“Come now,” Tabitha sighed. “Let’s return to your bedroom.”
Once upstairs, Rebecca crashed atop her bedspread and burrowed her head into her hands. Tabitha closed the door softly, the way a mother might if attempting to calm a wild child. Moments later, Rebecca felt Tabitha’s hand across her upper back. She’d lost her mother nearly ten years earlier and, thusly, all memories of her mother in similar situations were oddly ghostly, as though they were someone else’s memories that she’d just implanted into her own mind.
Rebecca turned her head, showing what was surely splotchy cheeks, red eyes. “Tabitha, I’m terribly sorry.”
Tabitha’s nostrils flared. “I know that you look down upon me for marrying Anthony…”
“That’s not it,” Rebecca said. She forced herself fully up, to sit at the edge of her bed. “I know that you’re happy with Anthony. I wish that I could be as happy as you are with any man. But I honestly feel like a trapped animal in a cage.”
There was a long silence. Rebecca mumbled another apology, and Tabitha told her that it was really quite all right.
“Emotions are high right now,” she whispered, one of the biggest understatements Rebecca had ever heard.
After another pause, Rebecca asked, “What did you think of him? My future husband?”
Tabitha tilted her head. Rebecca studied her face, wishing to glean whatever she could from the face she’d known so long.
“He seems monstrous, doesn’t he?” Rebecca blurted, looking for any sort of excuse she could utilise, anything at all she could push towards her father in order to force him away from this decision. “The sort of man who shouldn’t marry anyone. He would make his wife miserable. It seems rather clear…”
“And you wouldn’t?” Tabitha asked suddenly. Her eyes glittered, as though she’d just discovered something.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s only that… he seems just as unhappy with the pairing as you are,” Tabitha said, echoing precisely what Rebecca had initially thought.
“Perhaps I could convince him to work with me,” Rebecca tried. “We could tell our fathers that we’re completely incompatible. Perhaps…”
Tabitha shrugged. “And yet, don’t you wish to understand the reasons that neither of you wish to settle with the other?”
“Couldn’t it simply be a matter of chemistry?” Rebecca asked.
“I don’t suppose one really comprehends this word, this feeling of chemistry, without a bit more time alone, outside the company of fathers,” Tabitha said.
Rebecca pondered for a moment, recognising the truth in her words. She picked at her nails, her nostrils flared. She sensed time passing too swiftly. All too soon Tabitha rose, insisting that her husband required her home shortly. Rebecca glowered, yearning to declare that this was precisely why neither of them should have ever agreed to marry.
Of course, as Tabitha knew her better than anyone on earth, she anticipated the argument and fought it. “You know that it’s the world we live in, Rebecca. Without our husbands, we’d be nothing. We’d have nothing. I don’t suppose you wish to be a spinster one day, visiting me and my family and wondering where the time went?”
“Why must you be so entirely –”
“Sensible?” Tabitha said. She formed her first smile of the hour and gave a sad shrug. “Perhaps we’ll look back on this in a few years and laugh, hmm? The lunch when you insisted that you could never love Owen. The lunch when Owen felt sure he could never love you.”
“You’ll never be correct,” Rebecca said. She lifted and gave her friend a large hug. She felt endlessly grateful that Tabitha had spent the afternoon there, sitting court with her, analysing this prospective husband. When they reached the foyer, Rebecca turned her eyes to the floor and whispered, “I really don’t suppose I’ll be able to get out of this one, anyway. My father, Owen’s father – they seem entirely latched to this idea. They seem…”
Tabitha swept her hand over Rebecca’s cheek, collecting a tear. “Don’t think about it just now. Take a walk through the garden. Read something. Whatever will be will be. You know that.”
The words formed a strange cloud in Rebecca’s mind. She watched from the window as her dear friend, a married woman, swept down the garden path, back to the stables. When she reached them, their stableman, Victor, hurriedly collected her horse and assisted her into the saddle.
Throughout this entire affair, Tabitha seemed rather strained, her face almost grey, without the normal sunniness of her childhood demeanour. Rebecca wondered if this was because she returned to a life she didn’t wish for, if, in actuality, she was genuinely displeased with Anthony.
But no. Tabitha wasn’t the sort of woman to flip-flop about with her emotions. She’d agreed with her parents’ decision for her to marry Anthony. She’d thusly decided that she would be happy, without dwelling on alternate consequences. In some ways, Rebecca wished she could have such control over her own emotions. If only she could be dutiful, grateful, pleased, the sort of Godly woman her father yearned for her to be.
Once, during a particularly passionate, enraged conversation with her father – the last time she’d crafted a rift between herself and her chosen suitor – her father had spat that, if only her mother had been around longer, Rebecca might have turned into the sort of woman who could “hold” a man.
Rebecca hadn’t had the proper response to such words. She’d balked, stuttered, her eyes filling with tears. Her father had immediately regretted it. She could sense it in the way he moved his body, in the apology he cast her afterwards. But the words had remained in the air between them. Even now, Rebecca could feel them. She hadn’t turned into the sort of woman who could hold a man.
It hadn’t mattered to her father that she hadn’t wanted, necessarily, to hold that man. It was simply the fact that she’d refuted him, cast him from her life and their house. How could he respect her after that? How could he think that she could deliver him grandchildren, extend his family line? It was clear, entirely clear, that her father wished that he’d had more children. How much simpler it would be, for Rebecca as well, if her father had other children upon which to cast his dreams. It was up to her and, goodness, she wasn’t up for it. Not in the least.
Chapter 4
It had happened: Owen had met his potential bride for the first time. Now, he dropped out of the carriage before his father, then snarled up at him, “Father, you must see that the girl wants nothing to do with me.”
“What on earth do you mean?” his father asked. He joined Owen on the grass and shuffled his hands across the breast of his waistcoat, beaming. “I thought that went rather well.”
Perhaps it was an indication of just how wretched his father was at gambling. The man couldn’t read a room, couldn’t read humans. But before Owen could respond, or point out this necessary fact, his father spouted, “She’s quite beautiful, isn’t she? Far more beautiful than the others.”
Owen guffawed. His stomach clenched, disallowing an answer. Together, the two men turned toward the door and entered the mansion, greeting the butler. Once inside, his father continued.
“I imagine that this will be quite a fruitful union.” He sounded entirely pleased with himself. “She’s entirely beautiful –”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned this,” Owen replied.
“And it seems you disagree? If so, my son, I imagine that your eyesight is departing you. Perhaps we have far more issues to attend to.”
“My eyesight is the same as it has always been,” Owen said. His nostrils flared. “It’s only that the girl clearly has other ideas in mind for her future than a marriage to me.”
“The marriage has been arranged, Owen,” his father said.
“So you’ve said.”
“And, to repeat once again, the marriage is an absolute necessity to keep this family above ground. I know you must understand that,” he continued. “The sooner that you accept it, I think the happier you’ll be. All of life cannot b
e frivolous, as it is for your friend Theo.”
“Theo has quite a happy life, Father. Perhaps it’s because his own father doesn’t flit through their finances with such…”
Owen had gone too far. He recognised the angry glint in his father’s eyes. He looked oddly demonic, poised to say something far more monstrous than even Owen could muster. But moments later, the look faded. He swallowed and said, “Goodness. The day has really gotten away from us, hasn’t it? Time certainly flies. I shall return to my study for the rest of the afternoon. I’m sure I’ll see you for dinner.”
“I think I’ll make my way round to Theo’s for dinner,” Owen returned, wanting only to be as far away from his father as he could. He gave a sly smile, willing his father not to demand alternate action. “If these are to be my last days of freedom…”
“You speak of marriage as though it’s some sort of prison,” his father replied.
“And I suppose arranged marriage could be termed as such,” Owen said. “Forced toward a future I never could have planned for. How utterly romantic.”
Owen spun round and fled the mansion once more. He felt volatile, charged with anger and emotion. He ripped toward the stables and grabbed his favourite horse, not waiting for the stableman to lift from his comfortable position in the hay. He slipped the saddle over the smooth arch of the horse’s back and then lifted himself over him. Moments later, he rushed from the estate, through the gate and out on the open road.
The wind whistled past his ears. He willed the horse to go faster, to tear his hooves up from the ground, to fly him past the other stone mansions, the little stream, near the forests, with their enormous oaks creaking in the wind. When he finally spotted Theo’s mansion, he felt out of breath and bleary-eyed. When he slipped down from the saddle, Theo appeared in the doorway, a book in his hand.
“I spotted you from the library,” he called, bounding down the steps. His smile grew hesitant, then disappeared altogether. “What is it, old boy? You seem to be…”
“Another arranged marriage,” Owen said. His voice simmered with rage. “Why can’t my father comprehend just how disinterested I am?”
Theo led Owen toward the stables, where they lodged the horse before trudging back inside, where Theo poured two healthy portions of scotch. There, Owen informed Theo about his newly ‘beloved’, Rebecca Frampton.
“My father drills it into me that she’s beautiful, as though this is all that matters in one’s wife,” Owen stammered. “But the truth of it is, Theo, it’s clear that she wants little to do with me, as well. Never has there been a more foreign and lacklustre union.”
“And is she?” Theo asked, tilting his head.
“Is she what?” Owen demanded. He felt himself stirring in angst, speaking far too quickly, as though his tongue were a runaway horse.
“Beautiful,” Theo said, his eyes sparkling.
“Of course she is,” Owen said, flustered. “And really, to be quite honest with you, Theo, it’s nearly funny. To be seated there, having some sort of staring contest with her – this woman who seems to think herself too good for such a union.”
“You’ve got out of such affairs before,” Theo said. “I take it you were your most sterling self whilst at lunch.”
“Quite,” Owen said, giving his first smile.
“You were horrendous, weren’t you?” Theo asked, chortling. “I can only envision what she might have thought of you. When you look angry, Owen, you look as though you could murder the queen herself. I’ve grown panicked when you look at me in this way. Wondering what on earth is he really capable of?”
Owen was aware that he had such an air about him. He sucked down more of his drink and pondered for a moment. “But as mentioned, she really is quite beautiful. And I wonder why isn’t she yet married? Why is it up to her father to arrange such a thing? I understand why my father must arrange for me. Otherwise, I can’t think of a reason to settle. I wish only to live out the daydreams of my wild youth. To travel, to court, to…”
“And yet, in the past few years, you’ve certainly stepped away from courting,” Theo said, arching his brow.
“Yes, because it’s so tiresome,” Owen returned.
“I don’t find it to be,” Theo said.
Owen chuckled. “You’re the hungriest playboy I know. I don’t suppose you could stop yourself if you tried.”
Theo gave a good-hearted laugh. He considered for a moment, swirling his scotch around his glass. “Perhaps this time you don’t wish to fight it. Perhaps that’s the reason for your anger. In other cases, you were so flippant. By the time of your first meeting, you had a well-orchestrated plan to yank the girl from your life as soon as possible.”
“In those cases, they always looked at me with those enormous, eager eyes. Those eyes that seemed to plot out for me the next five to ten years of my life. I could already envision them – nursing children, telling me not to have that second glass of scotch… becoming nags, nags who continually tell me how much I am loved.”
“Oh, how wretched it must be, to consider that kind of love,” Theo said, laughing again.
“You understand what I mean. You must,” Owen said.
“Trust your initial instincts, Owen,” Theo said, arching a brow. “This girl seems rather different than the others. Doesn’t that mean you have some sort of curiosity, something you should investigate before ripping her from your life for good? Suppose she becomes the woman you wish to love, but you’ve already ruined it?”
“You’re speaking in dreams again,” Owen replied. “You know I haven’t the capacity for such love.”
“Goodness, Owen. One day, you’ll find yourself a dark and dreary old man.”
“A dark and dreary old man who doesn’t need to share his scotch,” Owen said, tapping the end of his nose knowingly.
Owen was grateful that the conversation flickered off to other topics after this. Theo told a story about a recent girl he’d had for dinner, a girl who’d brought along the most dreadful chaperone who prattled on about her most recent needlepoint work without allowing Theo or his love interest a moment of conversation.
Mid-way through their second glass of scotch, Theo’s cook arrived to inform them that dinner would be served shortly. Theo clapped his hand across Owen’s shoulder and insisted he remain – not just for dinner, but for drinks afterwards. Owen grinned broadly, grateful that this universe still existed. He was still a bachelor. He was allowed these chaotic nights at the home of his best friend, discussing things that lacked substance and meaning.
Still, as he sat across from Theo, tearing into his roasted chicken, his mind flickered back to his first impression of Rebecca Frampton. How beautiful she truly was. Gorgeous, in fact. Red hair hung in ringlets, sharp eyes that seemed to reflect unlimited intelligence. When she shifted her father’s toast in order to toast instead her friend’s arranged marriage, Owen had yearned to burst into laughter.
What sort of nerve did she have? And why did she seem to be so different from her sisters? They’d been married off properly, marvellous additions to her father’s family. But Rebecca remained resistant. Owen hadn’t encountered many women like her.
Perhaps for that reason Theo was right. Perhaps he had better settle down, wait this out. He would recognise the moment he needed to bolt, to tear through the meek links that held him and Rebecca together. But for now, it was a strange story, one he couldn’t fully see to the end. That excited him. He was ordinarily so bored. One day dragged into the next without pause. Even if this ended in wretched failure, in his father’s endless hatred for him, Owen was willing to push through.
Chapter 5
A Wicked Duke's Prize: A Historical Regency Romance Book Page 4