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She had been invited to dine that evening with Lord Kerridge and his family. It wouldn’t be happening now. She must speak with him this afternoon and end their betrothal.
Lord Farleigh had suggested Louisa might form an attachment to him. She wondered if it would ever be possible. Right now, all she felt was bitterness toward the man.
“I hate you,” she whispered as he led her from the room.
* * *
“That went more smoothly than I expected,” Heslop said, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Yes,” William replied. They were on their way to Heslop’s London office in William’s newly inherited carriage, where they intended to review the details of the marriage settlement discussion they’d had with the Marquess of Ashworth and his solicitor after Lady Louisa’s agreement to the betrothal.
“I rather thought we’d be escorted out by our ears as soon as we presented his lordship with the vowel,” Heslop continued. “Instead, you now find yourself betrothed to one of the highest-born ladies of the ton, accompanied by one of the most generous dowries I’ve ever heard described in my entire career. I’m quite astounded, truth be told.”
William said nothing. He, too, had been shocked at the amount of money Ashworth’s solicitor had quoted. Only years of training had kept his jaw from hitting the floor, yet it was Louisa’s final whispered words to him that still rang in his ears.
“I suspect you have the Duke of Aylesham to thank for that,” Heslop said. “I rather doubt he’d have allowed the wife of his heir to appear in anything but the most recent fashions and the most expensive jewels, and would have been adamant that the lady’s dowry reflect and support his lofty expectations.”
“Louisa,” William said, breaking his silence.
“Eh? Beg pardon?”
“Lady Louisa. You called her ‘the lady.’”
“Ah, my apologies; I was speaking in theoretical terms. No insult intended.”
If William had been shocked at the size of Lady Louisa’s dowry, he’d been equally as shocked when the Marquess of Ashworth had simply stated the amount that had been agreed upon with the Duke of Aylesham and had done nothing to suggest lowering it. The marquess had had a variety of motives at his disposal he could have employed to do so—punishment to William for insisting the vowel be honored or an adjustment in the amount relative to William’s status as a mere viscount, to name but two. Instead, the marquess had sat silently by, much as William had, and had allowed the discussion of “pursuants” and “wherefores” to be undertaken by the two solicitors, only speaking when he was called upon to clarify a point.
The meeting had not been a particularly warm one, however, in spite of Heslop’s observation that it had proceeded smoothly. Even the fireplace in the marquess’s library had seemed unwilling to offer more heat than was absolutely necessary to keep the room less than frigid. Or perhaps only William had felt cold.
“Ah, here we are,” Heslop said as the carriage arrived at the building that housed his law offices.
“If you don’t mind,” William said, “I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll return home rather than join you inside.” He suddenly couldn’t face nitpicking over the details like a hawk over its latest kill.
“I understand,” Heslop said. “One can’t help but be rather dumbfounded by it all. What a stroke of good fortune for a young gentleman such as yourself. Quite a coup. Naturally, you need time to ponder it all. I shall endeavor to draft a document we can present to the marquess and his man within the next day or two. In the meantime, I suggest you think about how to proceed with haste in courting the young lady—er, Lady Louisa. I know you to be a sober sort of fellow, not inclined toward haste, but circumstances call for precisely that.”
“I shall call on you tomorrow,” William said.
“Haste,” Heslop repeated, giving William a stern look to underscore his point—as if William didn’t understand the stakes already. “Very well, then. Adieu.” The solicitor tipped his hat in farewell and went inside.
William gave directions to Walter the coachman to take him to the London house, which was part of the Farleigh holdings, where he’d taken up temporary residence. The carriage bumped along the cobblestones, and William sat back and listened to the clopping of the horses and usual noises of people going about their business. But try as he might, they didn’t drown out the discord of his own thoughts.
He’d found himself intensely drawn to Lady Louisa this morning—a turn of events he hadn’t expected. He should have anticipated it, but the forced nature of the betrothal had made it seem more of a necessary evil than an opportunity for courtship.
But today, a beautiful young woman had entered her father’s study, full of a brightness and joy William hadn’t felt in years. And she’d behaved in the most remarkable manner. She hadn’t fainted or wept when the situation had been explained to her, even though it had been apparent to William that the news had greatly distressed her.
The range of emotions William had witnessed flitting across her lovely face haunted him. When she’d entered the room, she’d worn an expression lit with curiosity yet shaded by concern. He had then watched shock, disbelief, anger, fear, resignation, and, finally, resolve take their respective places as the reality of the wager her grandfather had made had sunk in. She had not clung to either parent. She had taken the time, rather, to absorb the news and the effect it would have on her—and then she had confronted William in a passionate yet dignified manner. She’d even told him she hated him in a dignified way.
He thought he could marry such a woman.
He must, if he was to have any reasonable hope of saving the people who meant the most to him.
He climbed the steps of the house, opened the door, and then shut it as quietly as he could. No need to alert the housekeeper, Mrs. Gideon, of his presence—not when he needed time to himself. But it seemed that luck was on his side once again this afternoon, William thought wryly when Mrs. Gideon didn’t arrive to welcome him and share the latest Town gossip.
Luck was on his side. And wouldn’t that delight his father, may the cursed man forever roll in his grave. William had thrown the dice, had played the ace, had held all the trumps. He had been the victor. His father had won the wager, but William had taken the prize.
He dropped into the leather chair in front of the fireplace, unwilling to stir the coals and ease the coldness he still felt.
He would claim his prize; oh yes, he would. It went without saying that he needed Lady Louisa’s dowry and family influence for his people to survive. But Lady Louisa herself had set a long-frozen corner of William’s heart burning with the promise of something he had no name for and that he could not bring himself to refuse. He’d thought himself condemned to live a joyless existence in a loveless marriage, as his parents had done before him. If he were a better man, a stronger man . . .
