He had met clever women before, of course. The two women in his past to whom he had nearly given his heart were clever. And pretty. But Gwendolyn was unique among women of his acquaintance. She had something they did not; yet at the moment, he had no idea what that something was. Perhaps it was simply knowing his future was in her hands, and his attraction to her was nothing more than a concession to the inevitable, a means of accepting what he had no choice in. In a convoluted way, that did make sense.
“You’re rather passionate about a woman you just met,” Reggie said mildly. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you quite this animated since Lady—”
“Nonsense.”
“Denying the obvious?” Reggie studied him for a moment. “How very interesting.”
“Don’t be absurd,” Marcus said firmly. “If I exhibit any passion at all about Miss Townsend, it’s only because I have worked myself to a minimal amount of enthusiasm for that which I cannot avoid.”
Reggie snorted. “You can protest all you want, old man, but don’t forget: I know you as well as you know yourself. In spite of your reluctance to engage in displays of emotion, or indeed to admit you have emotions, I would wager a great deal that this woman has intrigued you to an extent I have rarely seen you exhibit.”
It was pointless to deny it: argument would only strengthen Reggie’s belief. Besides, Marcus was indeed intrigued by Miss Townsend. Gwendolyn. When had he started thinking of her by her given name?
“It seems to me, Reggie, if you have no choice in the matter of who your bride will be, it’s far better to be intrigued by the woman than repulsed by her.”
“No doubt. I should think—”
Without warning, the door to the library opened and the subject of their discussion swept into the room, Godfrey, Marcus’s butler, fast on her heels.
Marcus straightened, and Reggie at once got to his feet.
“My lord,” Godfrey said quickly, “I attempted to explain to the lady that she could not simply—”
“I told him it was all right.” Gwendolyn’s cool gaze met his. “That you would wish to see me.”
“Which I could scarcely believe, my lord,” A scandalized note sounded in Godfrey’s lowered voice. “She is unaccompanied.” In Godfrey’s estimation, no respectable lady would go anywhere without accompaniment.
“I have a driver,” she said in an overly sweet manner.
“It is quite all right, Godfrey. Miss Townsend is indeed”—he cast her an amused smile—“expected.”
Godfrey hesitated but was too well trained to protest. “Very well, my lord.” Godfrey slanted her a suspicious glance. “I shall be nearby if you require my assistance.”
“Never fear, Godfrey.” Reggie grinned. “I shall remain to protect His Lordship should it become necessary.”
Godfrey’s lips pressed together in a firm line, as if he doubted Reggie’s ability to do much of anything. Reggie often had that effect on the servant. Godfrey nodded in a respectful if reluctant manner. “As you wish, my lord.” He stepped to the door and closed it firmly behind him.
“What, precisely, does he think I will do to you?” Miss Townsend said mildly.
“It’s hard to say with Godfrey.” Marcus smiled. “He has been with me since I was a boy and is exceedingly protective.”
“However, you are in excellent company. He has never trusted me in the least.” Reggie stepped forward.
“With good reason, my lord?” Miss Townsend’s eyes widened innocently.
“One can only hope.” Reggie laughed. “You were right about her, Marcus.”
“Were you?” Miss Townsend’s brow lifted. “Right about what?”
“Miss Townsend,” Marcus changed the subject, “may I present my friend Lord Berkley.”
“Miss Townsend.” Reggie took her hand a bit too eagerly and lifted it to his lips. His gaze met Gwendolyn’s in an altogether too personal manner. “How delightful to see you again.”
“Is it?” she murmured, staring at Reggie with a bemused look on her face, as if she’d never had her hand kissed before. Why, hadn’t Marcus kissed her hand just yesterday? Her reaction hadn’t seemed nearly as profound then.
“Indeed it is.” Reggie’s voice was low and overly warm.
Odd how Marcus had never before noted the flirtatious—no, the intimate—manner in which Reggie greeted female acquaintances. For a moment he had the most remarkable urge to thrash his oldest friend in the world. Surely he wasn’t jealous? Or possessive? What nonsense. Still, he didn’t like the look on Reggie’s face or, for that matter, the look on Gwendolyn’s.
“Then is what Lord Pennington said to me true?” she asked.
“It all depends on what he said.”
“He suggested you would be happy to marry me and absolve him of the necessity to do the deed himself.” She smiled pleasantly. “Would you?”
Marcus winced to himself.
Reggie’s eyes widened, and he dropped her hand as if it were on fire. “Well, I…that is…I should…”
“It was a momentary impulse on my part,” Marcus said quickly. “And quite ill-advised, I might add. My apologies to you both.” He sounded rather stiff, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.
Reggie cast him a curious look. “Apology accepted. Although”—he bowed in a courtly manner—“Miss Townsend, I should be honored to marry you if only to save you from the hands of Lord Pennington. He is a rake, a rogue, and a scoundrel. He has been embroiled in escapades and scandals far too numerous to mention.” He lowered his voice confidentially. “He is exceedingly dangerous.”
“Really?” Gwendolyn considered Marcus for a moment. “He does not look particularly dangerous.”
“My dear young woman.” Reggie shook his head. “The stories I could tell you would shock you to your very core.”
“Berkley”—a warning sounded in Marcus’s voice—“I don’t think—”
“You mean stories about Lord Pennington being mistaken for a buck and shot?” Her tone was mild, but there was an amused twinkle in her eye.
“Exactly like that.” Reggie grinned. “Only these are even better.”
“That’s quite enough,” Marcus said firmly. “I doubt Miss Townsend is here this evening for the purpose of hearing stories about my exploits, real or imagined.”
“Although I did rather enjoy the one about him being shot.” A true smile lifted her lips, and Marcus was struck by what lovely lips they were. He hadn’t seen her smile like that before. It lit up her face and deepened the blue of her eyes. And warmed something deep inside him.
“I could tell it again if you’d like.” Reggie’s tone was a touch too eager. “And this time it will be much more amusing.”
“No,” Marcus said. “But I’m certain Miss Townsend appreciates the offer.”
“Indeed I do.” She paused for a moment as if to gather her thoughts or perhaps her courage. “However, that is not the offer I am here to discuss.”
At once the mood in the room sobered.
Marcus nodded. “I did not think so.”
“I assume nothing has changed?” Gwendolyn started to remove her gloves, as if she planned on staying for a while. Marcus wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. “You still wish to marry me?”
“Indeed I do, Miss Townsend. I have no choice.” Marcus groaned to himself at the formal note in his voice and his overly cool manner. This was not at all the way to press his suit.
Reggie cast his gaze toward the ceiling.
She pulled off one glove, then slowly removed the other. “As much as ours is an unusual match, it is still disconcerting to hear the truth stated in such an unequivocal manner.”
Blast it all. “I am sorry, Miss Townsend. I did not mean—”
“An apology is not necessary.” Her gaze met his. She was as controlled as he, and he could read nothing in her eyes. “You are entirely right: you have been given no choice in the matter. Therefore I would suggest”—she drew a deep breath—“we discuss the terms of the ar
rangement.”
“Terms, Miss Townsend?” He didn’t especially like the sound of that. “What do you mean by terms?”
“Terms. Expectations. Conditions. Provisions and so forth. Of our”—she swallowed hard, and he wondered if the coolness of her manner was due to nerves and the significance of the moment—“marriage.”
Relief swept through him, and a touch of something unexpected. Not joy, surely, but a certain pleasure nonetheless. Abruptly he wondered if the nonsense he’d spouted to her about fate might well have some veracity after all. Perhaps this was meant to be.
“Well, I say, congratulations to you both.” Reggie beamed as if this were a love match and not an arrangement more akin to business than affection. “And, as you both have a great deal to discuss, I shall take my leave.”
“You needn’t go,” Marcus said quickly.
“You could be of some help,” Gwendolyn added.
“I would offer my assistance, of course, but I have just this moment remembered an appointment I must keep.” Reggie stepped to the door, pulled it open, then glanced back at Gwendolyn and grinned. “Do be careful, my dear, he is exceedingly dangerous.” He turned and stepped into the hall. “Take care, Godfrey. You’ll soon have a new mistress.” The door snapped shut behind him.
An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Marcus had no idea what to say now. Or what to do. She looked as ill-at-ease as he.
“Would you like a brandy?” he blurted.
“That would be lovely,” she said with obvious relief.
He moved to the desk, selected a clean glass from a silver tray, filled it, then refilled his own. He was grateful for the activity and the respite from conversation. He turned toward her. She’d taken off her hat and was smoothing her hair away from her face.
“Oh dear. I do hope you are not going to chastise me again for a lapse in decorum. As I told you yesterday, I have always been exceedingly proper in behavior and attitude. However…” She wrinkled her nose in a charming manner that made her appear entirely too young and far too innocent. “I know hats are a necessary evil, correct and all that, but I simply hate wearing them.” She dropped it onto the sofa, as if daring him to protest.
“Then we have something in common. I am not fond of wearing hats myself.” He stepped toward her. “Besides, this shall soon be your home, and you should feel free to behave as you like here. Within reason of course.”
She cocked her head. “Within reason?”
“I should hate to scandalize Godfrey.” He handed her the drink. “It’s very good brandy. I hope you like it.”
“I’m certain I shall.” She eyed the glass with a skeptical smile. “Although I have never had brandy before.” She took a swallow and gasped. “It’s very”—her voice was choked—“intense.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” He grinned.
Her eyes watered, and she clasped her hand to her throat. “And extremely warm.”
“That too.”
“Still…” She took a second, far more cautious sip. “It does have a not unpleasant taste.”
“Not at all unpleasant.”
She licked her lips and nodded thoughtfully. “Quite pleasant, really. Don’t you think?”
“I do.” Without thinking, he leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips across hers. “Very pleasant.”
She caught her breath and stared up at him. “Why did you do that?”
He grimaced. “I’m not sure. I am not usually given to impulse but—”
“But you have not been in this position before.”
“Which position.” He stared at her lips, slightly parted, full and firm and tasting delightfully of brandy.
“Marriage?”
“Ah yes.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I should apologize again.”
“For kissing me?” Her eyes were wide, and her breath was shallow.
“Yes,” he said softly. “We met only yesterday, yet it seems I am always apologizing to you for my behavior.”
“You needn’t.” She lifted her chin slightly and leaned imperceptibly closer. “Not for this.”
“I can’t.” He wanted to kiss her again. “Not for kissing you.” Pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. “I would not mean it.” And lose his own senses in the process.
For an endless moment he could do nothing but stare into her eyes, and he saw his own unforeseen desire mirrored there. And, unexpectedly, apprehension or perhaps fear as well. And he realized that too was a reflection.
“Yes, well…” He stepped away and resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair, the moment broken, the tension between them shattered.
“Yes, well…” She uttered a short, awkward laugh. “Indeed.” Gwendolyn pulled a long swallow of her drink.
“Take care with the brandy, Miss Townsend, it is extremely potent for one who is not used to it.” His manner was again cool and remote, and as much as he regretted it, he wasn’t at all sure it wasn’t for the best at the moment.
“Thank you, Lord Pennington.” She smiled politely and drew a deep swallow of the liquor. She too was now brisk and impersonal, and once again he both regretted it and was grateful. “Perhaps we should now discuss the terms of our arrangement.”
“Marriage, Miss Townsend, not merely an arrangement,” he said firmly. “This is to be a marriage, which implies any number of things that indeed we should resolve.”
“I quite agree.” She marched to the sofa and perched primly on the edge, the vision of stiff propriety somewhat spoiled by the glass of brandy in her hand and the tendril of red hair that had freed itself from the knot on the top of her head. “You may begin.”
“I may begin?” He shook his head. “I think not. You are the one who insisted on laying out the terms of this marriage.” He set his glass down, crossed his arms over his chest, and propped his hip on the desk. “You should be the one to begin.”
“Very well. First of all”—she took another sip—“as you know, I will acquire a tidy personal fortune when we wed.”
“Just how much is tidy, Miss Townsend?”
She hesitated.
“Come now, I have no designs on your money.”
She downed the rest of her brandy. “One hundred thousand pounds.”
He blew a low whistle. “That is tidy.”
“That money is to be mine and mine alone,” she said quickly.
“Once we wed, what’s yours is mine, Miss Townsend.” His tone was mild. “It’s the law, the way of the world.”
“I don’t care.” Her defiant gaze locked with his. “You are to have no say over that money, and I shall not make an accounting of it to you. Not now or ever. And I further wish Mr. Whiting to draw up an agreement specifying this.”
“And if I do not agree?”
“Then there will be no marriage.” She smiled smugly. The woman had the upper hand in this game, and she well knew it.
“Very well. As this marriage will ensure the stability of my own fortune, I will have no need for your hundred thousand pounds.” He shrugged. “It is, in truth, a pittance in comparison with my resources.”
Her eyes widened. “Really?”
“Really. And as my wife, you will certainly share in my wealth even if you refuse to allow me to share in yours.” It was interesting to note the play of expressions across her face. Not greed as much as awe and even perhaps relief. Not surprising. She had spent the last years of her life with very little. It must indeed ease her mind to realize she would not have to worry about money ever again.
“Imagine that,” she said under her breath and up-ended her glass, only to discover it empty.
He grabbed the decanter, crossed the room, and filled her glass, firmly ignoring the voice in his head that said this was a mistake. He did not want her foxed.
“Thank you,” she murmured, staring into the glass. “It really is extremely tasty.” She looked up at him. “I believe it’s your turn. For terms, that is.”
“Ah yes.” He returned to h
is perch on the edge of the desk. He had, of course, already considered the conditions of their arrangement, but that was before he’d met her. He was expecting a marriage of convenience for them both. Once she had provided him with heirs, they could both live their own lives. He was no longer entirely certain that was what he wanted. Still, it was a place to start. “We need to discuss children.”
“Of course,” she said coolly, but there was an odd look in her eye. “You shall want sons, I assume.”
“Absolutely. Two should do nicely.”
“I see.” She took a gulp of her drink. “When?”
He started. “I had not considered when. Soon, I should think.”
“And what of girls?”
“What of girls?” he said slowly and studied her closely. Even though she showed no outward appearance of inebriation, it was probable the brandy was taking its toll.
She heaved an annoyed sigh. “What if we have girls?”
“Frankly, Miss Townsend, I have not considered that question either. It’s heirs that I am concerned with.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t like girls, do you?”
“I have never given them any particular thought.”
“Of course not.” She got to her feet in a surprisingly steady manner, straightened her shoulders, and glared at him. “I am a girl.”
He bit back a grin. “Yes, indeed, I can certainly see that.”
“Do you like me?” she said in a lofty manner.
“I’m afraid I do.”
She tilted her head and stared at him. “Are you really? Afraid, I mean?”
He nodded. “I really am.”
“Why? Shouldn’t I be the one who is afraid of you?”
“Possibly.” He paused. “Are you?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely not.”
He laughed. “Why not?”
“Well…” She paused. “Because you are an adult, I suppose. And I quite consider myself equal to you.”
“Do you?”
“I do indeed.”
“I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.”
“What a very nice thing to say. Inaccurate but nice.” She sipped her drink and considered him. “I have always been rather afraid of children.”
Love with the Proper Husband Page 9