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Richard had insisted on paying for her trousseau and the stay in London because he knew her family did not have the necessary funds. Mr. Fowley had tried to protest.
It wasn’t done, of course. And if anybody got wind of this arrangement, the whispers would abound.
Richard didn’t care.
What did it matter? The lady would become his wife soon enough.
My wife.
He didn’t want to think about that.
Let Isabel and Sam escort his bride to shops and modistes once they all arrived. They seemed excited about the prospect of the wedding. Let them deal with the details.
Besides, what did he know about any of that, anyhow?
As long as they did not bother him, they were free to do as they pleased.
As for himself, well, Richard spent his days doing… nothing. Absolutely nothing at all.
And that was so unusual that even his servants didn’t mask their surprise. Richard was always on the go, always dealing with people and his numerous estates. And now he just didn’t care.
He lay in his bed, staring at the canopy and feeling pathetically heartbroken. Life seemed to have lost its meaning.
His only thoughts were about Jo. His dreams—when he managed to get a shut-eye—were occupied by her, too. And the dread that didn’t let him sleep was constantly present in the pit of his stomach.
He knew he was doing the right thing for his title and for his family’s honor. He was certain his father would have approved.
Would he, though?
Richard rolled out of bed, put on his banyan, and padded toward the gallery.
This townhouse didn’t have a large gallery with all their ancestors’ portraits like the one at the Gage country seat. But what it did have was a tiny chamber with a few portraits of their happy little family.
At the moment, it was locked up with everything inside covered with a white sheet so it wouldn’t accumulate dust. But when his siblings resided under this roof, they frequently opened the door and looked through the paintings.
Richard opened the gallery door and entered.
Everything was the same as it had always been. The room was empty save for the paintings. The paintings were all covered up with sheets. And the smell of the old, dried-up paint still permeated the air.
Richard stepped toward the canvases and started uncovering the paintings one by one.
First, the picture of the late Viscount Gage and his wife when they were young.
Richard’s parents.
The viscountess was sitting on the settee, and the viscount was standing behind her, a hand on her shoulder. Her head was slightly turned toward him, her knees pointing that way, too. It was as if she wanted to look up at him. Perhaps they were conversing during the painting session and in order to paint the viscountess’s face, the artist had asked her to look at him.
The late viscount had always told Richard that their union was a love match. He had told Richard that he’d looked for a perfect viscountess, a clever, capable woman with the right connections to society who would never embarrass his title or be entangled in a scandal. But he had also told Richard that he had fallen in love with Richard’s mother the moment he saw her.
So how did he know? How did he know that he was making the right choice in marrying the beautiful young woman he fell in love with?
It always sounded rather magical when Richard had heard his parents speak of their union. It was as if the stars aligned, and they just knew.
Richard had never questioned that. When he was a child, he’d thought that that’s how it happened. One just knew.
The reality was far more complicated than that, however.
Richard had waited for that same feeling to overwhelm him when he was young and naive. He had attended society functions looking for a young lady who would grip his heart and yet it had never happened.
