The Offer

by Sara Portman

  “More convenient?” Bex asked, more to forestall his intended denial of the request than out of actual curiosity for her meaning.

  “I am quite certain Lady Ashby will extend the invitation to include Miss Betancourt as our close friend and houseguest, but it would be so much less of an imposition if I am able to propose an additional gentleman as well so as not to set her numbers askew. Lady Ashby is such a stickler for propriety and etiquette, you see—so much more so than I. Seating and the like can be such a headache for these things.”

  Bex considered. Ashby. He’d identified Lord Ashby at the Birdcage as just the sort of gambler who might be persuaded to a different sort of wager. Was it possible that just as he’d been puzzling how he would create an opportunity to speak to the man, one was being tossed into his lap so easily? He leaned back and smiled amiably at the duchess. “I would be happy to help in any way I can,” he assured her, curiosity growing as to how Miss Betancourt would view his compliance. “What sort of event?”

  “It is dinner, followed by dancing, probably cards for some of the gentlemen. I don’t know if it will be a large group, but provided I’m able to keep her seating balanced for dinner, I am certain Lady Ashby will welcome two more. My aunt and uncle will attend as well,” the duchess said, with a nod to Lady Ridgely.

  “I am not otherwise committed that evening and would be happy to ease Miss Betancourt’s introduction to society in any way that I can,” Bex said, turning to the young lady in question.

  She smiled happily at him. “It is very kind of you to be so helpful, Mr. Brantwood.”

  He grinned affably back. “It is hardly a kindness to spend time with good company.”

  “I’m so glad you think so, Mr. Brantwood. You see, Lucy and I were just discussing this afternoon her great desire to see some of the city, as this is her first time in London. Unfortunately, my condition prevents me from accompanying her. I have a little apprehension and considerable guilt in sending her out into the city with no one but the maid, Agnes, as her guide.”

  “That’s sweet of you, dear,” Lady Ridgely interjected.

  “The duke’s schedule is so occupied, we couldn’t possibly impose upon him,” the duchess said; then she turned wide eyes and a sweet smile toward Bex. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to show Lucy some of London while she is here, Mr. Brantwood? You must be familiar with so much of the city, and even a walk in the park would be a more exciting excursion than I am able to provide some days.”

  Bex turned to Saint Lucy to gauge her reaction to this suggestion. She blushed, clearly interpreting the duchess’s intent much the same as he did—a blatant attempt at matchmaking.

  Bex looked to the duke next and caught the quelling look sent from husband to wife.

  The duke was right to ward her off. He, at least, knew with miserable detail just how ineligible a match Bexley Brantwood would be.

  Apparently, the duchess did not, for she soldiered onward despite her husband’s attempted warning. She addressed Bex directly. “Lucy has graciously agreed to be here in London with me until the birth of my child. We are very unfashionable, you see, in that I prefer to remain in my husband’s company rather than retire to the country during this time.” She glanced around the table as though visually surveying the response to this statement. “I shouldn’t speak of such things so directly, but Mr. Brantwood is family, is he not?”

  The duke looked to Bex with an unreadable expression. “He is indeed, but we cannot demand all of his time, dear. I’m sure he has other commitments.”

  “Of course he does,” the duchess said. “Forgive me, Mr. Brantwood. I may have been inconsiderate in asking so much of you. I believe Lucy intends to begin her tour with an outing to the museum. Could we impose upon you, then, to accompany Lucy on this one outing? I do so worry, as she does not know her way in London. There are so many unsavory parts of the city.”

  “Indeed,” he commented. He looked to Miss Betancourt then. Perhaps if she did not appear quite so embarrassed by her friend’s attempts at matchmaking he would have answered differently. As it happened, he found himself saying, “I am quite knowledgeable of the museum exhibits, actually, and would be happy to accompany Miss Betancourt there sometime soon.”

  The duchess beamed at him. “How wonderful. You have my sincere gratitude, Mr. Brantwood.”

  “And mine,” Miss Betancourt added. “I plan to visit the museum because I have adopted a goal of self-education. You see, I have decided to pursue taking a post as a governess.”

  He nearly laughed as she pursed her lips primly at the end of her speech. He was certain she was trying very hard to appear a proper governess. He thought governesses were supposed to be dowdy and harsh looking, of a mannish height perhaps. He did not think it appropriate for governesses to look like little fairy sprites, but he did not point that out.

  “Self-education. That is very admirable,” Lady Ridgely offered.

  Bex grinned at Saint Lucy of Beadwell and could not resist asking, “Do you enjoy lessons, then, Miss Betancourt?”

  She blushed prettily, but did not retreat from his question. “I am most grateful for any opportunity to become informed regarding a useful topic. My education attentions at present are therefore engaged with those skills that may enhance my capabilities as a governess.”

  And as such, not kissing. He could practically hear the words completing her thought.

  “What about you, Mr. Brantwood?” she asked. “Are you the sort of man who believes in continual self-improvement?”

  Bex coughed. She could not have realized how truly apropos her question was. He met her questioning blue eyes without guile. “I find I am the sort of man for whom self-improvement has become a necessity.”

  She lifted one dainty brow at his comment, but did not inquire further.

  Chapter Eight

  “You will not avoid me.”

  Damn.

  Bex halted and released a defeated exhale of air. He was caught—mere feet from the door leading out of their rented London townhouse and into the freedom of the city.

  “I know your game.”

  Bex faced his father. “There is no game.”

  Edward Brantwood glowered. “Do not lie to me. Do you think I don’t know you have been avoiding me?”

  Bex shrugged. “If you are here and I choose to be elsewhere, where is the game in that?”

  Bex watched with surprisingly little feeling as his father, face purpling with rage, bore down on him.

  “I am your father and you will show me respect.”

  Bex remained silent. He stared, unaffected, by the bluster and fury. He felt little for his father in that moment—certainly not respect. Disgust, perhaps, but even that was a bit strong. He looked at his father—really looked. The wrinkles webbing outward from his gray eyes looked deeper than the last time he’d noticed. His hair was more solidly white than before. His sneer was the same—very much the same as it had always been.

  Bex’s lack of reaction only served to deepen the shade of his father’s complexion. “Answer me,” he bellowed.

  Bex crossed his arms and regarded his father coolly. He was no longer capable of rising to the bait of his father’s temper. He felt nothing—not the shame in his father’s displeasure that his much younger self had experienced and not even the fiery defiance of more recent months. It was as though all of his ire had been spent and he felt only a cold annoyance at the inconvenience of having to remain in his company. “I am here now,” he said on a burdened sigh. “Is there a matter to discuss?”

  Edward glared at his son, nostrils flaring with the exertion of restraining his temper. “You should not play the idiot unless you wish to be seen as an idiot. We will have our discussion over breakfast.”

  The elder Brantwood pivoted abruptly and stalked heavily away with no backward glance. Bex contemplated. His father was certain he woul
d follow. Bex was not. He could just as easily turn the opposite direction and depart their shared townhouse before his father even realized he was gone.

  Yet, as tempted as he was by the gratification of an eloquent display of independence, he would only delay the inevitable. Besides, the man might have an apoplexy if he walked out. He did not need a death on his conscience.

  In the end, he chose to follow his father down the hall and into the small breakfast room. Deciding he should at least derive some benefit for enduring the pain of a fatherly lecture, he began filling a plate from the noticeably abundant sideboard. In the effort of avoiding familial company, Bex hadn’t breakfasted at home in some months. Was this much food laid out each morning? It seemed an extravagance ill fitting for a man so recently begging relief from the burden of his debts.

  Bex seated himself at one of only two place settings arranged at the circular table and faced his father. “Are you expecting others for breakfast?”

  “Does it appear,” his father asked, “that I am expecting others for breakfast?”

  “The quantity of food seems extravagant for only two men who should be observing economies.”

  The elder Brantwood’s open palm slapped the table. “Do not lecture me on economies. You do not pay for this home or this food.”

  Bex stared levelly at this father. “You do not pay for this home or this food.”

  Edward’s mouth tightened to a grim line as he glared back across the table, then looked meaningfully to the manservant who stood at attention in one corner of the room, ready to see to their needs.

  Pride can be such a petty thing, Bex thought. Of course this man, dutifully serving his master, did not know it was the Duke of Worley who now paid his salary, not Edward Brantwood. He also did not know that neither Edward Brantwood, nor Bex himself, knew precisely how long that beneficence would continue. As soon as it ceased, these roles would no longer be preserved. Edward Brantwood, playing lord in a house for which he could not pay, would then be no better than the very man he employed. Worse off, likely, as the footman boasted an employable skill, whereas the Brantwood men did not.

  Accusations of gamesmanship seemed a bit hypocritical in the light of all this playacting, didn’t they?

  “What shall we discuss, Father?” Bex didn’t bother to keep the impudence from his tone.

  Edward turned to the manservant—one of two employed at the house—and indicated with a jerk of his head the man should exit, leaving them to discuss in private. Once the man had discreetly complied, he turned his full attention onto Bex. “You will defer to me as your father, or you will leave this house.”

  Bex had expected a lecture. He had been shortsighted not to expect a threat of some kind. Had he shown more willingness to be controlled without the use of threats, perhaps they would not have been required. Bex had no desire to remain in his father’s false palace. He had personally refused the duke’s offer of financial rescue, but he still lived under the favor of the duke and control of his father and both chafed uncomfortably. For the time being, however, he found the accommodation decidedly more comfortable than sleeping in the street. As he could spare no funds to pay for his own accommodation, he dipped his chin in silent acquiescence, conscious that he had only agreed to the vague commitment of deference. No specific demand had been made of him.

  He knew well enough, though, to expect one.

  At least one.

  “You will need to marry.”

  And there it was.

  “You forget, Father, that I have nothing. No home, no property, no income. Without our cousin paying for this house and, I imagine, this breakfast,” he said, indicating the half-eaten toast on his plate, “I would be left to beg on the streets, and so would you. Who would possibly consent to marry me, and how precisely does an extra mouth to feed solve these problems?”

  “Don’t be obtuse. You will marry a woman of wealth.”

  Bex shook his head. “You are living in a fantasy. Any father with an heiress for a daughter intends to purchase something with all of that wealth—usually a title or connections, of which I have none.”

  “You are the cousin of a duke,” his father said.

  “My grandfather was the cousin of a duke. He is, I think, the third cousin of the present duke, so I believe I would be”—Bex paused a moment to consider—“fifth cousin? Is that correct?”

  Edward chewed a bite of ham, and stared at Bex as though carefully choosing what he would say next. Bex took it as a clear warning that he would not like it, whatever it was.

  “There is always a way to accomplish something, if you are sufficiently determined to see it happen,” Edward said, raising a pointed finger as he spoke. “It is a matter of opportunity and creative thinking. You may not be the particular choice of ambitious parents, but young girls are not always so calculating in where they choose to direct their affections. If such a girl believed herself in love with you, the relationship could progress to a point in which marriage became more likely—necessary even.”

  Bex eyed his father with distaste.

  Edward shrugged. “But you are correct. That may prove difficult. A more mature woman, however, could have her own wealth and social standing. The attentions of a young and virile suitor may prove quite appealing.”

  “A mature woman?” Bex asked. “If she is old enough not to care about connections, or titles, or wealth for future generations, then she is too mature for me.”

  “Not necessarily. I have heard gossip of a widow recently returned from France. The Comtesse de Beauchene. Englishwoman, married to a French comte, but an English lady in her own right. She has set herself up rather smartly here in town. Took a large house in Mayfair.”

  “How did she manage to marry a French comte while we were at war with France for more than a decade?” Bex asked, with a suspicion he knew the answer.

  Edward’s gaze was suddenly consumed with examining the striped wallcovering. “She was married some time ago.”

  “How much time?”

  “I understand she was married before Napoleon came to power.” He shared this bit of information as though it were of no significance—as though he’d said two or three years, instead of ten times as many.

  “Before Napoleon? You cannot possibly be serious. I would have been a child when she married.”

  “She may have been very young when she married,” Edward said hopefully. “By all accounts, she has taken society by quite a storm. It appears she’s got some life in her yet. I have heard rumors, in fact, that she has had dalliances with younger men.” An unpleasant smile tilted one corner of his mouth. “If one managed to be persuasive enough, he could tempt her into marriage.”

  “No.”

  Bex did not provide any more explanation or reasoning. As far as he saw it, the bloody reasons were self-evident.

  “It’s not as though she’s elderly,” Edward said scornfully. “She’s like any other bored widow in need of something to do and somewhere to spend her wealth. And she’s accustomed to the forwardness of French society. They are not so constrained there.”

  “I was not aware you had traveled to France.”

  “Of course not,” Edward snapped. “Everyone knows the French are more promiscuous.”

  Bex did not, in fact, know this to be true, but chose not to dispute it. “If that is the case, why would she even consider marrying? Why not take to bed any man who strikes her fancy and exchange him for a new lover when she becomes bored again?”

  Edward glared at Bex. “I’m certain you could convince her of her undying love for you.”

  Bex returned the glare with equal disdain. “I’m certain we shall never know.”

  The two men sat, gazes locked in challenge over a dueling field of linen and silver and half-eaten toast.

  Edward spoke first.

  “You will do as I say, or you will be cut
off.”

  Bex rose on a bitter laugh. “Cut off from what? You have already squandered my inheritance.”

  Two clenched fists landed upon the table with enough force to rattle the silver. “You are a fool for wanting that life. I have given you a gift by forcing you to seek better. You dined at Worley House this week. Every opportunity is open to you. You have the connections to better yourself. I have given you that. You waste your time mourning the loss of something that should never have been enough to satisfy you.”

  Bex stiffened. “Do you speak of Oakwood Lodge or of Miss Mary Huxley?”

  “All of it. That life is gone and good riddance. You will have better unless you are too stubborn to take it.”

  “Better?” Bex gripped the back of the chair from which he had risen. “Better? Yes,” he ground out, “it is much better to have trampled the heart of a young girl in order to grasp at the chance to trick an old woman into marrying me so that I might take control of her fortune. Never mind that I cannot stand to lie with her, so long as I can support my noble father in his quest to pretend he has inherited a peerage after all.”

  Edward rose from his own seat. “You think I am so shallow, but what will you do? Will you go hungry and die on the street? I think you will not. You will take what you have and use it in the best way you can.”

  “And you have nothing. So you will use me. Let us not pretend that this is fatherly concern for my future. You wish for your own comfort, not mine. Your ambition to rise above the station to which you were born has only served to bring you lower and now you look to me to rescue you from your own disaster.”

  “Don’t be righteous with me, son. You have nothing and no one without me. At least I have considered what you might do next.”

  “Yes. I am a lucky son, indeed.”

  The anger left Edward’s face, but it was replaced by an expression that was no less malevolent. He lifted a shoulder in an unconcerned shrug. “You need not pursue this widow. It will be your choice.” His head tilted to one side then. “Only take care you are thorough in packing your things. I can’t say how considerate the servants would be in taking them to the street for you.”