Читать книгу The Complete Regency Surrender Collection - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 43

Chapter Ten

For the third time in as many weeks, Margot was arriving unescorted at the house of the Marquess of Fanworth. This time, she gave up even pretending that it was possible to move unnoticed and greeted any acquaintances she passed with the cheery wave of an unrepentant harlot. Let them think what they would. She was fairly sure that, no matter what happened today, it would end in a story that would give the whole town something to gossip about. For all she cared, they could choke on their tongues.

Mrs Sims admitted her without a raised eyebrow. Then she glanced at the steps towards the bedrooms, as though expecting Margot intended to show herself up. The insult was subtle, but it was there, all the same.

For all she knew, this woman was the one who had set the town buzzing about her disgraceful behaviour and brought Justine and Will down upon her like hounds on a hare. If so, she had best hope that Margot was not about to become Lady Fanworth, for there would be hell to pay.

‘I wish to speak to Lord Fanworth. In the drawing room, please. Or wherever it is he receives guests,’ Margot said, offering an equally aloof expression.

The housekeeper let out a dismissive sniff to remind her that they both knew why she was not familiar with the proper, public rooms of my lord’s apartments. Then she took Margot down a short hall to the salon, not bothering with an offer of refreshments before she shut the door.

A short time later it opened again, and Fanworth appeared. He did not bother to bow. ‘Margot?’ He greeted her with that strange, soft pronunciation that went right under her skin and made her shiver, even on a warm summer day. But it was not dread she felt. It was anticipation.

Damn him. Even as she knew the truth about him, she could not help wanting him more than a little. She did not bother answering. Suppose there was an unexpected softness in her own voice as she spoke his name in return? ‘I have just been speaking with my sister and brother-in-law.’

‘Lord William,’ he responded with a nod.

‘And I have been informed that I must either wring a proposal out of you, or it is pistols at dawn.’

He thought for a moment. ‘Easy enough.’ He went down on one knee. ‘Would you do me the honour of accepting my offer of marriage?’ He delivered the proposal with such unemotional precision that, for a moment, she did not even understand the words. Then, just for a moment, she thought she saw a twitch at the corner of his lip. Behind that frosty façade, he was laughing at her. So she laughed in response, aloud and without kindness.

He looked up at her in surprise. ‘I amuse you?’

‘Because you can’t be serious,’ she said, sure that it was so.

‘I am,’ he said, just as sombre. ‘Unless you wish to see me fight Felkirk.’

‘Of course I do not,’ she said. ‘We will explain to William that there is no reason for that. What I did, I...I did of my own free will. It is over now. The less said about it, the better.’

‘Technically, it is not,’ he said, still sombre. ‘We agreed on four. Once is not four.’

‘Twice,’ she said.

‘Nothing happened that night,’ he said. ‘It is not fair of you to count it.’

‘I have no idea what happened,’ she replied. ‘Because I was inebriated. You should know that. You were the one plying me with spirits.’

‘Champagne is hardly a spirit.’

‘Even worse. It is an aphrodisiac,’ she argued.

‘Not an effective one,’ he countered. ‘Nothing happened.’

‘Then I am glad of it. I would rather go to gaol than to lay with you again,’ she said in frustration. ‘Look at the trouble a single time has caused me.’

‘A marriage will stop the tattle. The rest...’ He paused, as though he had suddenly lost his train of thought. Then he gave a helpless shrug. ‘...can be settled after the wedding.’

‘But I do not want to marry you,’ she said.

‘Then I must fight Felkirk,’ he said with a sigh and stood up, brushing the dust from the knees of his breaches.

‘The devil you will,’ she said, at the end of her patience. ‘I will not risk you shooting my sister’s husband because of me.’ Or being shot himself. Though she loathed the man, she could raise no pleasure at the thought of him bleeding on the ground.

‘It is a matter of honour. Such a challenge cannot be ignored.’

‘Your honour, or mine?’ she said. ‘And what does William have to do with any of it?’

‘B-B...’ He took a breath. ‘Yours and mine. Felkirk’s as well. You are of his family...’

‘A distant part, surely.’

‘Near enough to matter.’

‘Well, do not shoot him. I will give you whatever you want.’

‘I was thinking swords,’ he said, ignoring her offer. ‘As the one who was challenged, I choose the weapon. There is an advantage to fighting with the left hand.’ He gave an experimental lunge.

She tried not to notice his tight calves and the rippling of muscle beneath his coat.

‘You bastard,’ she said in a low breath.

‘Unfortunately, I am legitimate,’ he replied, rising and sheathing an imaginary sword.

‘If you had not run Mr Pratchet off, I could have married him,’ she said.

He looked surprised. ‘You want him instead?’

‘He was concerned for me.’ And the shop, of course. That had been his real concern all along. But if she’d have married him, she’d have had to share his bed. Even now, the thought sent a chill through her. ‘Marrying Mr Pratchet would have been the logical thing to do.’

‘And you are a shining example of feminine logic,’ said Fanworth, expressionless.

‘I thought I had no choice.’

‘You could have married me,’ he suggested.

‘You had not asked,’ she reminded him.

‘I have now. I await your answer.’

He was being sarcastic to goad her. She responded in kind. ‘Why would you want to marry the thief who stole your mother’s necklace? Is the punishment we agreed on no longer enough?’

‘You did not take the necklace,’ he said. ‘I am sorry for having accused you.’

Now she had found the flaw in his logic. ‘You knew that all along. Because you were the one to take it.’

‘I am innocent as well.’

‘You? Innocent? I cannot think of a less accurate word to describe you,’

He shrugged. ‘In this case, it is accurate.’

‘I do not believe you. It is but another lie. You have told many of those, since I met you, I cannot keep track of them.’

‘Think as you will. Today I speak true.’

She sighed, wishing it were true. Then it might still be possible to trust him. ‘It makes no difference now, whether you are lying or not. What’s been done cannot be undone.’

‘Then why not turn it to your advantage?’

‘By marrying you?’

‘Yes.’

It did not sound like help at all. It sounded like the world would think her a title hunter, instead of just a whore. ‘I would be the only marchioness with a jewellery shop of her own,’ she finished glumly.

‘Eventually you would be a d-duchess,’ he added, displaying more vulnerability than she had seen in ages.

‘That would make it worse.’

Just for a moment, she saw another flicker of his old smile, as if the man she had always wanted was still there, hiding beneath the surface. Had this not been her fantasy, when he’d first visited the shop? That he would see past the difference in their different stations and want to wed her?

That had been nothing more than a dream. This was real, and nothing at all like she’d imagined. How could she explain to Justine that the reality was not what she wanted?

There were no words that would help. Her sister saw no further than her own miserable past and would be ecstatic at the prospect of such a marriage.

And the Marquess of Fanworth was still standing before her, awaiting her answer.

‘What will your father say?’ she said, grasping at straws.

His response was little more than the slightest twitch of an eyelid and a brief statement. ‘It does not signify.’ He might not care. He was annoyed that she had asked. But the silence accompanying it spoke loud enough. His family would not like it.

She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, praying that when she opened them again, she would see some other solution to the situation at hand. ‘You are adamant, then. We marry, or you duel.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you are willing to marry me.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the only thing preventing a resolution to your argument with Will...’

‘To Felkirk’s argument with me,’ he corrected.

‘The only thing preventing a resolution...’ she repeated.

‘Is you.’ His response was so gentle that, with her eyes closed, she could swear it was Stephen Standish who had spoken.

But then she opened her eyes and saw the cool, aloof Marquess of Fanworth, staring back at her as though he could see the chair behind her. Of course he would marry her. It meant that she would be back in his bed without the inconvenience of clandestine meetings and gossiping staff.

He had tricked her. Again.

She glared at him. ‘Very well, then. Since I have no choice in the matter, I will accept. Send word through Lord William when you have the licence and we will put an end to this nonsense. Until then, I do not wish to see you or speak to you, or receive notes, letters, gifts or anything else. And for God’s sake, stop wandering past my shop, gaping in the windows at me. It is distracting to me and to my customers. And now, good day.’

* * *

It had not gone as he’d hoped.

Of course, Stephen had hoped, when down on his knees before the woman he loved, he’d have been able to come up with words a little more stirring than a brief proposal. At least he could have managed a better apology for his mistreatment of her.

I did not mean to dishonour you. I promised there would be no gossip. I did not give the necklace to Pratchet. It was my brother...

There were other ways to say those things, he was sure. But when he opened his mouth to tell her, his mind was awash with impossible consonants. And as it always did, his tongue glued itself to the roof of his mouth until he could say practically nothing.

Then he smiled. It had gone wrong. But all the same, she had agreed to wed him. He would get the licence, reserve the Abbey and make all things ready. Then, once they were properly joined in matrimony, he would take her back to his bed and demonstrate the sincerity of his affection in a physical way that did not become muddled when he most needed it to be clear.

When she had been properly loved and realised that he could buy her the contents of a dozen jewellery shops, she would see his side of things. There would be no more nonsense about the inconvenience of having a title. She would take her proper place in society. And all of London would take one look at her and fall at her dainty feet.

Once she realised that she was happy, she would smile at him again. He would be able to speak freely to her, just as he used to. They would declare their love. And their life together would be as he’d imagined it, from the first moment he’d met her. Perfection.