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“Would you…” She couldn’t bear to finish the question.
The smile developed an edge of superiority, became more what she was used to. “I can’t offer employment to a woman who bears a child out of wedlock. And her family shares the scandal. I have my tenants’ moral welfare to consider.”
The foul mongrel. He’d tried the velvet gloves, now it was the iron fist.
Helplessly, she cast around for something to counter what he said. There was nothing. He was cruel, but he spoke the truth.
Even if Burnley meant to keep her father on, how could she bear growing round with Ashcroft’s offspring under the judgmental gaze of the villagers? The thought was too crushing to bear. She was such a hypocrite, but being publicly labeled a slut was more than she could countenance.
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“I’m merely pointing out the realities.”
“And the realities fall right into your lap,” she responded acidly.
“I offer the protection of my name. I offer my fortune and home. I offer your unborn child a secure future. You’ll have a generous allowance and more freedom than most married women dream of. Soon you’ll be a rich widow. It’s clear to both of us I’m not going to last much longer.” He spoke carelessly, although the hand tightened on his stick, indicative of the private battles he’d fought with his mortality.
“It’s wrong to marry you.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides. Even as his ruthless logic lashed at her like a whip.
She had a child to worry about. She was responsible for her father and Laura. Reconciliation with Ashcroft was impossible. For herself, she’d send Burnley to the devil. She was young and healthy and could surely make her way. But this decision wasn’t for her alone.
Burnley continued in that same adamant, utterly certain voice. “Will your child agree when he learns he could have been a master of the kingdom, rich, respected, powerful, and instead he’s a nameless guttersnipe without two pennies to rub together?”
It was unquestionably true.
The awful tragedy was Lord Burnley offered her everything she’d once thought she wanted. Now she didn’t want any of it.
My son may.
The voice came from deep inside. She couldn’t deny its brutal veracity.
Her child deserved a future. Undoubtedly a future as Burnley’s heir was a better bet than anything she’d supply in the harsh, unforgiving world. She waited for Burnley to harangue, to persuade, to overplay his hand so she could summon her temper and refuse him.
Canny weasel he was, he remained silent.
His green eyes studied her. As if he tracked each thought trudging through her mind and lodging, unwelcome, in her grieving heart.
Still, she resisted inevitable surrender. It was wrong to give herself into this man’s keeping when another man possessed her soul.
That other man could never be hers.
Only now did she acknowledge that despite the dictates of reason, a tiny, stubborn trace of hope had lingered that Ashcroft would forgive her. That he’d return to Marsham and beg her once more to marry him. Gallop up on a white charger like a knight of old and sweep her into his arms and tell her everything would be well.
She almost smiled at the fatuous image, even while her heart split finally in two. Drawing in a deep breath, she glanced toward the empty horizon as if checking one last time whether her knight rode to her rescue.
She stared straight at Lord Burnley. “I’ll marry you, my lord.”
Shaking, Ashcroft collapsed into the chair behind his desk. He gasped like a landed trout and sweat covered his skin.
“Hell…” he breathed as dizzying pain racked his body.
It was late. Around midnight. Autumn chill tinged the air and a fire burned in the grate. His butler, bloody old woman, had looked askance when Ashcroft had ordered the library set up for work tonight.
Perhaps his butler had a point. Just getting downstairs had tested Ashcroft to the limits of endurance. He battled the craven impulse to ring for someone to carry him straight back to his bed. He’d been trapped in this house for two months now. Unless he took his convalescence into his own hands, he feared he’d be trapped here forever.
He’d thought his fitness returned. He’d thought he was ready to tackle the stairs. And after the stairs, perhaps tomorrow a stroll in the square.
He was wrong.
