Page 76 of The Dangerous Lord

With a disdainful bearing more fitting of the viscountess she was soon to become than the architect’s daughter she presently was, she marched past him to a smallish door halfway down the corridor. “We can talk in the drawing room.” She turned the knob and thrust open the door. “Not that it will do you any good.”

He grabbed a candle from a nearby sconce and followed her, though he didn’t even wait until he’d entered behind her and closed the door before he began to speak. “You know full well that marriage is our only recourse now.”

“Recourse for what?”

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” he bit out, “I’ve compromised you, and that generally means a wedding.”

“Generally. But not necessarily.”

Headstrong witch. “Damn it, I’ve ruined you for any other man!”

Though she flinched at his words, she stood her ground. “I never expected to marry anyway.”

Sara’s words leapt into his mind. I should caution you that seduction might not succeed in changing Felicity’s mind. She has a strong will.

Bloody hell, he hadn’t believed her, but obviously she’d understood Felicity better than he. What must he do to make Felicity listen? He set the candle carefully down on the closest table, fearful he might actually throw it in a fit of temper. And he hadn’t suffered from fits of temper in years. He’d striven hard to rid himself of that fault, and he had succeeded. Until he met Miss Felicity Taylor, that is.

Ruthlessly, he forced down his anger. Felicity was a rational woman and must be treated as such. “You know this is the best solution to your money troubles and my need for a wife.”

She merely stared at him, her mouth drawn up into a tight line. Engulfed by her oversized dressing gown, she looked fragile and pale.

“Such a union will be very much to your advantage,” he went on, disconcerted by her manner. “You’ll be a viscountess with a healthy allowance at your disposal. Your brothers won’t want for anything, I’ll continue the upkeep on this house, and I’ll make sure your servants are provided for. I’ll be a most generous husband, I assure you.”

“That’s probably all true. Unlike you, however, I believe a woman needs more than a comfortable home and a generous allowance to make a successful marriage.”

“If it’s your bloody column you’re worried about, I don’t care if you continue⁠—”

“It’s not my ‘bloody’ column,” she said wearily.

What then? He thought a moment, then stiffened. “You enjoyed our lovemaking—I know you did.”

“Yes.” She bent her head, her lashes fluttering down to shield her eyes. “Of course I enjoyed it. I’m not a block of ice, after all.”

Only when relief surged through him did he acknowledge that she’d actually made him doubt his prowess in bed. The woman was turning him into a nitwit, and he’d had enough. “Well? What is it you want from me?”

If she’d been a chit fresh from the schoolroom or a dewy-eyed lover of poetry, he might have thought she desired vows of undying love. But she was neither. She regarded all members of his sex with cynicism. And she’d never once mentioned love when refusing his last proposal.

“Felicity,” he said impatiently when she lifted her gaze to his, confusion and uncertainty on her face. “Don’t make this more complicated than it needs to be. Name your concessions and be done with it. I’ll give you whatever you wish within reason.”

“Even the truth about Miss Greenaway?” she blurted out.

Damn. He should’ve known. Once Felicity got an idea in her head, she worried it as a kitten worries a string. “I told you before, Miss Greenaway has nothing to do with us. You’re a fool if you balk at this marriage because of her.”

She pivoted away from him then, padding over to the window on slippered feet. Her slender frame looked small and delicate next to the lofty Gothic design, all the more so for her shivering from the draft. He had a sudden fierce urge to enfold her in his arms and shield her from the cold, from her fears, from everything that could harm her.

With shaky hands, she tried to close the drapes at the window more tightly against the draft. “And what if ...” She paused, as if to gather her courage. “What if I’m balking because of someone else? What if I’m balking at ... Cynthia Lennard?”

Coming on the heels of his tender thoughts, her question hit him like a pistol shot to the chest. God, no. Not this. Not now. He strove to conceal his reaction, but his words still came out harsh. “What do you know of Cynthia Lennard?”

She bent her head against the drapes. “She was your aunt, wasn’t she? I’ve heard ... that you and she had a love affair. That she pined away for you after you fled England for the Continent.”

She’d “heard” this? Where? How? A weight of guilt crushed his chest, making it nearly impossible for him to breathe. Bloody hell, no matter how he tried he couldn’t escape Aunt Cynthia’s legacy. Poor beautiful and doomed Aunt Cynthia. He didn’t know which was worse—the story Felicity had heard or the truth. Neither did him credit.

He needed more information. “You’ve truly outdone yourself this time. Where did you get such a tale? I doubt even Lady Brumley could rival it for sheer imagination.”

“Lady Brumley was the one who told me.” Felicity came away from the window and began to pace, her words tumbling forth in a higher pitch that showed her nervousness. “She heard about it from your uncle’s servants. She seems to detest your uncle, and so she tries to find out all she can about him. I don’t know why.”

“Because he jilted her twenty-five years ago. He left her at the altar when he discovered her father’s wealth was a sham. After that, her only choice was to marry old Brumley. She’s never forgiven my uncle for that.”