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“Lord Farleigh,” the marquess said, stopping William in his tracks. “Ten minutes. That is all you get, and then I will be returning to my daughter’s side.”
William acknowledged the words and left the room.
These could very likely be the most important ten minutes of his life.
* * *
Louisa paced, sat, and then stood and began pacing again. The solicitors had explained the situation. Her father had made his position clear. If Louisa was to make a decision, the only way to do it was to acquaint herself with the individual to whom she would find herself married and at least assure herself of his character. She would not believe that honor took precedence over marriage to a villain. It was her very life that had been wagered away, after all. Her father would surely agree.
She forced herself to sit again and be calm. She could at least be grateful that her father had left the final decision in her hands.
There was a soft knock at the door, and Louisa turned abruptly in her chair; he was here, and she must discern his character swiftly, for she knew she would have little time alone with him.
“Lord Farleigh, milady,” the footman who opened the door announced. He discreetly moved out of the way so Lord Farleigh could enter the room and then closed the door, leaving the two of them alone.
The viscount bowed formally to her. “You asked for me, Lady Louisa. How may I be of service?” he said.
For some reason, his tone made Louisa’s teeth clench. She rose to her feet but did not reply immediately. She would turn the tables on him and study him for a few moments, as he had done her. She looked him up and down, hoping she wore the same bland expression on her face as he did.
The first thing she noticed was that he was tall—not as tall as her brothers but tall enough. He was dressed suitably, albeit not in the latest style, and his boots were well polished, she begrudgingly noted. His hair was a light brown, thick and straight, and neatly cut. His eyes, by contrast, were a deep brown with full, arched brows. His cheekbones and jawline were sculpted, as was his nose.
His lips were—well, perhaps she wouldn’t study them too closely.
His expression told her absolutely nothing of what he was thinking, yet the corner of his mouth twitched briefly again, as it had done earlier.
“Does what you see please you?” he asked.
“Don’t be impertinent,” she responded. “I am only doing what you did to me.”
“Fair enough.” He spread his arms out at his sides. “Look your fill.”
Now that he knew what she’d been doing and had given his permission for her to do so, studying him was the last thing she could possibly do, and he knew it. She turned and reseated herself in her chair, her back ramrod straight. “You may sit,” she said, using as regal a voice as she could, considering the tension she felt.
“Thank you.” He chose the chair closest to hers and sat, resting his arms on the arms of the chair. His hands didn’t move. His feet didn’t move. He didn’t move.
She, on the other hand, began to fidget. She stilled her tapping toes and fingers, intent on having the upper hand with this man who had shown up this morning to wreak havoc on her life. He wasn’t at all like Lord Kerridge, who was all elegant charm. Theirs was a match that would make sense to everyone when it was officially announced.
Would have made sense, that is, she reminded herself. If she felt she must honor the vowel.
He tipped his head slightly to one side in inquiry, waiting for her to speak.
Fine, then. There was no time to waste anyway. “Why are you doing this?” she asked bluntly.
“Because I must, and I can,” he replied.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Are you accusing me of being a liar?” he asked in a low voice, the merest edge of challenge in his tone. And yet he still didn’t move. It was unsettling.
“No, my lord,” she said. She paused to choose her next words carefully—which truly was a difficult task, especially under the circumstances, for her words generally tended to proliferate from her mouth without her mind always keeping apace with them. “What I am saying is that I detect a flaw in your argument, and that the flaw makes me disbelieve your words. You say you must do this. Why must you? And while I agree that, based on what the solicitors have said, it appears you can do this, you have free will, and, therefore, you can choose not to do this.” Oh dear, in spite of her best efforts, she was beginning to babble; she only hoped her words had made sense.
“There is no flaw in my argument,” he replied. “I must do this. It is as much a matter of family honor for me as it is for you. And as you yourself just pointed out, I can.”
“You could tear up the vowel, as I suggested before,” she said. “Or burn it.”
“I could,” he agreed.
“But you won’t.”
