Her Prodigal Passion

by Grace Callaway

  "Father," Charity mumbled.

  "He wishes to marry you. I have the right to know his financial situation." Sparkler drew himself up. "If he hadn't compromised you in the first place—"

  "I'm recouping from some losses." Paul saw no point in beating around the bush. "But while I haven't a nest egg now, my income from my father's company is five thousand a year." He decided that now was not the time to disclose his plans vis-à-vis prizefighting. Instead, he said confidently, "I shall be back on my feet by year's end."

  His prospects were considerable. To his surprise, Sparkler's face fell.

  "I'm done for," the man said in a bleak voice.

  Holy hell, how much trouble was the shop in?

  Nicholas' imperious tones cut in. "Paul is the son of Jeremiah Fines, and mercantile talent runs in his blood. Once he sets his mind to a thing, he is steadfast. You can ask for no better help than his."

  Seeing no trace of irony in the other's expression, Paul felt a surge of gratitude.

  A moment passed before Sparkler said tonelessly, "Everything's ruined. What difference does anything make? Do as you will." Shoulders slumped, he headed to his office like a man off to the gallows.

  Paul's gaze went to Charity, who was clutching Percy's hand, looking so young and lost that all his protective instincts roused. He wanted to cross over and haul her into his arms. To hold her close and tell her everything was going to be alright.

  Instead, he waited. They had her father's permission of sorts. Now it was time for Charity to make her own decision.

  "Charity, dear, you don't mind rushing things along?" his mama said gently. "We'll all pitch in with the preparations. You won't have to worry about a thing."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Fines," Charity said quietly.

  Paul expelled a breath that he hadn't known he'd been holding.

  "'Tis my greatest pleasure, dear girl, to welcome you to our family," his mama said, smiling.

  Percy flung her arms around Charity. "We're to be true sisters at last!"

  With a feeling of triumph, Paul went over and tapped his sister on the shoulder.

  "May I cut in?" he said dryly.

  Releasing her friend, Percy grinned at him. "I suppose." Then she surprised him with a hug, whispering in his ear, "I knew this would happen. You're going to be so happy, my dearest brother!"

  "I'm your only brother," he said with a catch in his voice.

  Smiling, Percy went to join their mama.

  Paul took his bride-to-be's hand. Within his grip, her delicate, chilled fingers fluttered like a hummingbird's wings.

  "You do me a great honor," he said softly, "and I'll endeavor to return the favor by seeing to your happiness."

  Though her lips trembled, she didn't pull away.

  FIFTEEN

  Ensconced in Mrs. Fines' cozy parlor the next morning, Charity battled a sense of unreality. It wasn't the room itself that was odd or unfamiliar; over the years, she'd spent hours here with Percy, the two of them curled up on the chintz sofa framed by matching curtains. Likewise, the occupants gathered around the tulipwood coffee table were no strangers. Thus, what imbued the scene with a surreal feeling must be the topic of conversation: a wedding.

  Her wedding ... to Paul Fines.

  As she sipped her tea, she snuck a glance at the gentleman she would be marrying in five days. He was at the sideboard perusing the breakfast offerings. His hair gleamed; his tobacco brown jacket and buff trousers clung lovingly to his physique. He appeared rested, his chiseled features showing none of the strain that might be expected when a man had to marry out of necessity. He remained the Apollo of Master Bernini's imagination, a study in masculine grace and beauty.

  As if he sensed her regard, his vivid blue eyes locked on her.

  She quickly looked away. Even on her best day, she was no Daphne, the elusive nymph Apollo sought to claim. And since she hadn't slept a wink last night, she knew that shadows hung beneath her eyes and her cheeks lacked any color at all. She didn't need to see disappointment darken his gaze. For despite his gentlemanly courtesy—and he'd been kindness itself during yesterday's hideous scene at the shop—she knew that his true reaction to all of this must be regret.

  Now that Charity's indignation—and, yes, wounded pride—had faded, she could see the situation through a clearer lens. Not only had Mr. Fines lost the incomparable Miss Drummond, but now he was to be saddled with her. A girl he did not love. A girl he was marrying out of honor, obligation, and, worst of all, pity.

  She hadn't missed the disgust on Mr. Fines' face at her papa's reaction, and her humiliation had deepened. She'd wanted to explain that it wasn't Father's fault: he was under a great deal of financial pressure, and she'd pulled the rug from beneath his plans with Mr. Garrity.

  Of course Father had been irate. And if anyone was to blame, it was she.

  She gripped the saucer of her teacup. The other culprit was, of course, Parkington. The earl continued to carry out his diabolical revenge. The Times had devoted an entire column to the scandal involving a certain jeweler's daughter and the scion of a shipping empire. Thanks to the earl, they were being made into an example of Moral Mayhem amongst the middling class. Mr. Fines' dire prediction had come to pass: marriage was the only hope now for controlling the damage.

  "Nicholas is taking care of the license as we speak, so the most critical item is covered," Mrs. Fines was saying to Percy. "As for the remaining tasks, I took the liberty of making a list."

  She withdrew a small roll of parchment. Charity's eyes rounded as the paper unwound into the lady's lap, curled over her knees, and came to a stop at the hem of her skirts.

  "Mama, the wedding is going to take place in five days," Percy said. "There's no time for elaborate plans."

  "Which is why I've distilled this list down to the essentials."

  Percy peered over her mother's shoulder. "Doves are essential?"

  So the conversation went. Charity didn't contribute much for none of the preparations seemed real to her. She didn't feel a bride's giddy excitement. Instead, she was distracted by the questions that had kept sleep at bay.

  What sort of marriage will ours be? What will be the rules and expectations?

  And most panic-inducing of all: How on earth can I marry the man I love ... knowing he loves another?

  Her hands trembled, rattling the cup. For in the midst of yesterday's terrible scene, a truth had blazed, incinerating the layers of denial and self-protection. She loved Paul Fines. She always had and always would. She adored his noble nature, his willingness to forfeit his own happiness in order to protect her reputation.

  The way he'd defended her against Mr. Garrity and offered to help her papa made him a hero in her eyes.

  She ought to be grateful just to have the protection of Mr. Fines' name: it was more than a girl like her could hope for. Yet while she knew that expediency and honor had prompted his offer, she couldn't extinguish a little spark within her. She recalled the energy that had seemed to crackle between them during the craniology demonstration and that kiss in the folly. He'd seemed as absorbed in their exchanges as she had been ...

  She shook away her foolish longings. More likely than not, she was just imagining things. And, at any rate, whatever energy she'd sensed was hardly the same as love. Thus, for the sake of marital harmony, she would have to find a way to keep her true feelings locked away. She would strive to be a dutiful wife ... and not get in his way.

  Her heart ached at the thought. Yet it was the only way to survive a marriage of convenience to the man she loved.

  The cushions beside her sank. The subtle scent of spice and masculine musk made her heart hammer, as did Mr. Fines' sudden close proximity.

  "Your cup's half empty," he said.

  He didn't know the half of it.

  "I've had enough tea, thank you," she said.

  "You haven't eaten anything," he remarked.

  He'd noticed her lack of appetite?

  "Here, try this." To her fu
rther astonishment, he tore a piece off the bun on his plate and offered it to her. "Lisbett's rolls will tempt anyone's appetite."

  Heat climbed in her cheeks. "No, really. Thank you. I'm ... I'm not hungry."

  "Go on, eat it. By now, you should know better than to argue with a Fines." His teasing smile made it difficult to think, let alone come up with a response. "It's best just to give in and let us have our way."

  "No one can have their way all the time," she said.

  His smile deepened. He waggled the piece of roll at her. Not wishing to attract the others' notice, she sighed and held her palm out for the morsel.

  "Alright, but I'm truly not hungry—" Her eyes widened as buttery, apricot-studded pastry muffled the rest of her sentence.

  "Not eating, not sleeping—you have to take better care of yourself," he murmured.

  She focused on chewing and not choking with surprise.

  In his regular drawl, he said, "Mama, if you're quite done with Miss Sparkler, I'd like to take her for a tour of the roses."

  Charity's hands went clammy at the notion of being alone with him. Which was ridiculous given that they would be man and wife at week's end. But here, in the comfort of his family's presence, she could almost pretend that theirs would be a union based on something other than necessity. Alone, just the two of them, reality would have to be addressed. She knew that he was too much of a gentleman to go back on his word, but he was also too much of a gentleman not to be honest with her. Surely he wished to spell out the terms of their arrangement.

  Gulping, she made a last ditch effort to forestall the inevitable—which wasn't like her at all. She was a sensible girl, one who looked reality in the eye and did not falter. Until now.

  "I must stay and help," she said. "You've all taken on such a burden—"

  "Nonsense, dear girl. 'Tis my pleasure to plan my child's wedding." Behind her spectacles, Mrs. Fines' eyes grew misty, and her lace cap trembled upon her salt and pepper curls. "If your mama were here, I'm certain she'd feel the same way. But as she isn't ... I hope you don't mind my saying that I already consider you a part of my family, which doubles my joy in the preparations."

  Charity's throat thickened. "You are too good to me."

  Mrs. Fines smiled. "Now the bride-to-be's job is to remain calm and collected, and a turn through my roses would accomplish that nicely. So go on, enjoy yourself."

  "Don't worry about a thing. We've got everything well in hand," Percy added.

  "You heard them." Mr. Fines stood and offered his hand. "No more stalling, sweeting. The roses await."

  SIXTEEN

  Although not large, the garden was his mama's pride and joy, especially now when her prized roses were in bloom. But, for him, the showy flowers were eclipsed by the quiet charm of the girl who walked next to the hedges. Charity had left her bonnet off, and whilst her hair was in its habitual knot, the sun picked out fiery strands and made them glimmer. Her fingers trailed over the lush, velvety heads as she strolled; recalling the delicate sensuality of her touch, he envied the blossoms.

  Time for that later, he told himself. What he needed to do first was clear the air and forge an understanding with his fiancée. They had much to discuss.

  Clasping his hands behind his back, he said, "I'm glad to have a minute alone."

  "Yes."

  He couldn't read her expression; her moss-green eyes gave so little away. Aware of the building tension, he plunged on. "The thing of it is ... I should begin by apologizing."

  Her brows lifted; she looked surprised. "For what?"

  Where should he begin?

  "For dragging you into this fiasco. Exposing you to the condemnation of others. And then," he said grimly, "there's the way I botched my offer to you."

  She looked at him as if he had bats in the belfry. Perhaps he wasn't making himself clear?

  "I haven't yet thanked you for intervening with Parkington, though I wish you hadn't." Devil take it, he sounded awkward to his own ears. "I mean to say, I'm sorry that you've had to suffer for it. That is my biggest regret: that harm has come to you because of my actions."

  She slid him a glance as they strolled along. "That's what you're sorry for?"

  "Well, it's not the only thing. I'm sure I could add to the afore-mentioned list of wrongs."

  Her cheeks turned pink, and he wondered if she was thinking about the kiss he'd stolen at the gazebo. Or maybe she was recalling his rakish reputation. Or his stupid entanglement with Louisa, which had led to this mess. He wanted to smack himself in the head.

  Way to get your future wife to cogitate about what a bastard you are.

  "I'm not usually so maladroit. You seem to bring it out in me," he muttered.

  "I make you ... clumsy?"

  Inspiration hit him. "Your beauty unravels me, I'm afraid."

  Thank God for that recovery. That was the direction to head in.

  "Hmm," she said. "Your tongue, at least, doesn't suffer from knots."

  Her sly witticism startled a laugh from him. Some of the tightness in his chest eased.

  "Minx," he said appreciatively. "So despite my bumbling apology, will you accept it? Knowing that it is heartfelt and offered sincerely?"

  She hesitated, then said, "Yes."

  The relief was exhilarating. He had the urge to seize her in his arms and thank her with a kiss ... but he told himself to hold the reins, stay in control for once. So he took out a pocket knife and clipped off a brilliant pink bloom. Shaving off the thorns, he offered her the flower.

  She rewarded him with a tremulous smile. "Thank you."

  "Thank you, sweeting," he said huskily. "Now that the slate is clean, perhaps we should discuss the future." He liked how mature and rational he sounded; he was definitely turning a new page. "Though this marriage has come as a surprise, we should approach it with our eyes open, I think."

  Some of the softness fled her eyes. "I agree that clarity is important."

  "Exactly. You're a sensible sort and—let's face it—far more sensible than I could ever hope to be," he said ruefully. "'Tis one of the qualities I most admire about you."

  He'd meant that as a compliment, yet her shoulders tensed.

  "I mean to say, we're different, you and I," he said quickly.

  She said nothing.

  "Given our differences, I think it's important we discuss our expectations of marriage," he went on uneasily. "Have you given thought to what you wish from our union?"

  In truth, he wanted to know what she wanted. The kind of husband she imagined for herself. Lord knew he could use a few pointers.

  The path had taken them to the majestic willow at the back corner of the garden. Beneath the shade of the trailing branches, Charity drew herself up the way one did when something unpleasant had to be said.

  "You needn't worry about my expectations, sir." Her gaze remained on the pink rose in her hands. "I am grateful for the protection of your name, and I will endeavor to make our marriage as convenient as possible for you."

  "Convenient?" He frowned, not understanding.

  Still not looking at him, she dipped her chin. "I won't get in your way. You must carry on as before."

  "Carry on ... doing what, exactly?"

  "Whatever you choose to do and with,"—her voice hitched—"whomever."

  Comprehension struck him. "With whomever ... are you saying what I think you're saying?"

  "I understand your wish for a marriage of convenience," she whispered to the ground.

  He stared at her bent head, anger rising inside him. "Well, that's utter bollocks, isn't it?"

  Finally, her gaze flew to his. "P-pardon?"

  "Has the word convenient ever passed my lips in conjunction with our marriage?"

  "W-well ..." she stammered, "no."

  "There's good reason for it. Frankly, no marriage is ever convenient and never more so than bachelorhood. I do, however, recall proposing to you and you accepting. Which means in five days we will be vowing—before no less tha
n God, mind you—our fidelity to each other." He could actually feel his temperature escalating. "And you're telling me you expect me to have extramarital affairs? What kind of man do you take me for?"

  She stared at him.

  "If you believe me so lacking in honor, I wonder that you'd consent to marry me in the first place." His hands balled as a thought punched him in the gut. "Or perhaps it is you who wishes for ... freedom in marriage?"

  That would happen over his dead body. Or, more accurately, the other man's—because he would murder anyone who dared to touch Charity. She was his.

  "That's not it." She sounded appalled. "Not it at all."

  "What about that fellow who kissed you?" he demanded.

  Her brow furrowed. "Um, what fellow?"

  "At the gazebo, you implied that you'd had previous, more memorable incidents."

  "Oh, that." She bit her lip. "I believe I said that because I was angry."

  "So no one has kissed you before me?" he persisted.

  Her lashes flickered. With a sigh, she said, "No, you're the only one."

  Relief poured through him. "I trust you'll keep it that way," he said sternly. "In the past when I was carrying on, as you so delicately put it, I wasn't married. When I am, I will stay true to my vows."

  "You mean that? Truly?"

  He gave a gruff nod.

  A slow smile lit her face, made it as radiant as dawn. "That ... that would be lovely."

  Unable to help himself, he cupped her cheek. Her tremor of awareness made the blood rush in his veins. "Now that that's settled, what else do you want from this marriage, sweet?"

  "I don't know. You've already given me far more than I expected."

  By Jove, she was sweet.

  "And I want to thank you especially for offering to help my father. That means the world to me," she said earnestly.

  Right. Time to clarify his schedule. He dropped his hand, bracing himself. "About that ..."

  "Yes?"

  He cleared his throat. "Do you recall that I have a tournament coming up?"

  She nodded.

  "I mentioned this in one of our earlier conversations, but given the recent brouhaha, it may have slipped your mind," he said with a nervous laugh.