Flames clawed their way up toward his neck. “What did you say to him?”
“To him? Nothing. To his partners? To the rest of my many financial contacts? There is a great deal to say about your sad situation. A brother with debts, an estate with larger ones, death duties still to be paid: in short, the worst of financial risks.”
Carmichael smirked, and Tom’s stomach plummeted. Carmichael had summed up his entire financial situation. How could the man know everything in such detail? Then Tom remembered what Charles and Vicky had said about Carmichael’s extensive connections, and his pulse started a military tattoo he could feel in his brain.
“And a coward to boot, let’s not overlook that,” Carmichael finished.
The heat under Tom’s cravat intensified, burning through his ears. “You do not simply play with my living. Did it occur to you that my family and hundreds of tenants will suffer?” he ground out.
Carmichael shrugged. “Someone will eventually take on the estate when you lose it. Someone far more capable than you’ll ever be, I daresay. I’m doing your tenants a favor in the long run.”
Tom refrained from pointing out how ridiculous a notion that was. Tenants always suffered when ownership changed hands. “Would that someone be you? Or one of your partners, perhaps?”
Carmichael raised an eyebrow as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him. Tom didn’t believe it for a second.
“Come to think of it, that might be a proposition worth considering.”
Tom shook his head. “You mean to ruin me. And you imagine Victoria will thank you for it.”
“You needn’t worry about Victoria. Before long, she’ll be none of your affair.”
Unable to hear more, Tom wheeled around to leave. Charles stood in the doorway with a face as cold as stone. “Charles, what are you—”
“I followed you. I had planned to talk some sense into your thick skull, but there’s no need now. This scum has uttered his last insult. I’ll see to that.”
Tom moved to crowd Charles out through the door.
Charles sidestepped him and faced Carmichael with an unyielding glare. “Carmichael, I challenge—”
Tom grabbed his brother’s arm and yanked him backward. “No!”
Charles’s eyes widened with loathing. “You bloody—”
Tom shouted over him, “Hold your damned tongue!”
Charles glowered at him with a look of disgust identical to the one on Carmichael’s face.
The cravat around Tom’s neck threatened to choke him as he boiled. Every impulse his father had thought lacking in him roared to life with appalling force.
“I shall see you at dawn, Carmichael,” he spat. Then he pushed past his brother and stormed out of the club in a euphoric haze.
Chapter the Twenty-Fifth
How can they suit each other?
—Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
When Vicky’s mother knocked on her door later that afternoon, Vicky was so fatigued with her own thoughts, she welcomed her mother’s presence.
“It’s nearly three o’clock,” her mother stated, stepping into the room. “Are you ill?”
Vicky cringed as she realized she’d have to answer her mother’s questions. Vicky put the third volume of Pride and Prejudice down on the coverlet, wondering how much she should reveal. “My head aches.”
“Then perhaps you should stop reading.”
Vicky sighed.
“Were you too tired from last night to have luncheon with us?” her mother asked.
The untouched tray of food Sarah had delivered sat at the foot of the bed where Vicky had banished it. She nodded, resolved not to explain further. The mere thought of recounting how Tom and Mr. Carmichael had humiliated her . . . Blast them! She looked at her hands.
“You’re awake now, so you might as well go downstairs. Mr. Carmichael has come calling, and you mustn’t keep him waiting.”
Vicky huffed out a breath. What was he doing here? Hadn’t she said she had no wish to see him?
“Mama, I cannot speak with him. My head is throbbing. I must stay in bed.”
Her mother eyed her. “What happened last night?”
Vicky shrank farther into bed. She had to tell her something.
She took a deep breath. “Mama, I simply do not wish to speak with him. Can’t you tell him I’m indisposed?”
Her mother crossed the room and sat on the side of the bed. “Victoria, are you still considering his proposal?”
How could she tell her mother she couldn’t marry him because he’d treated her like an infant who didn’t know her own mind? He’d been her one and only real prospect. Unless she counted Tom. Which she didn’t!
When she didn’t answer, her mother pursed her lips and dropped her chin. Finally, her inquisitive stare forced Vicky to speak.
“I cannot marry him, Mama. If you’d heard how they spoke to me last night you could not ask it of me—”
“They?” her mother interrupted.
Vicky blinked. “Tom and Mr. Carmichael.”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “What did they say?”
Vicky looked at her lap. “I cannot repeat it.” Her throat choked up and she swallowed to hold back the tears. She swiped angrily at the few that leaked out, inhaled, and looked at her mother. “They are the most heavy-handed tyrannical brutes on this side of the Thames, and I cannot shackle myself to either of them. I will not end like Althea. I cannot—”
“Are you saying Tom proposed to you?” She’d never seen her mama so wide-eyed.
Vicky nodded. “I know nothing has changed. I know I must marry. But not either of them.” She exhaled, waiting for her mother’s arguments.
For a moment, her mother didn’t speak. “Victoria, you were perfectly well-disposed toward Mr. Carmichael until Tom spoke against him. Now Tom inexplicably asks for your hand and you won’t even see Mr. Carmichael?”
Vicky frowned. “No, Mama, they both—”
“Forgive me, my dear, but have you forgotten what is at stake?”
Vicky swallowed at the lump in her throat. She shook her head. Still she said, “You would see me trapped with a man who doesn’t love me?”
“I would not see you come to harm, Victoria. And if Dain becomes master of Oakbridge, that is precisely what will happen. To all of us.”
Vicky looked down, knowing the statement to be true.
“Marry Tom if you must. Or Mr. Carmichael. Either way we can negotiate for the estate to stay intact.”
Vicky’s stomach wavered. She loved Oakbridge—she couldn’t bear to see anything change it for the worse. Yet she was trading her future for property. When she viewed it in that light, it didn’t feel heroic. It felt like she was selling herself. “Mama, you and Papa said I could choose my husband.”
“And so you shall. There is no longer time to dither. You heard what’s been happening on the estate and in the Court of Chancery.”
“I am aware, but—”
Her mother stood. “I’m sorry, Victoria. I wish it could be otherwise, but you marrying for love is no longer a luxury we can afford. Regardless of your decision, you must speak to Mr. Carmichael. He deserves nothing less.”
Vicky set her jaw and looked down at her hands. She should have known her mother wouldn’t be sympathetic. Yet, not one of the heroines in Miss Austen’s novels had been forced to marry a man she couldn’t trust! Elizabeth Bennet’s father’s estate had been entailed away to her cousin Mr. Collins, but she’d still refused his offer of marriage. Her father had even encouraged her to refuse him. Of course, Mr. Collins was nothing like Mr. Carmichael.
Vicky’s head started to throb. She would have to face Mr. Carmichael eventually. She still didn’t know what to say to him. How could she be expected to choose between two men she didn’t even like at the moment?
“Will you ring the bell for Sarah, Mama?” She still needed to dress. “You may tell Mr. Carmichael I shall be down presently.”
Her mother nodded and sto
od to ring the bell pull. She turned to leave, then seemed to reconsider. She walked over to the side of the bed and pulled Vicky into a tight embrace. “All will be well, my love. You’ll see.”
Vicky hugged her back, surprised at her mother’s display of affection, but savoring it nonetheless. After a few moments, Vicky pulled away.
“I’d best get ready.”
Her mother smiled.
A quarter hour later, Vicky descended the stairs as she tried to ignore the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. After asking a footman where Mr. Carmichael was waiting, and being directed to the back garden, she took a fortifying breath. She knew she didn’t look her best; she’d been abed all day and had dressed hastily, but then again she wasn’t sure why that should matter. She didn’t feel like making a good impression. If anything, he should be the one trying to regain her favor.
A crisp breeze rippled across her skirts and played over her face as she stepped outside. The clouds sat thick in a gray sky.
She soon spotted Mr. Carmichael in a well-cut, fashionable slate coat and trousers, in the middle of the garden beside a stone bench. He and the bench stood inside a semicircle of knee-high boxwood hedges. He faced away from her staring out over the garden, perhaps looking at the cascading fountain where he’d proposed—where he’d kissed her.
She started, realizing that had only been a few days ago. She’d been hopeful then; no doubt he had been as well. What a difference a few days could make.
He must have heard her footfalls, for he turned as she approached. “Good afternoon, Victoria.”
Vicky didn’t attempt to smile, though she noted the way his dark eyes brightened at the sight of her. “Good day.”
“As you did not reappear last night, I thought I should call.” He looked her up and down. “How are you?”
Vicky almost scowled. She must look worse than she thought. “Well enough.”
A line appeared between his brows. “I must apologize for last night. You should not have been obliged to witness that exchange. I—”
“That exchange shouldn’t have happened at all. You both acted like children squabbling over a toy,” she pronounced, her anger returning. “I thought I made myself perfectly clear, Mr. Carmichael.”
He regarded her with uncertainty. “I do not think of you as a toy. Halworth on the other hand—”
She held up a finger. “Enough. You said more than enough last night. I will not hear any more on the subject.” She turned her head away and looked beyond him at a yellow rosebush swaying in the wind.
In her peripheral vision, he nodded slowly. “Will you at least accept my sincere apology?”
She caught his gaze. His brows knit together, but his eyes were clear. He did look sincere.
“Why must you always do things you need apologize for?”
He exhaled and glanced away. Then he met her eye with a self-deprecating smile. “You’re the only person I know to whom I regularly feel the need to apologize.”
She bit the inside of her cheek, not knowing what that said about him. Or her.
“Yet I would gladly continue to do so, if you’ll have me.”
Vicky inhaled. “Mr. Carmichael, I was honored by your proposal. I still am. But you cannot ask me to decide now.”
Carmichael’s eyes bored into hers. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but the longer he stared, the more uncomfortable the silence grew.
“Forgive me, but I must ask you to decide now.”
She gaped at him. “You must excuse me, but I cannot.”
He stepped toward her. “Because of Halworth.”
“Partially,” she admitted. “But also because despite your apology, I am still angry. With you both.”
His mouth opened and closed. He shook his head. “What else would you have me say?”
She sighed. “Nothing. I want a husband I can trust. Someone who asks my opinion and actually listens. Not someone who will humiliate me in a ballroom full of people by treating me like a witless child.”
“I humiliated you?” His eyes grew wide with indignation. “I was protecting you.”
“You both humiliated me. And I was in no need of protection.”
“I say you were.”
She threw up her hands. “And who are you to decide?”
He stared at her. “Someone who cares for your well-being.”
Her gaze softened. “I thank you. Sincerely. But caring does not mean making my decisions.”
He let out an exasperated breath. “You don’t wish your husband to protect you from harm?”
“Of course I do, but only when needed.”
He scoffed and looked away.
She pursed her lips. “I’ll have you know I faced down our attackers with a single pistol.”
He gawked at her. “Are you mad? You could have been beaten, or killed. Or worse.”
“I saved my papa. Had I done nothing—” She took a deep breath, still unable to think about what could have occurred. “I would do it again.” She raised her chin. “That’s what one does to save the people one loves.”
“I quite agree. But as a woman you mustn’t—”
Her eyes widened. “Yes. Even as a woman.”
He exhaled, then tilted his head down. “When Elizabeth Bennet heard Wickham had run off with her sister, did she go to London herself to ferret them out?”
“No, but she had no idea where they were. I was witnessing my father being beat to death!” A lump rose in her throat at the words, and she paused to swallow. “The situations do not equate.”
“Perhaps not, but there is no reason for you to be so reckless in future.”
“Reckless?” She bit her lip. Perhaps she did act rashly—even more so than Elizabeth Bennet—but she wasn’t Elizabeth Bennet. As much as she’d wanted to model herself after her heroine, she was only herself.
He shook his head. “This conversation is utterly ridiculous.”
She wrinkled her nose. She didn’t think it ridiculous in the slightest.
“You’ll think differently when you have a household to run and responsibilities,” he continued.
She blinked. Was that why he wanted her? For her housekeeping abilities? Certainly that was what many gentlemen expected of a wife, but she’d somehow thought he’d cared for her as more than the steward of his house. She shook her head. “I don’t believe I shall.”
He looked up and scoffed. “That is why you’re considering Halworth. You imagine he will let you do whatever you wish.”
Vicky frowned. It was true, Tom knew her well enough that he might not try to control her.
“Well, how very convenient that would be for you,” he continued. “To go on acting like a child forever with a sorry excuse for a husband who cannot even keep his estate in working order.” He paused. “Perhaps you have forgotten his debts? Debts your dowry would only partially cover. And what will happen to your pretty arrangement when he’s run through your money?”
She shook her head. “He has his hotel.”
Carmichael looked her in the eye. “I think you will find he has nothing of the kind.”
Vicky’s mouth went dry. “What do you know?”
“More than enough.”
She glared at him. “If you think I act like a child, I wonder at your desire to marry me.”
He exhaled and looked away. “Eventually we must all put away our childish ideals.”
Her lips parted. Was that what he was doing? Or what he wanted her to do? Either way, she’d thought he genuinely liked her as she was. But he didn’t really know her. “You may be right, Mr. Carmichael, but I have no idea of changing my behavior at present.”
“You will have little choice when you marry.”
Dain had certainly forced Althea to change drastically. That would not be her lot in life. “One always has a choice,” Vicky said, holding his gaze.
He did not speak.
“Perhaps you should leave for today, Mr. Carmichael,” she said with more bravado than she f
elt. She didn’t like this imperious side of him any more than the way he’d acted last night.
He inclined his head. “Very well. Think on what I’ve said.”
He bowed and walked around her. His arm brushed hers as he passed. The contact threw her off-balance, and he caught her arm to steady her. Half-turned toward her, he looked down into her eyes. Despite everything he’d said, her pulse quickened. His dark eyes slid over her face down to her lips. Her breath caught. “When you’ve come to your senses, I will return,” he said.
Come to her senses? Now he thought her irrational? Her lips parted to give him a piece of her mind, but he continued, “Which is more than anyone can say for Halworth.”
She pulled her arm out of his grip.
Her cheeks burned. Another of his prevarications—how fatigued she was of hearing them.
She opened her mouth to berate him, but before she could utter a syllable, he strode from the garden without even a fleeting glance back at her.
Chapter the Twenty-Sixth
I have thought only of you.
—Jane Austen, Emma
Tom paced the Astons’ foyer, waiting for Vicky to walk down the marble staircase. He rubbed the back of his neck to relieve his knotted muscles. He’d finished most of the necessary business of the day. First he’d gone to Lord Axley, who’d confirmed Mr. Parker and Mr. Risdale had withdrawn their backing. Axley could not fund the hotel alone. Carmichael had indeed done all he could to ruin him. Which seemed somewhat ironic considering Carmichael had all but stated he intended to kill Tom on the morrow.
He grimaced. What in hell was wrong with him? He’d allowed Carmichael to goad him into a duel not once, but twice. Well, Carmichael and Charles. Still, he’d fight Carmichael himself twenty times rather than watch his brother duel that bully for his sake.
Yet the feeling he was nothing but a miserable failure whipped at his shoulders. If he died tomorrow, he would fail his family. Even if he lived, he’d fail to help them thanks to Carmichael’s interference.
He stopped in midstep and scrubbed a hand across his forehead. The most sickening thought of all was that regardless of tomorrow’s outcome, his father had won. For years, Tom had fought to keep himself from turning into his father’s ideal son. But last night and today, he’d failed to quell the abominable urge to fight, failed to ignore his monstrous craving to silence the man who’d impugned his honor, and failed to reason with him.
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