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I knew; I had seen their glares, and they were positively alarming.
“I am aware.”
The figure brought us face to face. Looking up into those blue, blue eyes I had fantasies of deliciously drowning in them as if in a warm, tropical lake.
“How old are you?”
Yanked from a beautiful fantasy into cold reality, I snapped, “Why do you ask? You can just check my teeth, you know.”
“Only on a horse, my dear,” he replied with the ghost of a smile. “Tell me. How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
An age, I might add, that had horrified the women of the Wentworth household, for all as if I had been shelf-spoiled merchandise.
“So you have reached your majority. That is in your favour, as they cannot legally force you to wed Basil. If you are strong enough, you will not need me.”
It was shocking how that idea was so horrible to contemplate. So was the possibility of making an even more dreadful mistake.
I knew nothing of Robert, Viscount Stanhope, other than he was an excellent judge of horseflesh, a skilled rider, and the unsettling fact that he made my heart yearn and pound as never before. Yes, he had a title and a brother-in-law who was a Duke, but a titled man could be just as big a rapscallion as a commoner, if not worse. He was handsome, but I knew many men who were handsome, and had not found it any sort of reliable indicator of honesty or good character.
Still, he did make my heart race, and on any scale, he was much to be preferred over Basil. And, as he said, I was of age and by my father’s will in full command of my fortune. How difficult could it be to walk away from a faux betrothal in any case?
Smiling in spite of my fear, I opened my heart and said, “Yes.”
He blinked, so startled that he missed a step and stumbled.
“Yes? You mean-?”
“I mean yes,” I said, feeling as if I were at last in charge. “I accept your proposal of an expedient betrothal.”
His face lit up as if illuminated from within and his smile made him look like one of some Italian master’s vision of an angel.
“You do? I - I mean, thank you, my dear. Judging from the look on your grandfather’s face, perhaps we should share the happy news if we are both to remain in good health and repair.” The smile died and his face became serious. “It may not be pleasant.”
“But it has to be done.”
He smiled, then taking my hand, stepped into the doorway and called for attention. Almost instantly the music ceased and the babble in the room faded to nothing. Every eye was on us, including the angry gazes of Sir Mordecai and Basil. I felt a thrill of real fear. Denying those two their desires could be dangerous.
“My dear friends... and neighbours,” Stanhope began, squeezing my hand in a show of reassurance, “perhaps this is a bit unconventional, but we all know I am hardly a respecter of convention.” A tittle of indulgent laughter ran around the room. “Especially,” he went on, sliding his arm around my waist to the utter fury of Basil and Sir Mordecai, “when I want to share my happiness with everyone. This lovely lady, Miss Clarissa Wentworth, has agreed to become my wife.”
There was a rush of emotion through the room - mainly expressions of joy and a spattering of applause, but from my family I felt only anger and a hatred so intense it was almost palpable. Sir Mordecai and Aunt Lucinda were practically glowing with hatred, while Basil looked as if he could do murder.
“No!” he shouted, rushing forward, fists clenched. “She is to marry me. Sir Mordecai has arranged it all.”
“Then let Sir Mordecai marry you,” Stanhope replied with an unseemly levity which seemed to infuriate Basil even more, “for Miss Wentworth has pledged her hand to me.”
“Impossible! She is a Wentworth!”
Gliding forward, the Duchess took my hand. “Perhaps this is a matter best discussed in private,” she murmured. “The card room is free...”
Even when she was silent, the Duchess was a strong personality, and almost before we knew what transpired, we were all - including the Duke and Duchess themselves - in a small snug room filled with tables set with cards.
“There is no need for discussion,” growled Sir Mordecai before the door was even closed. “My granddaughter is to marry Basil, and that is it.”
“I have no desire to marry Basil, Sir Mordecai,” I said. “I have not agreed to your scheme and will never do so.”
“You cannot!” shrieked Basil, sounding more like a terrified child than a potential Baronet. “I have already told - already promised...”
