by Gaelen Foley
“Oh!” She narrowed her eyes at him. The blackguard knew just what to say to her.
The room seemed to pirouette, and Daphne felt herself beginning to panic. She felt powerless, completely overwhelmed.
She cast about for some sort of answer, though the match already seemed a fait accompli, especially when she saw that immovable, Rock of Gibraltar look on her father’s face.
“Papa, you know I mean to marry Jonathon someday!”
“Oh, stuff and nonsense,” he said with a scowl. “Jonathon White is a boy, not a man. He is not a serious person. With all due respect, my love, you need a strong hand. Lord Rotherstone, by contrast, is a man of sharp wits and experience—”
“Experience!” she exclaimed, nodding emphatically. “You’ve got that right! The first time I saw him, he was—”
“Yes?”
She suddenly stopped herself from making her intended point, for it dawned on her in the nick of time that if she told her father that she had first seen the marquess stumbling out of a brothel, then she’d have to confess the whole violent row in Bucket Lane, and the true danger she had risked each week by going there.
He had no idea what it was really like.
She huffed and shook her head, thwarted again. “Never mind. Father, you speak as though the whole matter’s already concluded. Considering I’m the one who’ll have to spend the rest of my life with this person, don’t I have any say in this at all?”
He stared at her with a frown. “Daphne, listen to me. I know you are aware of Albert Carew’s attempts to smear your reputation. Of course, his every word is false and Carew is no gentleman, but the longer you go unwed after that debacle, the worse it all looks. Lord Rotherstone desires to protect you. When you share in his title, no one will dare disrespect you. That is one of the chief reasons that I have agreed.”
“But it isn’t the main reason, is it?” she shot back, rising from her chair as the finality of it all turned her disbelief to anger. “Penelope put you up to this, didn’t she?” she flung out in brazen, angry accusation, feeling cornered. “She just wants to be rid of me, and I know you’re tired of hearing it. You’d throw me out of my own home just to stop her nagging! You’d rather sell me to some wealthy peer than put your foot down and tell her—”
“Enough!” he roared. “I am your father! How dare you speak to me in such a barbarous fashion?” He stared at her, positively fuming.
Daphne snapped her mouth shut, shocked by his bellow.
“Maybe Penelope’s right, and I have indulged you overmuch. Good God, if you are too thick to see what a boon has just fallen into your hands, then you are too silly a chit to choose your own husband. My decision stands! Furthermore, Penelope is my wife,” the placid viscount forged on in quite unprecedented fury. “You owe her your respect. For shame, Daphne Starling! You cannot always think of yourself! You have a duty to our family, just as Lord Rotherstone has a duty to his!”
Duty?
As lenient as Papa was, it was rare for him to invoke family duty.
Might Lord Rotherstone’s famous riches be part of the real reason behind this sudden match? she thought suddenly.
Could it all stem back to her father’s market losses? And dear God, if so, then what choice did she have?
“Think of your young sisters,” her red-faced sire charged on. “Anyone with eyes can see they are not as well-favored as you—I’m sorry, but it is the truth. By marrying the marquess, you’ll be in a position to sponsor them when it’s their turn to come out in Society, just as the Dowager Duchess sponsored you. We both know Penelope is not equipped for the task. Oh, I’m not going to explain myself to you!” he said with an angry wave of his hand. “I’ve found you a husband and you will marry him. If I waited for you to take charge, you would end up alone! I’m not going to let that happen to you, Daphne. I know what it’s like to be alone for years and years—God’s bones, your mother would haunt me to the end of my days if I were to let you end up a spinster! I don’t care if you’re angry at me,” he concluded. “You are marrying the Marquess of Rotherstone, and that is my final decision. Now I suggest you compose yourself, for he has just arrived.”
“What?” she breathed.
“To give you your engagement ring, I warrant.”
“He is here?”
Papa nodded toward the window. “There is his carriage now. I will go and greet him.” Her father eyed her none too happily. “Prepare yourself to meet your future husband.”
The word “husband” nearly knocked the breath out of her lungs. Her father walked out, leaving the door to the study ajar. Jolting herself out of her shock, but still feeling the sting of her father’s tongue-lashing, Daphne rushed to the bay window and looked out.
Sure enough, an ornate black coach-and-four was just now rolling into the cobbled courtyard. Heart pounding, she held her breath as it glided to a halt in front of the villa, the fine ebony horses stamping the ground and tossing their heads, as if they had borne the Devil himself to his destination right on time to collect some poor fool’s soul.
Hers.
Her disbelieving dread climbed as a liveried groom in a tricorn hat jumped off the back and went forward to open the door for his master.
She held her breath as Lord Rotherstone emerged from the coach, every bit as gorgeous and imposing in his dark, brooding way as she recalled from their one meeting.
Dressed in a dark blue morning coat with a plum waistcoat and brown pantaloons, he held an ivory-handled walking stick in one hand and a pretty little box tied up with a ribbon bow in the other.
Oh, God.
He paused, passing a glance over the Starling villa from beneath the shadowed brim of his smart top hat; Daphne ducked behind the curtain, afraid she might be seen.
A moment later, her heart in her throat, she peeked out again, just as he strode out of view on his way to the front door. Her heart pounded like a timpani drum as she heard him being admitted into the house. Hide!
No. Brushing off the futile impulse to flee, she forced herself to focus, trying to figure out what to do or say before he came into the room.
She could hear the low, cultured tones of his voice from the nearby entrance hall, though she could not make out the words.
The deep, velvet rumble of his cultured baritone made her stomach flutter, curse him.
Leaning furtively into the doorway, she observed him with her family. Her father was standing near him with a smile, but a trace of worry about his eyes.
As the two shook hands, apparently great friends already, Daphne remembered with a pang her father’s one regret in life—that he had never had a son.
Penelope, meanwhile, was positively fawning on him, and as far as Daphne could tell, she was savoring the moment of her victory, and eating up Lord Rotherstone’s attention.
Sweeping off his smart black top hat, he bowed next to Sarah and Anna, reducing them to bashful giggling. “What lovely girls,” he told Penelope, charming them all like some sort of evil magician.
Penelope thanked him in profusion, falling all over herself to offer him refreshments while both youngsters began prattling at once about their day’s adventures, as if he cared one jot.
“Oh, help,” Daphne whispered, slightly mortified.
The crisis was almost at hand. Any moment now, they would call for her. She ducked back into the study and leaned against the wall, pressing her palm to her forehead.
Her stomach was full of butterflies, and she still had no idea what to do. This is tyranny!
She keenly recalled his bossiness on the night of the Edgecombe ball, ordering her never to return to Bucket Lane. She hadn’t liked it then, and she did not appreciate it now.
On the other hand, trying to deny her attraction to him would only give him a weakness in her that he could easily exploit. Very well, she admitted impatiently, she found him rather maddeningly desirable, and, yes, she was intrigued.
But that in no way meant she intended to marry the devil,
no matter what Papa might’ve promised on her behalf.
Then, before she was anywhere near ready to confront him, they started calling for her.
“Daphne! Lord Rotherstone is here!”
Blast. There was nowhere to hide as she heard her father say in a delicate tone, “My daughter is feeling rather shy today, I fear. Let me take you in to her.”
“Oh, George, not in the study! It always looks like a whirlwind in there—”
“I’m sure it is quite acceptable,” Lord Rotherstone said soothingly to her stepmother. Daphne could hear their voices in the hallway, coming closer. “Whatever makes Miss Starling feel most comfortable,” he was saying.
“Oh, so considerate! You really are too kind, Your Lordship!”
“Nonsense.”
“Right through there,” Papa directed.
Daphne wanted to run, but she knew she was trapped. The mullioned windows were too narrow for a person to climb out of. Standing stiffly in the center of the room, she had no choice but to hold her ground. Her pulse pounded. Suddenly, he appeared—his tall, powerful frame nigh filling the open doorway. Their gazes locked; a tremble ran the entire length of her body.
“There she is!” Penelope said sweetly, slipping in behind him to insert herself into matters, as usual.
Daphne held her breath, her eyes wide as he advanced into the room, hat in hand, like some humble suitor. Well, he might have fooled her family with that smooth charm of his, but she saw through this cunning autocrat, this wicked puppet master. Did he take her for a fool?
“Miss Starling,” he greeted her, his pale eyes aglow, a beguiling little smile on his lips.
Oh, he looked so pleased with himself as he bowed to her, she thought. Lifting her chin a notch, Daphne refused to shrink from the intensity in his stare. What did he expect, that she would swoon at his feet like some eager patsy?
“George, look what a beautiful couple they make!”
“Thank you, Lady Starling,” the marquess said, not looking away from Daphne.
Penelope beamed a short distance away, already counting the minutes, no doubt, until her irksome stepdaughter would be gone from the house. “We’ll leave you two young people alone—but only briefly!” she added with a chiding wave of her finger and a knowing little laugh.
“Of course, madam.” Lord Rotherstone nodded politely to Penelope, who then forgot to leave.
“Come, wife,” Papa insisted. “Let them be for a moment.”
“Of course I’m coming, George! I should never wish to intrude, I’m sure!” Still simpering at their guest, Penelope finally managed to tear herself out of the room—probably to listen in the hallway.
As the door closed, Daphne decided on the spot that the only way to decipher Lord Rotherstone’s game was to hear the slyboots out. Considering his two rescues of her, this only seemed fair. It signified nothing that the raw, male magnetism that emanated from him probably made compasses malfunction in his presence.
God knew he made her needle swing wildly, as though he had swallowed true north—as if all signs pointed straight to him as her final destination.
Max took one look at Miss Starling and saw he had some persuading to do. The young beauty was not the expert that he was at hiding her feelings, and what he read in her face at the news of their betrothal was a mixture of fury and dread.
Very well, so he would have to calm her down and help her see the wisdom of this match. He had had more time than she to get used to the idea.
Indeed, negotiations with her father having been concluded, the thing was so settled in Max’s mind that he had already begun to think of her as his.
Strangely, any objection on her part merely strengthened his resolve, for it meant that this rare lady would not be won over merely by his title and his gold.
As he crossed the room to her, he could not help taking a moment’s softheaded delight in her natural beauty. Indeed, she was a prize.
The last time he had seen her, she had been a shining star in a pure white ball gown, almost untouchable in her pristine elegance, but today, she was warm country sunshine. He found her in an enchanting state of unpretentious loveliness, her long golden hair hanging free about her shoulders, held back from her face with a simple ribbon bandeau.
Her light, floral-printed day dress had a demure white fichu tucked into the neckline, and concealed her slender arms in three-quarter sleeves. Max stared at the delicate wrists, enchanted by the ink stains on her fingers. At the ball, she had worn gloves, but now her naked hands made him long to know her touch on his bare skin.
Keeping a firm check on his desire, he stepped closer with a respectful glance, bent, and pressed a chaste kiss to her smooth cheek.
Her lashes flicked downward, but she did not pull away: He counted this as his first victory. Leaning near, he could feel the heat between them. Without a word, he presented her next with the gift that he had brought.
She looked at the whimsical box, then eyed him dubiously, making no move whatsoever to accept his admittedly extravagant offering.
Though he was fleetingly arrested by the beauty of the sunlight streaming in through the bay window behind her, illuminating her hair and shoulders in a subtle halo, the look she gave him made it clear that he was in for a delicate round of diplomacy.
No matter. He had gone a round with Metternich once. He trusted he could handle one pretty young lady.
He smiled at her and backed off a bit, turning to set the jewelry box aside.
She folded her arms across her chest and watched his every move. “I hear you’ve been busy, my lord,” she remarked with an edge to her soft murmur.
Max turned back to her with a confident half smile. “Didn’t I promise you that we would meet again?”
Her cheeks flushed suddenly. “Hardly like this!”
“My dear Miss Starling.” Max stepped closer and took charge, collecting both of her sweet hands between his own. He gazed soberly into her eyes. “Would you do me the honor of being my wife?”
She stared at him in shock, looking rather lost.
He waited in staunch silence. Not that she really had a choice.
“Lord Rotherstone,” she forced out, “you quite astonish me.” She seemed to grasp for words. “I am honored, naturally. But—we barely know each other!”
“Well, that is soon amended,” he reassured her softly with a calm and even smile.
“But how can you wish to marry me after one conversation? I don’t even know your name—your full name—only your title!”
“It’s Max,” he said abruptly. “Max St. Albans. Well, there is a good deal more to it than that. I have so many middle names and lesser titles, I barely can keep track of them myself. But ‘Max’ will do for you and me. What else would you like to know?”
“Everything!” She yanked her hands out of his.
He eyed her guardedly. “Well, that’s a tall order,” he replied evasively. Though he was highly trained in controlling the flow of information, he was happy to parcel out some basic facts for his future bride.
He’d be the first to agree that she deserved it. After all, not even a secret agent ought to lie to the mother of his future children. Insofar as he could help it.
Fortunately, a young Society bride was not expected to ask a great many questions of her lord and master.
Especially not when said husband was going to provide her with a mode of life akin to royalty. Only a very foolish chit would jeopardize such gains by prying into the mouth of the proverbial gift horse.
Daphne would be cherished and well taken care of, and that jolly well ought to be enough, Max thought, for any intelligent young lady. As she stared at him expectantly, Max saw it was time to deliver his main points.
“I am from Worcestershire,” he began. “I believe I told you that. My parents are dead. I have a sister a few years younger than myself. We don’t see each other much—due to my traveling over the past few years.” He paused, not sure where to go next. “I am thirty-th
ree years old. And I need a wife.” He shrugged. “You seem delightful,” he forged on. “Really everything a man could desire in a woman. From your work at the orphanage, I deduce that you like children, and obviously, that is my main concern. I have a great deal to offer you, and in all, Miss Starling,” he concluded, “I believe that you and I could have a very pleasant life together.”
He lifted his chin and awaited her jubilation.
Her cobalt eyes had grown huge while he talked, but her face had paled. He waited another long moment for her response.
She brought her hand weakly to her brow. “I think I’m going to faint.”
Max frowned and stepped into action, determined to prove he was indeed husband material. “Come, sit down, my dear,” he ordered gently, taking her elbow and leading her over to the leather couch before the bookshelves.
Once he had safely placed his prize there, he crouched down before her and scanned her face in worry. “Is there anything that I can do for you?”
“No—it’s just—forgive me, but—I fear I’m at a loss. I don’t even understand how all this came about!”
“Surely you were aware that I noticed you, Miss Starling.”
“Yes, but after the Edgecombe ball, you never returned to Society—and now this! I thought you had forgotten all about me.”
He shook his head with a lusty look. “Hardly.”
She gave him a doe-eyed blink.
“My dear lady, within twenty-four hours of speaking to you, I was in negotiations with your father.”
“Really?” she breathed.
“Yes.”
“Oh. But, my lord, I do not understand. Why didn’t you come to me before going to my father? That is what has me so confused. Did you not think it prudent to consult my feelings first?”
“How, now, Miss Starling?” he countered, feigning perfect innocence. “I went out of my way to show the proper respect for your father and for you. I proceeded by the book, according to tradition. Besides,” he admitted in a more delicate tone, “with the state of my reputation and the recent damage to yours, thanks to Carew, can you imagine the talk if I had begun by pursuing you first, without going through the proper channels, or making it crystal clear that my intentions were fully honorable?”