Vicky gave him an imperious look as Althea said, “George Harcourt. He’s an anti-abolitionist whose family still owns a plantation in the West Indies.”
Vicky’s face fell.
Tom angled his head to look sympathetic, but felt peculiarly satisfied that his first impression had been correct. “How unfortunate.”
Vicky’s eyes narrowed. “Is this your idea of being helpful?”
“If it is, I am clearly failing.”
“What do you propose to do, then?” she asked with a mock glare.
Tom spotted a lanky man standing across the room. “What of that fellow pulling out his snuff box? He looks somewhat familiar.”
Vicky’s eyes widened. “Where?”
He gestured toward the man. Vicky and Althea saw him just as he sniffed the tobacco up his nose.
Vicky made a face and angled her stance so she faced away from the man. “Lord, I hope he doesn’t ask me for a dance.”
“Who is he?” Tom asked.
“Arthur Fothergill,” Althea said. “He came to Oakbridge when we were children.”
“The Viscount Lindsley’s son?” The pale, lanky fellow wiping his nose had certainly changed from the short, ruddy-faced boy he recalled. “Why don’t you wish to dance with him?” he asked Vicky.
“She had an unhappy outing with him at the British Museum,” Althea supplied.
“He’s a boor, and he nearly spilled snuff on me twice,” Vicky said, keeping herself angled away from Fothergill.
Tom moved so they needn’t speak so awkwardly, and Althea followed. “More boorish than Silby?”
“No one’s as boorish as Mr. Silby,” Vicky whispered with a hint of a smile. “But Mr. Fothergill runs a close second.”
Tom caught himself grinning at her, but looked away as musicians struck the first chords of the opening dance from a balcony above them.
Tom glanced back at her. “As they are both here this evening, the least I can do is ask you to dance before they claim the honor. It may even help our cause, as nothing intrigues men more than a lady in demand.”
He placed his half-empty champagne glass on a tray one of the footmen was carrying; Vicky did the same. He offered Vicky his arm. “Do you mind, Lady Dain?”
Althea shook her head. “Of course not. I shall keep a wary eye out for potential suitors as you dance. Enjoy yourselves.”
“Mama is just over there, Thea,” Vicky said, pointing to the left side of the room. Clearly, she worried about leaving her sister alone.
“Shall we escort you—” he began.
“No, no. I’ll be fine,” Althea said. She walked toward Lady Oakbridge with a small wave in their direction.
Vicky took his arm, and they started toward the dance floor.
“Oh, bother,” she said, stopping him midstride.
“What is it?” he asked with some alarm.
“I was hoping it would be a waltz,” she confided as they reached the other couples.
“I see.” It was not a sentiment he shared. “But then we would both be disappointed.”
She looked up at him questioningly.
“I do not know the waltz.”
She blinked. “What do you mean you don’t know the waltz?”
“In the Swiss Confederation, it was banned for its lewdness. The first time I witnessed it was at the Duchess of Rutherfurd’s ball.”
“Oh,” Vicky said as he placed her across from him in the line of couples. “Then you must learn.”
He raised his brows.
“No acting brother of mine would be so woefully uneducated,” she said with a nod. She jested, of course, but the comment irked him.
The gentleman in the couple to his right gave him a brief glance, then must have shared a look with his partner, for Tom caught her giving him an odd look a moment later. He inclined his head to the lady, a young, thin blonde with ringlets who looked as though she had more beauty than sense. She glanced away quickly.
Annoyed, he bowed to Victoria as the minuet dictated and took her gloved hand. The first steps of the dance brought them closer together, still holding hands. As quietly as possible, he said, “You may care to refrain from calling me ‘brother’ if you wish our little ruse to work.”
Her brows knit as they stepped apart.
When they stepped together again, she whispered, “What ruse?”
They turned sideways and he mouthed, “That you are so in demand.”
She half turned toward him even though she was supposed to remain facing forward as they danced down the line of couples. “Pardon?”
He tried not to raise his voice to meet hers. “You heard.”
They parted and danced around the left-hand couple only to meet again in the middle.
“It just so happens, Lord Halworth,” she said, emphasizing the formality of address, “I am not so unwanted as you think me.”
He frowned at her tone.
“I’ll have you know Mr. Carmichael has asked for my hand,” she said loud enough for the couples next to them to hear.
Tom’s gut clenched at the words even as the other couples cast interested gazes at them. He stammered out a few strangled syllables before he caught himself, regained his composure, and said stupidly, “In marriage?”
She nodded. She was guarding her expression; he couldn’t read her at all.
“And what was your reply?” he whispered.
“I told him I’d have to consider it,” she admitted, again perfectly audible.
He didn’t know what he’d expected. Carmichael’s actions had made his intentions clear. But blast it all, Vicky could not marry him! They parted again and danced in mirrored circles.
“But what of his strange behavior?” he asked when they were face-to-face.
“That is part of the reason why I said I had to think about it,” she said.
His mind rushed back to their conversation the other day. “You said you would wait before making any decisions about Carmichael.”
“And I have waited,” she said, looking him in the eye.
He swallowed. The image of her smiling up at Carmichael as they strolled through the theater arm in arm the other night flashed through his mind, and he felt ill. He held his breath for a moment, then tried to inhale deeply.
She looked up at him. Her hazel eyes locked with his. “I must find someone else tonight or not at all.” This time, she did bother to whisper.
There was some emotion etched on her face, but Tom couldn’t identify it.
He breathed gravely. “What—what if he tried to murder your father?” he asked, looking around to make sure no one overheard as the music swelled and they stepped around each other to trade places.
She shook her head. “I cannot believe that of him. Besides, my mother would inherit my father’s portion of the partnership—Mr. Carmichael wouldn’t benefit.”
Mercifully, the dance ended and Tom hid his annoyance with a bow. How could she even think of shackling herself to that . . . clod? Even if he wouldn’t benefit financially from the earl’s death, he could still be using all the so-called accidents to persuade Vicky to marry him quickly. Tom still had yet to hear if his mother had found someone to appraise the land Dain had wanted—which meant they wouldn’t know its value until after Vicky had made a decision.
Damn it all, how was Tom going to find her someone other than Carmichael in one night? He didn’t know any more gentlemen now than he did earlier.
He offered her his arm and felt her small hand rest lightly on his coat. Contentment—so utterly foreign a feeling—washed over him. The sensation came upon him so suddenly, he looked down at her in surprise, and the smile she smiled as she caught his eye nearly undid him with its brilliance. He could see why Carmichael wanted her. She was guileless and kind, beautiful and courageous. He couldn’t fault Carmichael his taste in this instance. Victoria would be a credit to any husband. In fact, he could hardly believe she had no other marital prospects. Were the gentlemen of London complete fools?
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He grimaced. For the most part, they seemed to be just that. Which left her to Carmichael. Tom would simply have to accept it. Yet the very thought caused bile to rise in his throat.
He led her to the side of the ballroom as slowly as he could. One option remained, and amazingly, the thought of it didn’t leave him cold. Only slightly queasy.
They reached the edge of the ballroom, and he turned her to face him.
She released his arm. Her eyes widened slightly, but one corner of her mouth curved upward. “Are you quite well?”
He nodded. He swallowed. Perhaps he’d lost his wits for the evening, or perhaps the satisfaction of finally accomplishing something was making him think things he wouldn’t otherwise, but it didn’t matter. He had to say something to stop her from making an abominable mistake. “What if I had found someone else for you? To marry,” he finished as though the thought needed clarification.
Her eyebrows flew up. “Have you? Is he here?” She tried to peer around him.
He paused. He cleared his throat. “What if . . .” He exhaled. “What if it were me?”
Her eyes darted to his. Her mouth opened and closed. Then she said quietly, “Is it you?”
He stared down at her. Was she giving him a way out? Or did she not believe him to be serious? He’d rather see her married to nearly anyone but Carmichael. And who better than he, who knew her and actually cared for her well-being.
He nodded solemnly. “Marry me?”
Her eyes searched his. “Are you . . . certain you wish me to?”
“I don’t want to see you make a mistake. He’s not the man for you.”
She frowned. For a moment she said nothing. Then she spoke softly. “But, do you care for me?”
He looked into Victoria’s eyes. The green flecks within them seemed to gleam with the fire of rare emeralds. The urge to take her hand or to brush his thumb over the smooth curve of her cheek yanked at him, but propriety forced him to do neither. “Vicky, you must know I do.”
“Perhaps you more than care?” she almost whispered.
The hope in her voice caused a startling pang in his chest. Then a moment later, it left him numb. She wanted more than the marriage of convenience he had meant—she wanted more than a way out of her family’s mess. More than he could offer her. He was damaged in his bloody soul; his father’s actions and example had seen to that. He was too flawed to love her as she wanted or deserved.
“Vicky,” he began, and as her eyes caught his, he knew whatever he said next had to be nothing less than the truth, even if it hurt her. “I will always care for you—but I am marred beyond repair, I fear. Ever since my father’s death, I’ve not been able to—” He took a breath. “Rather, my feelings are not as they once were.” He closed his eyes and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to explain except to say I am cold . . . inside. Indifferent. Most of the time, actually.” He lifted his eyelids to look at her. Her eyes widened with pity.
“Except you make me remember who I once was. And, for a time, when we’re together, I feel ordinary again.” He searched her face, but he couldn’t read her. “I don’t know if that is enough. I know it is far less than you deserve.” He paused. “But I swear I’ll keep you safe as long as I am able.”
She let out a long breath. “I know you would, Tom.”
He nodded in thanks.
“But . . .” She dropped her gaze. “I don’t know if that is enough.”
His chest tightened. “Do you—are you in—” he stammered, then caught himself. “Will Carmichael give you what you want?”
She looked up, meeting his stare with unflinching candor. “As much as you would, I daresay. Perhaps more,” she finished almost to herself.
“Then he did not speak of love?” he asked, though he knew the answer.
She glanced up at him, and he thought he could read the conflict in her eyes. “Not so explicitly.”
Thank heaven for that.
“Tom, I—I know you don’t believe in fairy stories. But I do still wish to have my Austen ending if I can.”
“And you deserve one.” Yet fate had dealt her undesirable cards, and she had little choice but to accept them. He cleared his throat. “Though, wishing for something does not make it so. In such a situation, it might be better to choose the least of two—er . . . evils.” He winced. Had anyone ever proposed in a less tempting way?
Vicky said nothing for a long moment. “Tom, might you fetch me a drink? I believe I have some thinking to do.”
He nodded, uncertain. “Of course. I’ll return shortly.” He just hoped that, for once, fate would deal in his favor.
Chapter the Twenty-Third
My good opinion once lost is lost forever.
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Vicky sank into a nearby chair and snapped open the fan hanging from her wrist. She hoped the fan would cool the beat of her pounding pulse, but it did nothing but unnerve her further. She opened it fully, shielded her face, and took three deep breaths.
Tom had proposed.
Actually proposed marriage!
Something she’d thought impossible had truly just occurred. She’d never have believed it, except she’d just witnessed it. As a girl, she might’ve harbored fanciful dreams that they’d one day fall in love and Tom would propose like some great chivalric knight, but the years following his exile had dashed all such hopes. The reality of his unexpected proposal in no way equaled what she’d once imagined in her childish heart.
His valiant intentions were ever present, but Tom didn’t love her. He didn’t know if he ever could. She’d have everything she’d always wanted if she accepted him—everything but the thing she’d wanted most.
And what of Mr. Carmichael? He hadn’t said he’d loved her either, but he’d implied it would be possible in the future. If love would be possible with Mr. Carmichael, wasn’t that more than Tom had offered? It was certainly more than Tom thought himself capable of. Her heart had nearly broken for him when he told her of his melancholy. She didn’t understand why he felt such apathy, but it certainly explained many of his actions.
“That fan does you little justice.”
Vicky started at the deep voice. Mr. Carmichael’s broad-shouldered frame towered over her. He smiled, and she lowered her fan instinctively. “Good evening, Mr. Carmichael.”
“I apologize for startling you.”
She smiled. “It’s quite all right. I was just woolgathering, I suppose.”
He gestured to a nearby chair. “May I?”
“Of course.” Though she didn’t know what to say to him, or even how she felt at the moment.
He picked up the chair back with one hand and moved it closer to hers before sitting.
“Are you enjoying the evening?” he asked.
“It is lovely, yes.” Vicky turned to look at the dancers. “And how has your evening progressed?”
“It has been rather uneventful thus far—and, might I add, rather empty until I saw you.”
With a pleased laugh, she pivoted to meet his gaze. He was smiling at her, his eyes crinkling a bit at the corners. She remembered the way he’d kissed her. How sweet he’d been. How she’d liked it. Then she wondered how Tom might kiss her and immediately felt her cheeks redden.
Carmichael’s smile widened. “Were you able to give any more thought to my proposal?”
“I—” She sucked in a breath. “I did, yes.”
“And?”
Her throat suddenly went dry. “I admit I am still considering it, Mr. Carmichael.”
His smile faded. “I see.”
“May I ask you a question?” she said, peering up at him through her lashes.
“Anything.”
“Do you—that is, do you think you might one day—” She broke off and he raised an eyebrow. She looked away. “You never spoke of love,” she finished, embarrassed down to her toes.
“Ah.” He took her hand in his. “Victoria, I have great feeling for you.
”
She searched his eyes. He seemed sincere.
“I would not have proposed otherwise. As you know, I have no need of your dowry.”
She bit her lip. He would be marrying her for herself alone.
“Good evening, Carmichael.”
Vicky’s neck snapped up. Her gaze collided with Tom’s. He stood in a relaxed stance, holding her glass of claret with one hand. His features betrayed nothing, but she recognized the ice beneath his cordial greeting. His eyes dropped to her hand captured in Carmichael’s. She felt her color rise.
“Halworth,” Carmichael replied with no cordiality at all.
Tom held out the glass of claret to her.
She pulled her hand from Carmichael’s grasp and took it. “Thank you.”
She quickly took a sip, but when she looked up, they were both staring at her. She suppressed the inclination to fidget in her seat. “It is a lovely evening, is it not?” she said to fill the growing silence.
“It would be lovelier still if you would consent to dance the next with me,” Carmichael replied with a smile for her.
“Oh, I—”
“I’m afraid Lady Victoria has promised the next to me,” Tom said over her.
Her gaze shot to his face—he hadn’t so much as mentioned the next dance, although perhaps his proposal had impeded whatever progress he’d planned on that front.
Tom wouldn’t meet her eyes. He was observing Carmichael with an odd expression.
“You have anticipated me, Halworth,” Carmichael said as a muscle flexed in his cheek. He turned to Vicky. “Are you engaged for the quadrille as well?”
“No—”
“Yes,” Tom interrupted.
Vicky gaped at Tom. She knew he didn’t like Mr. Carmichael, but he couldn’t possibly think he could monopolize her. The society gossips would count them engaged by the end of the ball if he persisted. Was that his aim?
“Lord Halworth,” she said as calmly as she could, “you cannot claim all my dances for yourself.”
He stared down at her with the expression he’d worn at Oakbridge just as he’d lifted her and tried to carry her to her front door. “Is that not a fiancé’s prerogative?”
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