The Offer

by Sara Portman

  “Not so long ago, you would have been correct,” he told her.

  “What drew your interest?”

  “I was not so much interested in the museum as I was interested in being away from my father’s townhouse.” He hadn’t ever voiced the truth aloud to anyone. It seemed rather cowardly, now that he’d said it. He didn’t like that.

  “You do not get on well with your father?” she asked, in the careful voice of one who knows she is prying.

  He laughed, for the topic was not one requiring sensitivity on his behalf. “My father and I get on very well when we are not in each other’s company.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, looking up at him with enough genuine sorrow that guilt prodded him.

  “Do not waste pity on me, dear,” he said brightly. “The company of my father is no great loss.” For anyone. If only he had understood that fact earlier, his debts would not be so deep.

  “What of your mother?” she asked.

  “My mother remains in Surrey.”

  He expected her to grasp at that insufficient answer, knowing it drew more questions than provided answers, but she did not, instead asking, “Why the museum?”

  He grinned. “Because parks and gardens are unpleasant during periods of inclement weather.”

  She seemed to consider this, her dainty brow furrowing until two lines formed between them. He sensed she had more questions but that she chose not to pry further. “Well, I have very much enjoyed benefiting from your wisdom. As there is so much to see, I hope that we can repeat the outing on another day.”

  “You are so dogged in your pursuit of knowledge that you will tolerate even my boorish company?” he teased, though in truth, he knew he was the sort of man she should avoid. He was a cad, whether she realized it or not. Perhaps future outings with her would not be so wise, if he could not take better control of the course of his thoughts while in her company.

  “I don’t find your company boorish at all,” she said, with an expression so plain and honest it startled him. “I quite like you, Mr. Brantwood.”

  Her brazen statement was a warning. More so was his own rising heat upon hearing it. If he was witnessing her artless attempt at flirtation, he could not allow it to continue.

  “You should not,” he said simply.

  She laughed at that. It was pleasant, but hearty—the laugh of a woman of genuine good humor. He had not realized until he heard it how tired he had grown of the affected, tinkling laughter of society women who never truly allowed themselves to be overcome with mirth. Her laugh was also frustrating. He was trying very valiantly to ward her off and she laughed.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Brantwood,” she said, silver lights of laughter still dancing in her blue eyes. “I believe you are ideal.”

  “Ideal?” he asked, fearing the answer.

  “Emma will not rest until she’s put me in the company of an eligible gentleman. That makes you the ideal solution.”

  Her statement nearly knocked the breath from him. How could he have allowed her to be so completely mistaken? “I’m afraid I disagree, Miss Betancourt. I mean no offense,” he said, holding up open palms, “but I am the last man you should consider eligible.” He stopped and faced her, drawing her full attention. “Do not deceive yourself that I am a gallant knight to rescue you from the bleak future otherwise in store for you. I am in no position to rescue any woman. I am also far from gallant.”

  Blue eyes rolled skyward. “There is no need for such dramatics. I’ve only declared that I enjoy your company. I am also fond of the company of a well-written novel. I am not so confused as to believe you are courting me, Mr. Brantwood. I am well resigned to the course of my future. Neither one of us is in a position to marry anyone. We may comfortably be in each other’s company without the burden of expectation. That is why you are ideal.”

  Bex exhaled, relieved and more than a little impressed by her pragmatism.

  “Besides,” she added with a beguilingly crooked smile, “we’ve already been completely inappropriate with one another. In your company, there is no need to fear that I might blunder or appear foolish. I’ve already neatly gotten that out of the way with you.”

  Bex laughed then. “You rationale is interesting. I submit it is not what most young ladies would think.”

  She inclined her head to one side. “Most young ladies are thinking about finding a husband. I am not. Can we not simply be friends?”

  They could, but he needed to be certain she understood the full truth of it. Bex took her arm and began walking again, his eyes looking forward, focusing on some undetermined point toward which they walked. “Much as you would endeavor to convince yourself, I am not a man to be admired or befriended. I am quite the opposite. I am a man with no purpose.”

  “No purpose?” She stopped abruptly and turned to him. Brow furrowed, she searched his features as though some clue to his meaning would be evident there. “But you are a gentleman. Your father is a gentleman. You must have some wealth or property or living that requires your time and attention.”

  “I have no living or income. I am a man for whom the clock has run out. My debts have come due.”

  Lucy gazed searchingly at the profile he presented. “Your debts have come due,” she repeated. “Do you mean that literally or figuratively?”

  “Both, I suppose.” He released her arm, saving her the awkwardness of pulling it away from him when she understood the truth of his revelation. “I am a destitute man with no living and I am in debt to moneylenders for funds I cannot repay.”

  “But how did that happen?” She shook her head. “I understand how a man can accumulate debts, but how is it that you are without a living or income?”

  “As I’m sure you are familiar, given your long friendship with the duchess, the present duke was missing for four years. During that time, my father believed himself to be in line for the peerage. He insisted we take up residence in London and adopt a lifestyle that would allow us to socialize with the upper echelons of the aristocracy. Such a lifestyle is costly. In the end, it cost our family estate.”

  She studied him for a long moment, her expression void of the shock and judgment he had expected to see there. For once, he could not divine her thoughts but wished he could. Her response to understanding his true situation was, for no reason he could name, significant to him.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked finally.

  “That,” Bex said, “is an excellent question.” There was very little he could do. He had no money, he had no property, and he had developed no skills.

  What he had were two cards left in play. Hertfordshire and Birmingham.

  To be precise, he had Hertfordshire. Birmingham was not actually in play. He had no part in it yet, nor would he have a part unless he could find someone willing to advance funds—someone other than Gibbs. Ashby had not pounced on the opportunity, but there was still a chance there.

  Lucy simply needed to understand how ineligible a match he would be for her. “I am hounded by my father to marry an aging widow as resolution, or find some innocent heiress to seduce, neither of which sound particularly appealing to me.”

  She waved her hand. “Of course, neither of those is an honorable option, but there is no shame in finding yourself in the position of needing to make your own way.” Her eyes shifted and her smile returned. “I think I understand you better than you realize, Mr. Brantwood. Perhaps that is why I enjoy your company so much. We are alike in many ways.”

  He glanced askance at her as they walked through priceless Egyptian antiquities of which they had studied none. “You like my company so much?” he couldn’t help asking.

  She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “Perhaps I spoke too soon,” she said flatly.

  He laughed.

  “In all honesty, though, I think it’s quite freeing to have no expectati
ons of each other, as I told you before.”

  “My point, dear, is that I am not the man you think I am and I am even less likely to marry than are you.”

  She looked at him a long while. “But you wouldn’t want to anyway,” she said. “You told me that the game ended with marriage and then the fun was finished.”

  “Maybe I have been saved, then,” Bex quipped. “If I were in line for a dukedom, I would have been the prey of dozens of hopeful young maidens. Now that I have nothing to offer, I am saved the trouble of fending off the marriage-minded young ladies.” He grinned at her. “I am free to enjoy the company of people who know my true lack of worth and, therefore, expect very little of me.”

  “But that’s not what I meant when I said we had no expectations of each other,” Lucy said. “Of course people know your value, even if it cannot be measured in titles or income. Anyone who only measured you by those things, never saw your true worth at all.”

  Her sweet, impassioned speech tore at him in a way nothing else had for quite some time. He would so have loved to simply bask in the idea that this angelically wholesome creature, who was all things good and pure, found attributes in him worthy of admiration.

  But he was too cynical to accept that for truth. She did not know him well enough to judge him accurately. He had been cruel and callous in ways she did not know. “Your faith in me is misplaced, Saint Lucy. You don’t know enough of me to know my worth—or lack thereof. I applaud your faith in humanity, by which you presume I possess some value, but I assure you there is very little about me that is noble or admirable.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” she said, matter-of-factly rejecting his declaration. “You are not without flaws”—she cast him a speaking glance—“self-pity for one—but we all are flawed. I like you. And I want nothing from you.”

  “But you want a chaperone to visit your antiquities.”

  “I planned to have Agnes to accompany me. You are here to allay Emma’s concerns.”

  He lifted his brows and eyed her dubiously.

  “I do like you,” she said. “I think you are clever and brutally honest. There is honor and kindness in so much honesty. And practicality. I am especially partial to practicality as a trait in others.” She grinned up at him victoriously, as though she had won the challenge by proving he was indeed a likable person.

  Yet as she smiled brightly up at him, her blue eyes glinting in the sunlit room and her hair like golden strands of pure heavenly light, he was the one who felt triumphant.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I cannot tell you, Lady Constance,” Lucy said, sharing tea with the comtesse after her first rehearsal with Madame Castellini, “what a great honor it is to provide accompaniment for such a monumental talent. At times, I was so caught up in the beauty of her voice, I found it difficult to concentrate on my own playing. I only hope I shall not falter during the performance.”

  Lady Constance waved this concern away without hesitation. “You shall be perfect, ma petite. I heard no falter in your music during this afternoon’s practice and there shall be none on the day either, I am confident. Besides,” she said, bringing the teacup to her lips, “we shall have another rehearsal on Monday next. Once you have had more time with her, you will not be intimidated. It’s a pity she could not stay for tea.”

  “Yes, that would have been nice,” Lucy said, though she could not imagine ever feeling unflustered by the dominating presence of Madame Castellini. She was tall, with strikingly dark looks. Her talent and her entire manner commanded attention.

  “In fact,” Lady Constance continued, “you will have another opportunity to know her better tomorrow. Are you committed tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Not unless Emma requires me. I must be conscious of my commitment to the duchess, of course.”

  “I think the duchess is more concerned with her commitment to you, ma petite, as she has assured me you are free to practice as much as necessary without any concern for her own convenience.”

  “I see. And when did she convey this?” Lucy asked the question, but she did not doubt the truth of the woman’s claim. She knew that was precisely what Emma would say, if she were present.

  Lady Constance adjusted herself on the divan. “In a letter I received this morning. She thanked me graciously for keeping you entertained for her during her convalescence.”

  Lucy laughed lightly at Emma’s choice of words. “She has painted herself as an invalid.” In truth, with the exception of tiring easily and the occasional bout of nausea, Emma was very much her usual self. “Well, if Emma is so determined to have rid of me, it appears I am free as a bird tomorrow, Lady Constance. Would you like to have another rehearsal?”

  She shook her head. “No. Tomorrow is for the fitting, ma petite.”

  “The fitting?”

  “Why the dress fitting, of course.”

  Lucy was sure how to respond. Surely Lady Constance did not mean to purchase her a gown for the performance.

  “Did Emma arrange for this?” she asked, as soon as the thought occurred to her. It would be entirely predictable of Emma to have decided Lucy required a new dress and to have schemed with Lady Constance instead of addressing it with Lucy directly. Of course, Lucy would have declined, and Emma would have known that.

  “This has nothing to do with the duchess, ma petite. My arrangement with Madame Castellini stipulates that I shall provide her with appropriate attire for her performance and I shall do the same for you.”

  “Lady Constance, I cannot possibly allow you to purchase a new gown for me. I agreed to play for no recompense other than to be of help to you and perhaps display my abilities to prospective employers. I cannot accept such a gift. I’m sure I have something perfectly appropriate among the dresses I already—”

  Lady Constance silenced her with a slash of an open-palmed hand. “I shall hear none of these objections,” she said in a tone that was at once kind and entirely resolute. “There are expectations as to the caliber of entertainments I will provide and I intend for my guests to be suitably impressed by all aspects of the display, including you.”

  “I’m sure it won’t signify what I wear,” Lucy said. “Madame Castellini will be the focus of attention.”

  “Ma petite, I have been living among the French for three decades, so I am a particular authority when I tell you that what you choose to wear will always signify.” Lady Constance straightened her shoulders as though imparting a lesson of paramount importance. “Madame Castellini will amaze, but you will draw notice as well. You shall be the second-most-interesting person in the room, and we shall outfit you accordingly.”

  Lucy smiled uncomfortably at Lady Constance. Attending an event populated with highborn lords and ladies was difficult enough. Drawing all of their attention was a daunting prospect.

  There was an officious rap on the parlor door and a butler entered to present Lady Constance with a calling card on a silver tray. She examined it.

  “Shall I convey the message that you are occupied, my lady?” he asked without inflection.

  “Not at all,” Lady Constance responded, a suspiciously merry twinkle in her eye. “Ladies always enjoy the company of a pleasant gentleman.”

  She turned to Lucy and winked conspiratorially. Lucy, unsure what to make of the gesture, smiled back as though sharing in the fun, but did not feel the same merriment. Any gentleman who might call upon Lady Constance would not be happy to find Lucy there to intrude upon their time.

  Lady Constance might be well past the age of blushing debutantes and young bucks, but she was still a handsome woman who possessed a strong English pedigree, a French title, and—if rumors and appearances were true—a substantial fortune. She might very likely have drawn the attention of a widower or two. Surely no gentleman caller would be pleased to share her attention.

  “Perhaps I should be returning to Worley House,”
Lucy said, beginning to rise.

  “Nonsense. Sit back down, dear.” The words were spoken so brusquely that Lucy obeyed. She also noticed the comtesse had called her “dear” instead of the French endearments of “ma petite” or “ma chere,” which generally peppered her speech.

  The door opened again and Lucy looked up to take the measure of this gentleman caller who had put the glitter in her new friend’s eyes. She had not expected the man to be young.

  She certainly had not expected him to be familiar.

  “Ah, Mr. Brantwood. So kind of you to take time from your busy, young life to remember a lonely, old woman.”

  He flashed a wide grin of white teeth that seemed less sardonic than any smile Lucy had ever received from him. She was immediately suspicious.

  “You are a shameful liar and far too wicked to ever be lonely,” he said chidingly as he took both hands offered by Lady Constance and beamed at her. “Benson already informed me you have another guest.”

  Mr. Brantwood turned to face Lucy and laughed heartily, whether at her identity or her disapproving expression, she could not be certain.

  “Miss Betancourt,” he exclaimed. “Aren’t you a delightful surprise? And here I was worried I should have to behave for your guest,” he said aside to Lady Constance. “But Miss Betancourt is practically family. She knows all my faults and tolerates me anyway.”

  Lucy felt unaccountably stung by his words. Was he teasing her? Telling Bex that she found him likable despite his faults had been genuinely meant. Now, he tossed her words playfully back at her as though they were of very little consequence. Yet the playfulness was not really directed at her. Oddly, his flirtatiousness was directed at Lady Constance.

  Lady Constance?

  “Well, Mr. Brantwood, if dear Miss Betancourt has found the good in you, I shan’t question it, but I will say, for my part, I have seen nothing about you that isn’t devilish.” With that declaration, she beamed back at him as though she had just proclaimed him the most chivalrous of knights.