Page 4 of Kathryn

A sudden unwanted notion struck Gerrit like a punch to the face. “Is Lady Mariska perchance hiding in the garden because she is here against her will?”

His uncle swallowed. “Er—”

“Tell me the truth,” he snarled before van Renesse commenced spewing lies. “I will not have a repeat of the last fiasco.”

“This will be nothing like the last time,” van Renesse hastily assured him. “Lady Mariska was very excited to come to London.”

“She was excited to come to London?” Gerrit repeated, his temper yet again spiking at the older man’s evasive words. “I did not ask about her view on foreign travel. How excited is she to become my wife, Uncle?”

Van Renesse’s eyes slid to Lady Palmer.

“Fuck!” Gerrit grated.

Lady Palmer swooned, and his uncle took her arm to steady her. And then the bastard dared to cut Gerrit a chiding look. “Your Grace, that is hardly—”

Gerrit pointed his index finger in the other man’s face, stopping less than a quarter of an inch from van Renesse’s nose. “Shut. Up.”

Lady Palmer gasped at his vicious order, but his uncle pursed his lips, clearly deciding discretion was the better part of valor.

The urge to throttle the smaller man was so strong that Gerrit was almost dizzy at the uncharacteristic swirl of emotions.

He glared down at van Renesse, whose eyes lowered to the floor in silent submission, a gesture that did nothing to calm Gerrit’s rapidly growing fury.

Not only had he paid an immoderate sum to both his uncle and the Palmer woman to arrange this betrothal, but he had wasted his time on this journey to London. He despised being in the City at any time of year, but especially during the height of the Season. And to make matters worse, he was currently standing in a bloody ballroom!

The compulsion to stride from the sweltering, crowded ballroom where he was obviously a figure of morbid curiosity was almost overwhelming.

But the clarion call of duty was even stronger.

God damn it! He needed a wife. He needed an heir. Thanks to his idiot ancestors he felt strongly compelled to take a Dutch wife. He was sick and tired of thinking about the subject and did not want to be thinking about it again for another bloody year. And if he left now, that is exactly what would happen.

Reining in his fury and gritting his teeth, he turned to Lady Palmer. “Does Lady Mariska wish for this betrothal, my lady?”

She jolted at his question.

“I would have the unvarnished truth,” he warned when she hesitated. “And I would have it now.”

Lady Palmer cleared her throat. “Lady Mariska is young and innocent and inexperienced, Your Grace—”

“I am aware of her age and condition. That is not the question I asked.”

“She is not opposed to the match,” Lady Palmer hurried on, flinching at whatever she saw on Gerrit’s face—likely the murderous rage he was feeling. “At—at least not entirely.”

If she had meant her words to be reassuring, they failed spectacularly.

It was all he could do to keep from throwing back his head and howling like the savage beast he so resembled. “Lady Mariska has had almost two years to reject my offer,” Gerrit seethed, his voice impressively quiet given the emotions rampaging within him. “Why has she waited until three weeks before our wedding to voice her reservations?” His voice had risen by the time he reached the end of his question, and people around them were gawking.

Gerrit did not give a damn.

“Answer me,” he bit out.

“I—I—” Her voice broke off on a sob.

Van Renesse patted her arm while murmuring, “There, there, my dear.”

Gerrit briefly squeezed his eyes shut. What a fucking mess.

He cut a scathing look at the crowds around them, his eyes lingering on the clusters of young women who had drifted ever closer since his arrival but now skittered away like frightened rabbits. Any one of them would marry him—regardless of how hideous he looked—and he could have a wife with a brat in her belly by the end of summer.