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She frowned. “I can’t see an alternative.”
His voice was soft and deep. “I could ask you to marry me.”
Chapter Thirty
Her mind in turmoil, Antonia retreated to her bedroom. The last days had been too turbulent, too confusing. Shock and disbelief warred in her over Mr. Demarest’s proposal. She twisted in a whirlwind. As though she’d split into a hundred different people and she understood none of them.
The drab chaperone. The passionate lover. The woman who rejected Johnny’s proposal. The Amazon who rescued Cassie and threatened to shoot Ranelaw.
Among these myriad identities, should she now include Godfrey Demarest’s future wife?
Her belly churning, she sank down on the stool before her dressing table. Her body ached as if she’d trudged a hundred miles through a wild storm. Bewildered she stared into the mirror. Apart from two hectic flags of color high on her cheekbones, she was pale. Her eyes were dark and troubled.
Hard to credit, but in the last few days, three men had proposed marriage. When she’d believed herself utterly ineligible.
Of course the only offer she seriously considered was her cousin’s. She’d sat astonished and silent while Demarest explained he wanted her to continue running his estate. Basically nothing would change. Except Antonia would regain the status stripped from her after her elopement. She’d have security at last, a place in the world.
Had he planned this ever since he’d discovered her on the packet from France? It seemed unlikely. She knew from her own experience that her cousin rarely looked ahead to consider consequences. Eloise Challoner’s tragic story bore out that perception. He was a man who lived for his own convenience, and Antonia continuing to handle his responsibilities would suit his pleasure, she had no doubt.
Did it suit her pleasure?
While Demarest made no pretense that he meant to relinquish his rakish pursuits, he mentioned his hope for children. It was a delicate way of saying he’d come to her bed if she wished, but he wouldn’t enforce his husbandly rights.
Her hands formed claws against the mahogany dressing table. She wanted children. She wanted a family. She wanted a home that belonged to her and wasn’t the result of casual charity.
Was she willing to accept an unfaithful husband to obtain those things?
Was she willing to overlook her cousin’s sins against Eloise Challoner?
Was she willing to accept Godfrey Demarest as her lover?
She closed her eyes and struggled to forget the transcendent joy she’d experienced in Ranelaw’s arms. Because when she recalled the joy, she also recalled the betrayal. The agony made her shake and threatened to send her crawling into a dark hole.
No, she must expunge Ranelaw from heart and mind. All the passion. All the lies. All the sinful, seductive delight. All the choking rage. Instead she must decide her next step with her head, not her heart. Her heart never led her right.
Perhaps she and Godfrey Demarest had a chance of happiness. She knew him well, both the bad and the good. There was good in him when he wasn’t too lazy or self-interested to ignore the promptings of his conscience.
Neither Demarest nor she expected grand passion. Bascombe Hailey was her home and she already considered Cassie as a sister. Considering her as a daughter would require no effort.
What choice did Antonia have but to accept this proposal?
Most people would say after her lapse, she was fortunate to have any choice. Strict morality insisted she rot in the gutter. Yet now a settled life as a rich man’s wife beckoned.
If she stretched out her hand and seized it. . .
Mr. Demarest didn’t look surprised when Antonia requested an interview after breakfast. He must know she wa
s perilously short of options if he ceased to employ her.
When she entered the library, Demarest rose from behind his desk and came to meet her. His manner when he ushered her into the room conveyed a hint of the proprietary. Clearly he expected her to say yes to his proposal.
In spite of her exhaustion, Antonia hadn’t slept a moment. Dry-eyed and as empty inside as an old nutshell, she’d watched the sun rise over London. Briefly she’d wondered where Ranelaw was, then she ruthlessly blocked curiosity. All night, she’d struggled not to think of him. But the ache in her heart and between her legs reminded her she’d once again given herself to an unworthy man.
She didn’t cry. This agony went beyond tears. She’d cried an ocean over Johnny. Ranelaw’s betrayal surpassed any pain she’d imagined.
If she meant to marry Godfrey Demarest, better to think of him. But over and over, she had to superimpose his pleasant face over the intense, angular features of the man who could destroy her if she let him. Everything about Ranelaw was fraudulent, especially her memories. There was no sweetness and passion. There was just falsehood and manipulation.
Even knowing that, erasing his image proved hellishly difficult. But she would do it. However long it took. However many pieces of her soul she had to slice away to achieve blessed numbness.
