The Bartered Bridegroom

by Teresa DesJardien

  "These things are done for money, Miss Oakes.” He cut her off, the smile erased, his expression turned sour.

  “Did you do it? Sell the supplies?”

  The sour look fell away, replaced by a superior lift of his chin, to her mind quite out of keeping with the dark deed he’d claimed. “I must have done, to have admitted to it. But, I do not wish to speak of this any longer. The misdeed was made and admitted, and it is time to move on.”

  Katherine stared up at him, and wondered why she saw under the smugness something like distress in his eyes. No man liked to be forced to revisit his misdeeds, of course. Could this merely be simple regret that he’d been caught? Or did he now realize what he had put at stake and belatedly regretted having risked it?

  “You are buying respectability!” Katherine said, the thought coming to her suddenly. “This proposal—it is to make you appear respectable!” she declared. “You want to be seen being accepted by an old family with a good name.”

  Lord Benjamin neither nodded nor shook his head, but his lips thinned.

  “Our wealth may not be extensive,” Katherine said, completing the puzzle aloud, “but the Oakeses stand among the oldest families in England. We are imminently respectable—” She cut herself off, another point of confusion coming to her. “But if you are buying respectability, Lord Benjamin, surely a marriage would serve you far better than a mere betrothal?” she challenged.

  His face darkened now, either from embarrassment or aggravation, but he merely shook his head.

  “Oh!” Katherine regretted the cry the moment it crossed her lips, but understanding had dawned. Lord Benjamin stared at her. “You want to be connected with the Oakes name, but not at the cost of actually having to marry me I see. Really, I do. I know I am not well regarded here in London.”

  It was her turn to stare back at Lord Benjamin. There was a sense of satisfaction at having reasoned out the situation, but that did not mean her pride went unwounded.

  “And so our betrothal is to be broken, and no marriage was ever desired,” she declared, resisting the impulse to let her shoulders sag. “Not with me.”

  If possible, his face darkened even further in obvious agitation. “You malign yourself unnecessarily, Miss Oakes. It is not you specifically—I do not wish to marry anyone. Not at this time,” he said gruffly.

  She could not imagine why his words lifted her spirits a fraction, except that perhaps it was possible he spoke the truth, not so much rejecting her as marriage altogether. She thought his scheme a poor one—why not make a betrothal to a more likely lady in the first place?—but the answer to that was expediency. She had to believe he had seen an opportunity, something between him and Papa and Mr. Cullman, and had seized it.

  “Nor do I wish to discuss this any further,” he said firmly. “Everything is behind us except the next month’s work, and that is all we need concern ourselves with now.”

  “Yes.” Really, it was a bit of a relief to know the worst of the man. At least she would not be surprised by any lack of scruples in him for the next month . .. assuming he’d just shown her his worst intentions.

  “You are sure your bruise will not bother you if we stroll?” Lord Benjamin asked, changing the subject. It was clear there would be no more questions answered by him this evening, not about this betrothal. “We could greet people from my phaeton, if that would be better.”

  “Oh no. My side does quite well unless I apply pressure. Walking is fine.”

  This was the second time he had thought to ask after her health. It could all be pretended concern—but, really, she found it difficult to hold fixed in her mind the idea of him as a horrible scoundrel. . . . Perhaps it was the underlying edge of discomfort—regret?—in his manner that allowed her to think he must wish he had taken a more noble path in this whole, sordid affair.

  That he even knew which path might be the more noble one meant he was not utterly without human feeling and, perhaps, a desire to change his ways.

  Perhaps Lord Benjamin had come to London seeking a second chance? I could wish for such a chance, Katherine thought as she placed her hand on the arm Lord Benjamin offered her. Besides, their fates were not going to be bound together for long. His honor, or lack of it, was not her concern. She had only to be gracious and tolerate him as she would any stranger, and soon enough Lord Benjamin and his reputation would be out of her life.

  Their walk through Green Park turned out to be painful, not physically but emotionally. After enduring a dozen snubs, Katherine was tempted to announce aloud that she and Lord Benjamin were actually well suited, having much in common, largely their barely tolerated existence at the edge of the beau monde—but good sense prevailed.

  However, perhaps in their way even more painful than the snubs were those moments when someone made a point of coming forward to congratulate the couple, for Katherine found it difficult to look into kind eyes and lie about her intention to wed this man. Snobbery could be preferred to kindness, for the latter tended to bring tears to her eyes, tears that she had to blink away, or else explain away as “tears of happiness.” The embraces she was given and the kisses on her cheek stung like salt in a wound, and it became increasingly difficult to smile and nod and play such a terrible game of pretend.

  What would they all think of her when she “cried off’? At best, they would think her frivolous. Many would say she only ran true to her reputation. What would they think if... when she was betrothed a second time? She would not be the first woman to turn over one fiance for another in a short period of time ... but that thought brought little comfort, for she already knew Society did not like to welcome back wayward daughters who tried to play outside its rules.

  But, did it matter? What use did Katherine have for Society? She hoped to make her home in Bexley, far from London. Taking a little comfort from that reminder, she found another store of smiles and chatter, and used them to get her past this afternoon’s awkwardness.

  When a congratulatory Mrs. Trundle and her daughter had made their adieux, it left Katherine and Lord Benjamin alone as they had not been since first descending from his phaeton at the park's gates. Katherine turned to look up at this man she was claiming, however temporarily, as her betrothed. His face was composed in bland—one could even say sanguine—order. If not for the tic of a small muscle along his jaw, Katherine would have thought him entirely at ease, entirely pleased with the day’s events.

  Somehow she liked him a little better for that small, telling tic. The short time she’d spent in his company had already taught her he was not a wholly horrible man—he had his moments when she thought him more human than beast. Not many, and too far between, but he was not so much an ogre as first impressions had implied. Besides, she would be wrongheaded to compare him to the matchless Mr. Cullman; any man would pale in that shadow.

  Lord Benjamin glanced about, then lowered his gaze to hers. “I think we have suffered enough,” he pronounced with the hint of dry humor, one she now acknowledged he was capable of displaying. “Are you ready to return home?”

  “Yes, thank you,” she said with heartfelt relief. She’d have to go through much the same scrutiny all over again at the Bellord ball, in just a few hours, but for the moment she’d had enough of stares and whispers—and she was gratified that Lord Benjamin had the sense to give them both a time of respite. He might be ruthless when he wanted something, but at least in small matters such as this he had already proved to possess a modicum of sense—and even, remarkably, tact. Tact from Lord Benjamin? Wonders never cease, Katherine thought wryly to herself.

  Chapter 10

  Later that evening, Benjamin stared at the funds atop the dresser drawers that had come with his rented room, amazed all over again by how little money was there. It was three weeks until his quarter day, when funds would go into his account at the Bank of England, as he’d arranged for them to do when he’d first arrived in London. Gideon’s man of business would be sure the funds were paid on time from the estate. It
would not be a large sum, but certainly welcome. As for now, with just a little over three pounds in his purse between now and quarter day . ..

  At least three pounds was enough to see that he had bread once or twice a day until more funds arrived. Bread and an occasional beer—enough for life, if not for enjoyment. But he’d lived on meager rations before, for want of supplies on a ship too long at sea. He’d survive.

  However, rent was due in ten days. Even if he could persuade the landlord to wait, that payment would consume half of the quarterly sum that would have just come to him.

  It was sorely tempting to write home .. . but he would not ask Gideon for an advance, nor for an increase in his allowance. The estate could afford it, easily, but Benjamin would not ask. Pride had its hold on him again.

  He did not even want to think how he’d pay the fees to keep Fallen Angel, yet he was determined not to support his choices through his brother. Truth was, he knew he’d have to sell the horse—the one thing he had managed to make his own since leaving home. He’d not even get to see the mare run before he lost her, too.

  Benjamin gave a frustrated thump on the top of the dresser drawers, making the coins jump before he scooped them into his purse. If worse came to worst, he could move into the old family home on Seymour Street, which Gideon had ordered completely gutted and renovated upon his marriage. Benjamin had gone there, upon first arriving in London, but the unfamiliar man paid to mind the place of an evening had assured him the house was uninhabitable, a fact his own eyes had seen. Still, if so little as one room was capable of being made usable, Benjamin might end there yet. Go home. .. .

  His pitifully thin purse now in his coat pocket, Benjamin shook his head and turned to his room’s looking glass.

  His black coat over a cream-colored waistcoat and charcoal- gray breeches was well enough for a ball, but his hair was growing out. It had a slight wavy texture to it, requiring that it either be kept very short or else grown out long to look its best. Despite the fact both his brothers preferred their hair long, Benjamin preferred his clipped and controlled. Could he cut it himself? His reflection frowned at the very idea of such folly.

  “Guess I will not become a barber,” Benjamin said to himself as he straightened his cravat, well aware he had no talent for physicking, or pulling teeth, let alone cutting hair. He just managed to scrape away his own beard.

  He’d not hired a valet upon coming to London, knowing the money in his purse after leaving the navy was all that would keep him until he found employment. Besides, he’d learned how to maintain his own apparel while he’d been on board ship. He was not clever at it, but he got by.

  He tugged at his cravat, trying to make the one side match the other. The cursed thing would not lie properly. “And so much for a career as a valet,” he muttered, but not without a small, if slightly mocking, smile at himself.

  The cravat would have to do even if it was not perfectly draped. Benjamin turned to collect his greatcoat, gloves, and beaver hat, at least the latter of which he knew how to brush until it looked just as it ought.

  “You are in a fine mood this evening, my lord,” the manager of the bachelor apartments, Mr. Finchley, told Benjamin as he came down the stairs toward the front door.

  “Am I?” Benjamin replied, a little surprised by the observation. He would have thought an unpleasant expression might grace his visage. He could certainly think of more pleasant

  things to do than escort Miss Oakes to a ball—although it would scarcely be an onerous duty, nothing like keeping watch on a storm-washed night sea.

  “I will need my phaeton brought around yet again,” he requested, naming his only vehicle—and even that one meager equipage was only something he had hired out for a month. Yet another worry: How would he get about London if he could not afford another month’s hire? He’d have to walk. Yet another step down in consequence.

  To think, if only he would go home to Severn’s Well he could use any carriage in his brother’s stable; could have a valet; could have beer or champagne to his fill anytime he wished them, without a single penny leaving his purse.

  He could go home. Perhaps he should ... but, no. Not for a month anyway; he was to be at Miss Oakes’s side.

  Instead of discouraging him, that thought actually buoyed his sagging spirits; he had another month to possibly—if improbably—make something of himself.

  He could leave such dire thoughts for another day. The only worry he had for tonight was that of maintaining a happy facade. He was tired, but he could manage the act even if today had already been a very long day, with too much high emotion crowded into it.

  The latest, and worst, had been when Miss Oakes had erroneously come to the conclusion that he wanted a limited betrothal between them only because he had no interest in marrying her specifically.

  Truth was, he did not wish to marry her, but neither did he wish his actions to make her feel belittled. While he would choose a wholly different kind of woman as his wife, there was surely someone, somewhere, who would appreciate Miss Oakes’s ... er, enthusiasm for life.

  Miss Oakes had a certain amount of grace, even charm, when she was not outrageously dressed in lad’s clothing or demanding recompense for a faked betrothal. Whereas he might have liked to tell her how to alter her behavior the better to suit London life, he had no interest in implying her hopes on the marriage mart were small. There was no reason to be cruel, after all.

  Benjamin climbed up into his phaeton, accepting the reins.

  He signaled the horses to proceed, even while he uttered a tired sigh. Yes, it had been a long day. Besides everything else that had subsequently occurred, this morning he had gone straight from Sir Albert’s home—where he’d just proposed to Miss Oakes—to the club where his old friend, Davis, was likely to be found breakfasting.

  Davis, stout friend that he’d proven himself to be, wrote out a letter of recommendation, and had introduced Benjamin despite some dubious gazes thrown their way. Over breakfast, six men of importance had been met, six bows exchanged—but no employment offers had been tendered.

  “Sorry, my lad, but I already have a capable fellow clerking for me,” had been the typical response to Benjamin’s not-so- subtle inquiries.

  Still, tomorrow would be soon enough to renew the pursuit of employment; Benjamin just hoped he was not so tired as to accidentally offend tonight someone he might wish to impress tomorrow. All he had to do tonight was to pretend he was happily on the edge of wedded bliss.

  All? he thought with a small, ironic smile.

  He had been right to doubt the task would be a simple one, Benjamin thought an hour later. He had to stifle an annoyed sigh, watching from a few feet away as his supposed fiancйe became so caught up in stating her opinion—that Green Park was meant to resemble woods and adding flowers along its paths would detract from its deliberate countrylike flavor—that some of the wine in her glass sloshed onto the Bellords’ carpet. Hardly the kind of female to which he wished his name attached.

  Her chaperone, Miss Irving, came from a nearby chair to dab at the carpet after murmuring something in Miss Oakes’s ear that caused the latter to put down her glass.

  Only to have Cyril Cullman pick it up again and place it back in her hand with a smile, even as he signaled a footman to come and refill the glass. Miss Oakes smiled brightly at him in return, and Benjamin just managed to keep his lip from curling.

  It was now abundantly clear that Cullman sought out Miss Oakes’s company. It made no sense at all, but the man had been at Miss Oakes’s side since the moment she’d entered the room. And, unlike the chaperone who tried to curb the more flamboyant aspects of her charge’s nature, Cullman encouraged Miss Oakes by grinning at her, and asking her to “please, go on,” and giving every impression he listened intently to everything she had to say.

  Why? Why desert the girl, hand her over to another, only to come back to her side? Why gaze upon her with what strongly resembled approval, even admiration?

&nb
sp; The answer, perhaps, stood on Cullman’s left: Miss Violet Mansell. Miss Mansell was quite pretty, and a brief acquaintance had led to an impression that she was well mannered and intelligent. Were Benjamin truly in the market for a bride, he would look for someone very like Miss Mansell. She was soft- spoken, demure, and pleasant. He liked her blond hair, which would be long and straight once unpinned from atop her head. The large pearl earbobs at her ears were a silent testimony to style, as well as an announcement that her papa had a few coins to rub together. Her gown was cream silk, adorned with furbelows the color of her Christian name.

  Miss Mansell, Benjamin supposed, must have a greater dowry than did Miss Oakes. Cullman would have made the same assessment as well. Logic went further, to suggest that Cullman was using Miss Oakes as a foil, to attract the attention of the real target in this campaign, the wealthier, more socially adept Miss Mansell.

  Benjamin looked up at a long case clock across the ballroom, and ground his teeth in impatience to see an hour had not yet gone by. The dancing was not set to begin until ten, until after most of the guests had arrived and partaken of the food laid out at one end of the room.

  He thought to ask Miss Oakes if she would promenade with him, but then she flushed with pleasure at yet another compliment Cullman spewed forth, and instead Benjamin merely turned away. If he lingered here, he would say something terse or impolite, and Miss Oakes would demand to know why. Better just to step away, to let his irritation dissipate a bit. Then he would return to fetch his “fiancee” and play the pretty with the evidently easy-to-flatter Miss Oakes.

  Though, really, the poor creature was to be pitied—how would she feel if Cullman did not renew his offer when the

  month was over? How would all this flirting and conviviality on Cullman’s part now make her feel then?