered the gambler’s advice, and wondered what part of this tangled tapestry could come even more unraveled.

  It could end with my never marrying Cyril, she thought with an interior wince. It could end with me never being with the one man who is willing to take me as I am.

  “I do not need to marry,” she reminded herself, her voice sounding disappointed even to her own ears.

  “What is that. Miss Katherine?” Miss Irving asked, glancing up briefly.

  “Nothing,” Katherine said, chagrined she had spoken aloud. In this matter of marriage she must keep her own council. Papa had plans, Lord Benjamin had plans, Cyril had plans—everyone did, including Katherine. And her plan was to marry the man of her choice, or marry no man at all. She could live in her cottage on Meyerley Creek. Grandmama had deeded her a small income on which to live there, and perhaps Papa would contribute toward making the cottage more comfortable? Even if he did not, it could—would—be Katherine’s home, a refuge, a place where she could be her own woman and live her own life.

  She was fortunate, she saw that now. She need not be practical; she need not even fret over the details of this arrangement in which she was ensnared. Time would pass; the trap would open, and she’d be a free woman then. She could afford to fall in love then, to marry where she wished . . . or if she wished. She had choices, which was more than most young women could say.

  I shall consider marriage after I am finished being engaged to Lord Benjamin, Katherine told herself, hearing the irony of the statement in her own mind, even as she tried to ignore yet another flutter of unease.

  Chapter 8

  N

  ot three minutes later, Benjamin nodded as the front door of the Oakes’s home was opened by their butler, Langley. Before Langley could even speak to greet him, another voice interrupted.

  “Lord Benjamin!” Mr. Cullman said sharply from where he stood in the front hall, his hat and gloves already in hand. “I would speak a moment with you.”

  The butler looked from one guest to the other, clearly unsure what to do.

  “Er, very well. Let us speak outside,” Benjamin said. Cullman nodded curtly, and swept past the curious-eyed butler. As soon as the door was closed behind them, Cullman whirled to face
Benjamin. “You told Miss Oakes that we were engaged in a wager!”

  Benjamin made a small gesture. “Which we were.”

  Cullman glared at him. “I confess it never occurred to me that you would be so maladroit as to tell the lady what had truly occurred. But I should have known, given the family from which you sprang.”

  Benjamin’s tolerance evaporated and he grabbed the other man by the cravat to slam him up against the wall next to the front door. “You know nothing of my family.”

  “I know your mother was mad, and your father a ruffian— just as you appear to me. Unhand me, sir.”

  “Listen closely, blackguard,” Benjamin said, never loosening his grip. “Any collusion is ended between us from this moment forward. I have played your game once, and I will not play it a second time. As to Miss Oakes, I told her what I could of the truth, because she is not a mere toy to be tossed aside lightly at a man’s whim. She had to be told something that

  made sense to her. Her father and I allowed her to believe Sir Albert is in debt to me and that I require a temporary fiancйe. She agreed to the pretense, but only for a month, until her birthday.

  “You,” Benjamin shook the man as best he could, so that Cullman’s head repeatedly struck the wall, tipping his hat forward over his eyes—“will tell her nothing otherwise, or I will be forced to remember this moment and take offense at it. I will not be afraid to stand opposite you in a duel. Do we understand one another?”

  “Plainly enough,” Cullman said on a sneer as he reached to push his hat back into place.

  “What we allowed Miss Oakes to believe protects you as much as it does her, so I assume you are intelligent enough to know it behooves you to hold your tongue.”