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He set the decanter down with a rattle. “If you mean I have a guilty conscience, then nothing could be further from the truth. I have no conscience.”
Seeing him with the refilled glass in his hand, his dark hair tousled, his neckcloth askew, his stance indolent, Vivianna could well believe he was exactly the type of man he said he was. And yet…there was a tiny voice in her head that told her that within the scoundrel was a man worth saving.
She rallied. “I do not believe that. Any man can change for the better, if he wants to.”
He laughed angrily. “And you are an authority on that, are you? Perhaps you want me to become one of your disciples, one of your creatures, forever grateful for your charity and interest. People would point me out, as I followed you about to…to meetings, carrying your papers and your bag, listening to your every word with humble amazement. ‘There is old Montegomery,’ they would say, ‘brought back from the brink by Miss Greentree. What a woman she must be to have
wrought such a miracle!’ You want me to be your slave, Miss Greentree. You want me to hand Candlewood over to you, and my soul with it. That is what you want, isn’t it?”
He seemed suddenly very animated. She swallowed. “Not at all,” she said quietly.
“You know nothing about me,” he went on, those intense eyes fixed on hers, such pain and anger in their depths that she felt her own heart contract.
“Your brother died at Candlewood, and his death was connected to you. I know you feel guilt and sorrow. Perhaps that is why you want to demolish Candlewood, to wipe it from your memory, but that will not help, my lord, truly it will not. Pain cannot be so easily dismissed; it carries on, inside, like an unhealed wound. Sometimes your only chance of healing, of making amends, comes through thinking of the greater good rather than of yourself. Give Candlewood to the children.”
He stared at her. She truly amazed him. The passion in her eyes was something to behold, and the trouble was, she meant it. She thought she was doing him a good turn, and herself at the same time. Make amends for his brother’s death by helping others.
He shook his head. “You speak with such authority on pain and suffering, Miss Greentree”—his voice was harsh—“but you only know what you have seen secondhand. You are too young to have suffered, and your background is obviously privileged. A fine house, a loving family, friends who have your best interests at heart. You are a sham.”
Hurt flared in her brilliant eyes, and then died away. She looked older, suddenly, the bones of her face beneath that fine skin more accentuated. Ah, there was something…Vivianna had her secrets, too.
“You do not know me.”
He smiled. “My point exactly. I do not know you, and you do not know me.”
She looked away, her back and shoulders rigid. Had he struck her a mortal blow? More likely she was just regrouping, deciding on her next line of attack. He did not dare to hope he had put a stop to her onward charge. Not surrender, not yet.
“Do you know, Miss Greentree, that my aunt has drawn me up a list of prospective brides?”
The words came out of nowhere, startling even himself. She looked at him, her lips slightly parted, a frown wrinkling her brow beneath the hideous hat. Perhaps she, like him, felt that the situation was slipping out of control. And yet he could not seem to stop himself.
Vivianna’s eyes delved into his. “Has she?”
“Yes, she has. A list of young ladies of birth and breeding, those she considers suitable recipients of my proposal of marriage. What do you think of that, Miss Greentree?”
He gestured for her to be seated, as if his choice of bride were a subject she would find fascinating. In fact she did appear fascinated. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes shining. Or was she just humoring him? Handling the lunatic gently.
“Why does your aunt want you to marry?” Vivianna sat down upon a sofa by the gently burning fire and stripped off her gloves in a businesslike manner.
“My elder brother is dead and I am the last of my line. What was his responsibility now falls to me.”
“I see.”
“So you think it is perfectly acceptable for my aunt to choose my wife?”
Vivianna thought it was appalling, but she didn’t want to say so just yet. Why did he want her answer, anyway? Surely he did not want a matrimonial adviser, and if he did, he certainly would not choose her!
Would he…?
To give herself time, she looked about her at the room. It was rich in color and smelled of books. Her favorite sort of place, she thought with a hidden smile. If he had asked her into his library because he thought to discomfort her, he could not have been further from the mark.
“I am waiting, Miss Greentree.”
“I think it is a pity that you cannot find a wife for yourself,” she said bluntly. “After all, your aunt’s choices cannot be yours. Although she may sift through their pedigrees and tally their dowries, she cannot know what it is about a woman that truly fires your heart.”
The brandy glass was warming between his palms, but he wasn’t drinking from it. In fact he seemed to have forgotten about it, as he leaned forward in his chair, his gaze upon hers. “Fires my heart? Very poetic, Miss Greentree, but my aunt despises poetry. She wants me to father some poor infant, to continue on the Montegomery bloodline, and then I can sink into obscurity and he can rise above me. To be blunt, she wants a woman I can breed with, nothing more.”
Vivianna felt her cheeks flush. This was not the sort of conversation a spinster should be having with a rake, but there were lots of things she had done lately that she was not supposed to do—most of them with Oliver. “Then surely if that is the case any female would do? The kitchen maid or the girl selling flowers on the corner!”
