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It was pride and the anticipation of certain heartbreak that had made her say no. But wou
ld her heart break? Blake had made no promises of love or eternal devotion, so he would not be betraying her when he strayed. She had lived without love, without anyone to care for her feelings, for so long that this would be nothing new. Provided she did nothing idiotic like fall in love with him, she was safe.
What could she bring him? Loyalty, a determination to be a good wife, the intention to be a good mother if she was so blessed. It did not add up to very much—and certainly nothing that another woman could not offer.
But he had asked her, not another woman. So what should she say?
*
‘Have you completely lost your mind?’ Jon paced down the length of the study, then back, his hair standing on end from where he had dragged his hand through it. The other arm was still weak, although he constantly forgot his sling. ‘You really mean to go through with this marriage to Miss Lytton?’
‘Yes.’
Yes, he would marry her. Yes, he probably had lost his mind.
‘She is a baronet’s daughter,’ Blake said, studying his fingernails.
‘That is the one positive—although you know you can do better. Considerably better. She has no money—except the inflated amount you are attempting to give her in exchange for that farm—no connections of any use whatsoever, and she is a plain, lame beanpole.’
‘And intelligent, loyal, courageous,’ Blake added. He lifted his gaze to skewer Jon’s. ‘And might I remind you that you are speaking of the lady I have asked to be my wife?’
Jon stopped pacing, but with more courage than sense did not back down.
‘I thought you liked her,’ Blake said mildly. Jon was only defending what he saw as his brother’s best interests, he reminded himself.
‘I do. She is all you say. But… We can buy her off—it isn’t too late.’
‘Buy her off—?’ Blake began, half out of his chair.
But Jon was pacing again, his back to Blake. ‘I know you have not had the best of experiences with marriage proposals, but there is no need to go from one extreme to the other.’
‘What exactly do you mean by that?’ Blake was on his feet now and round the desk, and when Jon turned they were face to face.
‘Oh, hell… All right—if you must make me spell it out. You were betrothed to the perfect young lady. She was well-bred, well-dowered, beautiful, and I strongly suspect that you loved her. It did not work out, and ended in tragedy, so now you have gone to the opposite end of the scale—presumably in reaction.’
‘“Did not work out” is one hell of a euphemism for drove the girl to her death, is it not? And five years is quite a long time for a reaction to set in, don’t you think?’ Blake enquired evenly. ‘Normally reactions are much faster. Like this.’
He balled his right fist and hit Jon squarely on the chin—just as the door opened and Eleanor walked in.
She leapt back so that Jon crashed to the floor at her feet, then fell to her knees beside him. ‘Jonathan, are you all right? Blake, what on earth do you think you are doing?’
‘Yes, I’m fine,’ Jon said, his voice muffled as he worked his jaw with one hand. ‘I do apologise, Eleanor, we were…er…sparring.’
‘Poppycock! Blake punched you. What exactly is going on?’ The question was quite plainly directed at Blake. ‘And shame on you,’ she added, looking daggers at him. ‘Hitting a man with only one good arm to defend himself.’
Jon got to his feet and held out his hand to help Eleanor to hers. ‘I was exceedingly tactless and provoking and I deserved all I got. I will leave you to discuss things.’
The door closed behind him, leaving Eleanor on the inside, brows raised.
She probably had too many questions to articulate, Blake thought bitterly, flexing his smarting hand as he stooped to pick up a fallen chair.
‘Please, sit down.’ He waited until she was settled, then went back to his own chair behind the desk. It felt like a retreat. ‘Jon reminded me that I do not have a very successful history of betrothals. I felt that it was inappropriate of him to bring that up now, but he would not let the matter drop.’ He shrugged. ‘I lost my temper.’
‘Were you going to tell me about the other unsatisfactory betrothals?’ she enquired politely, as though the matter was of only the faintest interest to her. Perhaps it was.
‘Only one.’ And that was bad enough. He was going to have to tell Eleanor something, however difficult it was. ‘I was promised to a young lady I had known all her life. One of those cold-bloodedly suitable matches thought up by our respective fathers when we were both minors. Her family were our closest neighbours.’ He shrugged. ‘I had no strong feelings one way or the other.’ Or so I thought. ‘But I liked Felicity, and we had always got on well. It was, as my father had ensured, very advantageous on both sides.’
He was all too conscious of the steady gaze of a pair of clear hazel eyes and made himself meet it—made himself stick to the story he had decided to tell and not get sidetracked into the emotions, the damnably complicated feelings, the sickening realisation of what he had done to Felicity and to himself and how it had left him. Shattered.
