Page 6 of The Redemption of the Shrew

Lord Hythwick had already been dithering about whether to ally himself with the scandalous Warren family. He wanted Gloriana with a rather appalling passion, but learning that she and her brother still considered Daisy a member of the family had tipped the balance in her disfavor. “She couldn’t have arrived at a better time, for now it doesn’t even appear to be my fault that he cried off.” She rolled her eyes at Elspeth’s frown. “Daisy doesn’t mind. She’s used to being shunned, and she’s happy to have played a part in discouraging him.”

Not that Daisy had really been playing a part. She’d just been her forthright, unashamed self—not a sham like Gloriana.

Whose years of acting and downright hypocrisy had taken her absolutely nowhere.

Elspeth straightened the sleeves of Gloriana’s gown. “That’s as may be, Miss Glow, but—”

“Enough,” Gloriana said. “What’s done is done.” Now people would see her as defeated—a forlorn, rejected spinster. Not the outcome she’d hoped for, but not far from the truth. She would have to remain that way, for she couldn’t marry another man while she still loved Philippe.

If only she hadn’t made that sacred vow five long years ago.

If people knew about that vow, they would say it was folly. But sacred was sacred. She had vowed to love him forever, and in that one way she intended to remain firm.

“Does his lordship still mean to leave today?” she asked.

“I sincerely hope so,” Elspeth said. “There is nothing amiss with him but a bruise on his chin where Sir Julian hit him, a few scratches from the rose bushes, and another bruise or two on his bottom.”

“And some humiliation.” Gloriana didn’t try to suppress a grin.

“I did not see his bottom myself, needless to say, but Mr. Turner, his lordship’s valet, confided in me last night. Indiscreet of him, perhaps, but he dislikes his master and needed a sympathetic ear.” The maid paused. “He warned me that his lordship may gossip to your discredit.”

Gloriana hunched a shoulder. “Lord Hythwick knows I have male relatives entirely ready to punish him if he slanders me.” She could only hope not to be a complete and utter laughingstock in London . . .

Oh, what did she care? The only outcome that truly mattered would never happen.

“His lordship insisted on being shown around the house this morning whilst waiting for the second, third, and fourth attempts at the perfect cup of chocolate,” Elspeth said, “and spent the entire time comparing this house unfavorably with one of his lesser estates.” She wrinkled her nose and then added fair-mindedly, “He did admire some of the antiquities.”

Hardly surprising. Hythwick was a notable collector, as had been her father, the previous Lord Garrison, when he wasn’t drunk or ailing due to his excesses related to food, drink, and loose women. Her brother didn’t care much for antiquities, so he let Gloriana keep whichever articles she treasured most in the Dower House.

“He expressed interest in the Book of Hours,” Elspeth said. “I informed him that you keep it in your private rooms, and he must ask you if he wishes to see it.”

Should she offer him a look to appease him? No, let him ask. Beg. Grovel. She chuckled at the thought. Hythwick was incapable of groveling, and in this one way she sympathized. She was just as proud in her own way, although nothing like the way people assumed.

She found Lord Hythwick in the corridor not far from his bedchamber, gazing at a painting of two hounds. Since it was an inferior piece of work, done by one of her ancestors who’d fancied himself an artist, she wondered why he seemed so intent.

“Good morning, my lord. How do you do?” She curtsied, noting with surprise that he was in stockinged feet. How strange that he would leave his bedchamber incompletely attired.

He swiveled and bowed. “As well as can be expected.” He wasn’t attractive at the best of times, but with a substantial swelling on his chin, he looked even worse. She wondered about the bruises on his posterior and suppressed a giggle.

“I beg your pardon for emerging without my shoes,” he said, “but my valet stupidly failed to polish the pair I wish to wear.”

“Think nothing of it, my lord,” she said graciously, tempted to roll her eyes.

“I deeply regret the circumstance which forces me to depart today,” he said.

Polite as it sounded, this was actually an insult, seeing as the circumstance was his prejudice against her scandalous family. And yet . . . the warm expression in his eyes startled her. Surely, he wasn’t about to change his mind and propose!

“I too regret it,” she said, “but I cannot turn my back on my family.”

His nostrils curled in disapproval. “Your maid showed me the various antiquities Lord Garrison houses here. If I might ask a favor before I leave?”

“Of course,” she said, determined to remain polite. “What is it?”

“The Book of Hours. I understand it to be thirteenth century, and would be most gratified if you would let me have a look.”

“I should be delighted. I keep it in my bedchamber, as it provides me with great religious comfort.” She wondered if he believed this. She never gave the slightest outward sign that she was a religious woman, when actually she was quite frighteningly so—at least about that sacred vow.

She trod down the passage toward her chamber, and he followed, his footsteps soft on the runner. What a contrast to his usual stomping gait! Generally, he liked to make a lot of noise to demonstrate his importance.