Page 78 of The Dangerous Lord

“But you do care about starving, don’t you? Have you forgotten your financial situation? I haven’t. If you don’t marry me, I’ll seek out all your father’s creditors and tell them you have no real inheritance. You know too well what’ll happen then. They’ll swarm this place like rats.”

Shock filled her face. “You wouldn’t! No gentleman would do such a cruel⁠—”

“No gentleman would leave you penniless and compromised. I’ll do what I must to ensure that you marry me, and if that means throwing you to the wolves until you see your folly, so be it. Don’t be foolish, Felicity. How long do you think you’ll last once those money-grubbers divide this house between them? How will you live when it’s gone? In a garret, supporting four growing brothers on the proceeds from a newspaper column? I think not!”

“I have prospects! Mr. Pilkington says he’ll print my book⁠—”

“Mr. Pilkington will say anything to keep you writing that column he pays you a pittance for. Do you truly believe he cares about your book? Even if he did, it would bring you little enough money to support a household of this size.” He neared her and lowered his voice. “You’d turn down a secure future for your family simply because of your damned principles? No. I won’t allow it. You’ll marry me tomorrow, and that’s the end of it.”

He stalked off for the door, but she caught him by the arm before he reached it. “You don’t want to do this! What kind of marriage can we have if I hate you?”

Though that was her best thrust yet, he ignored its cut, forcing himself not to heed her plea. “You won’t hate me. You’re too sensible for that. Eventually you’ll thank me.”

“Oh, you really are an arrogant ass! And a foolish one, too, if you think I’ll ever thank you for forcing me to act against my will!”

“I’m only doing what’s in your best interests,” he bit out.

“And yours.”

“Yes, and mine. But our interests mesh very well together.”

“Do they? Well then, Lord St. Clair,” she said, his title sounding like a curse on her lips, “I have a surprise for you. I want a real marriage, and we can only have that if you’re honest with me. So until you are, you’d best pray our encounter tonight produced your heir. Because that will be the last time I take you into my bed willingly. If you force this upon me, you’ll have to force the other upon me as well, do you hear?”

The thought that she might actually mean it momentarily paralyzed him. Then he shook it off. She was already relenting on the subject of marriage. The other would come. “I hear you, but this petty threat won’t deter me. I’ve reached the end of my patience. We’ll be married Christmas Eve if I must drag you into the church myself.”

She visibly recoiled at his words. “I mean what I say.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He caught her chin and ran his thumb deliberately over her trembling lower lip. “But I know how easily your passions are roused. Mark my words, querida, I’ll have my heir by Martinmas next, and I won’t need force to get him either.”

He waited until he saw the doubt flicker in her eyes before he released her. “So no matter what you threaten, we will be married. Is that understood?”

She stared at him white-faced, but he could see the look of defeat in her eyes.

“Felicity?” he prodded sternly.

With a sigh of exasperation, she nodded.

His triumph tasted like the bitterest wormwood. He only wished he could have gained her some other way. On impulse, he drew off his signet ring to press it into her cold palm, closing the fragile, ink-stained fingers around it with a twinge of guilt. “Present this if any more of your creditors come to call. I’ll notify you of the arrangements for the wedding once I’ve procured the special license.”

When she merely stood there woodenly, he released her hand. But as he left her behind him in the drawing room, her words stayed with him.

If you force this upon me, you’ll have to force the other upon me as well. Damn the obstinate witch to hell—he’d do whatever necessary to prove her wrong.

Chapter Eighteen

My sources tell me that Lady Marshall was seen in the Strand with her husband’s paramour. If this is true, it sets a dangerous precedent, for the moment two women put their heads together over one man, he is likely to lose both.

Lord X, The Evening Gazette, December 24, 1820

It was Christmas Eve morning, and Felicity and Mrs. Box had been up since dawn. With two hours left before the wedding, they were in Felicity’s bedchamber. She stood stiffly on a stool with arms outstretched as Mrs. Box tried to alter her mother’s bridal gown for Felicity.

“’Tis well that gowns were less fitted in your mother’s day,” Mrs. Box commented, “or you’d have to wear a corset with this. I know how you dislike corsets.”

I’m glad you aren’t wearing an abominable corset, Ian had said. When we’re married, you must wear nothing but your chemise when we’re alone.

Married. They were going to be married. Heat spread through her breasts and loins at the thought. “Damn his hide,” she muttered under her breath.

“Come now, luv, don’t be like that. It ain’t the end of the world.” Pinching up a fingerful of satin bodice, Mrs. Box stitched through the fold. “You’re marrying a bloomin’ viscount, for heaven’s sake! He’ll be takin’ the boys under his wing⁠—”