by Anne Gracie
Nash snorted. “It is when you’re offering marriage to a young woman of twenty.”
“Two and twenty.” She’d harnessed her temper and presented an irritatingly calm appearance.
Superficial, Nash knew; nevertheless, his own temper mounted. “What did his own children think of this outrageous offer?”
“He has no children.”
“Widowed long?”
“No.” Her gaze slid away. She was hiding something.
“What do you mean, no? When was he widowed?”
“He’s not a widower. He’s never been married.”
“Never been married? And yet now, in his sixth decade, he decides to take a wife young enough to be his granddaughter?” Nash shook his head. “There’s something wrong there. A man of that age, a bachelor of long standing—more than sixty years!—suddenly decides to change his life? I don’t believe it. What does he have to gain?”
She bared her teeth in imitation of a smile. “Me.”
He snorted again. It was outrageous. The very thought of her, and some old man . . . any man . . . He jammed tightly clenched fists into his pockets, out of sight.
“It’s true,” she insisted. “He told me when I was a little girl that he would marry me one day.”
He rolled his eyes. “That’s just something you say to a child.”
The anger sighed out of her. “I know,” she said more quietly. “But he maintained that position ever since. I thought his references to it were mere pleasantries. But when Papa died Mr. Hulme insisted that that Papa had approved the match.” She grimaced. “I think the real attraction is that he admired the way I looked after Papa when he was dying.”
Nash was revolted. “You mean he wants to tie a lovely young woman to him so he’ll be well looked after in his old age? I’ve never heard of anything so . . . so . . .”
“Selfish?”
“Wasteful,” he snapped. “Wasteful of you, your life, and all its wonderful possibilities.”
She gave a mirthless laugh and looked around her. “Yes, indeed, why would anyone give up all these wonderful possibilities”—she indicated the small cottage, barren now of its warmth—“to marry a wealthy old man? Why give up the constant and unrelenting struggle to feed and clothe five children when by marrying you could give them everything they need and want?”
“And what about what you want?”
She gave him a long look, then shrugged enigmatically.
“You refused him before,” Nash persisted. The very idea of her marrying this unknown old man appalled him. She couldn’t be allowed to sacrifice herself so cold-bloodedly. She deserved something better, much better.
She turned away from him and started briskly folding clothing. “Yes, well, I’m older now, and wiser.”
Guilt lashed Nash’s anger and frustration to breaking point. She hadn’t spoken of becoming an old man’s darling two days ago, when her garden was destroyed and her hives burned. She hadn’t talked about marrying Hulme then. On the contrary, she’d been determined to fight back.
Now, all the fight was gone from her and he hated it, hating seeing resignation and acceptance in her eyes, knowing that he was the cause of it.
“If it’s money you need, I said before I could—”
She turned on him, enraged. “Do not dare offer me money!”
Dammit, had all his diplomatic skills deserted him? Nash took a calming breath and rephrased it. “I didn’t mean it like that, you know I don’t. But naturally you want security for the children. I thought you understood that I would look after them, as well as you. I mustn’t have made it clear.”
“You made it quite clear and you have nothing to reproach yourself about. But I cannot accept that kind of support. You may not know what it’s like in a small village, where everyone knows everyone’s business, but if you sent men along with firewood, the village would know, if you gave me a rug for the floor, they would know. And they would whisper and talk. And the good, respectable women who have been my friends up to now will sh—speculate. And no longer commission bonnets. And everyone would gossip. And the children would suffer for it.”
She’d been going to say something else, he thought. Sh— Shun? Her friends would shun her? “I will buy you a house somewhere else—on one of my brother’s—”
“Thank you, but no,” she cut him off firmly. “You mean I would live as your mistress I suppose.”
She paused and, horrified, he realized he had no answer. He hadn’t thought about anything, except that he was going to lose her just when he’d found her.
She read an answer in his frozen face and shook her head. “Living as your mistress, seeing you only when you returned to England, when you could spare the time?” She made a decisive gesture. “I refuse to live on crumbs of attention and spend my life waiting. I will make my own choices.”
Her cold-blooded assessment of the situation lashed at his guilt. A fine fellow he was indeed, to bring a girl to this when all she’d done was save his life. “I’m sorry. I know it’s my fault, that my being here—and what happened between us last night—”
“Do not apologize for last night!” Her eyes flashed, her honey-smoke voice vibrated with emotion. “Last night has nothing to do with this—nothing! It was between you and me alone, and if there’s anything I regret, it’s not that we made love.”
She passed a hand wearily over her face, gathering her composure. Her fingers trembled and pain twisted in him.
In a quieter voice she said, “Your offer is very generous, Nash, but you don’t need to take care of me or give me money or cottages or rugs or firewood to assuage any guilt you think you have. You have nothing to reproach yourself for. Everything that happened in this cottage was my choice—mine! And I regret none of it.” She paused. “Except perhaps for Mr. Harris discovering you here. But again, that was my responsibility—I knew the risk and accepted it—”
She was being far too generous, Nash thought. He’d provoked Harris’s vindictiveness and caused the scandal that would force her to leave, to marry an old man.
“—and if I return to Leicestershire and marry Mr. Hulme, it will also be my choice. So please, put aside any misplaced guilt you have, set your new estate to rights, return to Russia and your life as a diplomat, and let me get on with my life.”
He grabbed her arm and swung her around to face him. “You can’t bloody well marry a man old enough to be your grandfather! It’s obscene.”
She pulled herself out of his grip with an irritable movement. “Kindly do not swear at me. It’s not your business what I do, Nash Renfrew. It’s my life, my choice.”
“And your body that will have an old man slavering incompetently over it!”
She turned, trying to hide the involuntary shudder that passed through her at his words, but Nash saw it, saw and pounced on it with triumph. “Admit it, you don’t want to marry him.”
“I admit nothing!” she flashed. “It’s my decision. Now please—” She broke off and flung away to another part of the small room. She stood, her back to him, breathing deeply, almost visibly reassembling her composure. When she turned back, her face was smooth and clear of all visible signs of emotion.
She walked up to Nash and in a calm, pleasant voice said, “Good-bye, Mr. Renfrew. I wish you all the best in your life.” She held out her hand.
He stared at it as if at a live snake. If he took it, it meant he accepted her dismissal. Damned if he would. Let her go and marry some disgusting old goat, just because Nash Renfrew had ruined her life?
“All right then, I’ll marry you,” he heard himself say.
Sixteen
It was like cold water dashed in her face. All right then, I’ll marry you? Flung at her in anger, resentfully, as if she’d been begging him to marry her.
All right then, I’ll marry you. And then he’d looked vaguely alarmed, as if he’d shocked himself as well as her. He hadn’t meant to say it.
He’d schooled his face into an expression of poli
te anticipation, all his anger and jealousy—for that’s what it was, she knew—belatedly muzzled and packed away out of sight, presenting her with his diplomat’s face. Waiting for her response to his ill-considered, obviously unplanned, and apparently instantly regretted marriage proposal.
She wanted to slap him, to burst into tears—no, slap him! Impossible man!
Serve him right if she accepted him.
He waited, his eyes unreadable, all signs of emotion subdued. A diplomat’s job was to lie for his country. He would be a wonderful diplomat, she was sure.
He might have made love to her with a tenderness and passion that had stolen away the last piece of her hopelessly ill-guarded heart, but in one unguarded flash she’d seen what he really thought.
It sliced deep into her heart.
Want him as she might—and, oh, she did—she had too much pride to accept what was clearly a unintended proposal of marriage. Especially knowing the kind of bride he wanted—a girl with the right sort of upbringing, the right sort of connections. Of which she had none.
She might be desperate enough to marry Mr. Hulme, but with him, she was only laying her body on the line. With Nash, it would be everything, body, heart, and soul.
He waited, watching her with that horrid, blank, diplomatish expression.
If she did accept him, took advantage of his momentary guilt and jealousy to trap him into marriage, this would be the face she’d see for the rest of her life, all politeness and diplomacy and blank, unreadable eyes. It wouldn’t just break her heart, it would grind it to dust.
She gave him a proud look. “Do you think I would accept such a proposal as that? Uttered in begrudging resentment and flung down in the dust for me to pick up?”
His clenched jaw dropped.
“Thank you, Mr. Renfrew, but no thank you. I have made my decision. Good-bye. It’s been a pleasure knowing you. You may see yourself out.” She turned her back so that he wouldn’t see that she was fighting tears.
“Very well, madam,” he said in a tight clipped voice and stormed from the cottage.
She’d refused him. Nash stalked to where he’d tied his horse. She’d refused him. Sent him away with a flea in his ear in a dismissal worthy of a duchess.
He was relieved; that went without saying. He hadn’t meant to make her an offer. He had no idea what possessed him.
He wanted to gallop away, to leave the whole mortifying mess behind him, but his horse was tired. Two wild rides were enough for a morning.
Leaving at a sedate trot was . . . frustrating.
He tried to block out the memory of her stricken expression.
He reminded himself that, it wouldn’t have worked, that Maddy was too unsophisticated, too innocent for the life he led. The frozen feeling lodged at his core had everything to do with being appalled at his lapse in judgment, and nothing to do with her refusal.
Her refusal stung.
What had she said? A proposal as that? Uttered in begrudging resentment—begrudging resentment?—and flung down in the dust.
What nonsense. He hadn’t flung any damn thing in the dust. There was no dust in that cottage; she kept it clean and neat as a new pin. And as for begrudging resentment . . .
A middle-aged woman came toward him in a dogcart, a basket of flowers sitting beside her on the seat. Smiling at him with pleased expectation, she stopped with the clear intent of engaging him in conversation. Another blasted tenant?
“How do you do, madam?” Nash snapped and trotted on.
Rather than marry Nash, Maddy had chosen a lecherous old goat three times her age!
It more than stung. It cut deep. And festered.
A scraggly dog raced out from a farmhouse, yapping fiercely.
All right then, I’ll marry you.
Good God, had he really said that? In that tone of voice? To the woman he’d made love to all night, who’d shattered him with her warmth and generosity. Who’d made no effort to trap him into marriage, who’d only saved his life, tended his injuries, and given him more care than anyone in his life.
Oaf! Where was the silver-tongued diplomat famed for his smooth address?
The trouble was, he was used to dealing with men, negotiating with men. He understood men. Men were logical, or if not precisely logical, easy enough to read, driven by passions he could understand: greed, self-interest, power.
Women now . . . He’d never understood women. He kept them at a distance, flirting, deflecting any with serious intent, indulging in the occasional lighthearted affair with a like-minded female. Never, ever anything remotely emotional. He always made that clear, right from the start.
He’d let Maddy Woodford get closer to him than any woman in his life.
Yet Maddy Woodford hadn’t waxed emotional over him. She hadn’t wept or stormed or railed at him; she hadn’t clung, she hadn’t begged. She’d asked nothing of him at all, only his body. She’d loved him so sweetly and generously through the night, shattering all his self-control, then sent him on her way with a smile, albeit wobbly, and a firm good-bye.
He was the one who’d become emotional. For the first time in his life. The very idea of her marrying that ghastly old goat, lying in a bed while an old man pawed over her, dribbling, slavering his vile, old-man drool over her pure, silken skin . . . It drove him to the brink of insanity.
He closed his eyes, recognizing the emotion roiling through him.
Jealousy.
His father and mother all over again.
Put her out of your mind, man! Forget her. You offered, and she refused.
Dammit, life had been so much simpler before he met Maddy Woodford: calm, pleasant, relatively ordered. He’d known exactly who he was and what he wanted.
Now he had a mass of conflicting desires clawing at his insides like wild beasts, tearing him apart.
He wanted to ride out a storm, to curse the wind and howl at the moon. Instead he was forced to trot sedately through sunshine and spring flowers and twittering blasted birds.
He wanted to punch someone, shoot something, strangle someone. Dammit, he had to do something!
Foolish, foolish creature! Maddy upbraided herself silently as she moved about the cottage, packing and sorting clothes. After everything you’ve always said about seizing a chance when it came. So he might have come to resent you for taking advantage of his momentary jealousy. At least you’d have the husband your heart desires.
Not just her heart. As she moved about the cottage, she felt twinges and tenderness in unexpected places, and echoes of the night’s loving rippled gently through her.
Each time it happened, she closed her eyes, luxuriating in every tiny sensation, memorizing, hoarding it for the long, lonely future she’d so foolishly embraced.
She blamed all those songs and poems and stories of giving it all up for love. For the sake of her beloved.
Her beloved, who’d shocked himself with an accidental proposal, and was even now riding away, heading for his glittering future, no doubt congratulating himself about his lucky escape from a most unsuitable woman.
Her beloved, who kissed like a dream, and made love like . . .
A hot, luscious shiver rippled through her, pooling at her center, clenching like a velvet fist deep inside her. She closed her eyes to savor it.
“Wrapping me in faded silk brocade, are you?” said a deep voice from the doorway.
She whirled. Faded silk brocade?
“I won’t have it.” He strode into the cottage. “I’m a living, breathing man. With needs.” He closed the door behind him and turned, his blue eyes boring into her in a way that set her heart fluttering. “And I’m not ready to be put away in a box.”
“What—”
“Sit. Down.” It was not a request.
Maddy blinked. And sat. And watched wide-eyed as he took a couple of paces about the cottage, as if coming to a decision, and then came to stand in front of her.
And then knelt on one knee.
Maddy stopped breathin
g. Her heart thudded in her chest like a fist pounding on a door.
His eyes were dark blue and somber. He took her left hand in his and said, “Madeleine Woodford, would you do me the honor of giving me your hand in marriage?”
For a moment she was too stunned to answer.
He gave a rueful smile. “Every man is entitled to make a mull of his first marriage proposal. You must acknowledge this one is neither flung down in the dust, nor uttered in begrudging resentment.”
She’d flicked him on the raw with those comments, she saw. Offended his sense of himself.
He waited for her response.
“Why do you want to marry me?” she asked, then silently cursed herself for doing so. It was a miracle he’d come back, asked her again. Few people were given a second chance in life. But she wanted to know—had to know why.
Ached for the words . . .
He smiled. “Having jeopardized your good name, I can do no less than retrieve you from the consequences of my imprudence.”
Oh, that. Maddy swallowed her disappointment. It shouldn’t matter why—it didn’t, really. She would still accept his offer. Gallantry was a fine reason to marry.
No point crying for the moon.
“The offer, of course, includes the children,” he said. “I know you want to keep everyone together. I’m a wealthy man. None of you will lack for anything.”
She bit her lip and managed a nod.
He misinterpreted the reason for her silence and squeezed her hand. “Believe me, if I didn’t think this was the best thing to do I’d find another solution to the problem.”
The problem. That would be her.
Oh, why couldn’t she just say yes and get it over with? What was the matter with her? She tried to swallow again, but there was a large lump in her throat.
A slight crease formed between his brows. “I suppose you think it’s too soon, that you’ve only known me a short time. But it’s essential we scotch the gossip.”
The gossip, yes.
He gave her a shrewd look. “You’re worried, perhaps, because you know I’d planned on a . . . a different sort of bride.”