Three Proposals and a Scandal: A Sons of Sin Novella (2 page)

After Sedgemoor’s marriage to Elias’s sister, gossip had raged about the lady the duke had courted and rejected. Marianne never again intended to be the subject of talk. “I want you to release me.”

He curled his long fingers around her arm above her glove. The possessive touch set her unsteady pulses thrumming. “Will you meet me?”

Aghast she glared at him. “No, I will not. We have nothing to say to one another.”

“Yet we were such friends at Sedgemoor’s house party a few months ago.” His silky tone insinuated much more.

“We did nothing to be ashamed of.” She prayed she wasn’t blushing. “We only talked.”

At her stammered response, all trace of amusement fled his intense dark face. “Sometimes talking is enough.”

“My lord—” she began helplessly, bravado seeping away to uncover her misery. Then thank heaven, it was time to rejoin the dance.

She was grateful that for the rest of the set, Elias turned as silent as the block of marble he’d called her. She was even more grateful that assiduous drilling in her girlhood meant she followed the steps without needing to think.

Because of course Elias was right. Sometimes talking was enough.

The next morning, Elias arrived at the Marquess of Baildon’s imposing white townhouse in Upper Brook Street. The butler showed him into the sunny morning room where he waited to hear that Lady Marianne wasn’t at home to callers. When she’d thanked him for last night’s dance, her manner had conveyed a distinct chill. Marianne Seaton’s politeness cut sharp as a knife.

Restlessly he strode across to the window to stare blindly out at the garden with its neat green parterres and gravel pathways. It was too regimented for Elias’s taste. He’d long ago guessed that Marianne had been brought up with similar military discipline.

How he’d hated seeing her so unhappy at the Chetwell ball. Nobody else would guess that she had a care in the world. But Elias had looked into that pale, perfect oval of a face and known that she suffered.

He’d burned to wrap his arms around her and protect her from the world.

The damnable truth was that he’d burned to do quite a bit more than protect her. Instead of melting into his arms and kissing him until he couldn’t see straight, she’d put him in his place. And his place, she made it clear, was a long way from wherever she chose to be. In return, he’d acted like a lout, sniping at her and making her angry.

Love was the very devil.

At the ball, she’d immediately flung up her formidable defenses, defenses she’d employed so often since they’d both attended the Duke of Sedgemoor’s Christmas party at his Derbyshire estate, Fentonwyck. Last Christmas when she hadn’t treated him like a leper. When she’d given him a whole afternoon of her company on a snowy walk. When Elias’s powerful masculine interest had become something more profound.

He’d found himself at the age of thirty, falling unexpectedly but irrevocably in love with a woman generally considered a stodgy pattern card of good behavior.

Except she hadn’t been. Briefly she’d revealed the vivid warmth hidden beneath her serenity. Their conversation had soon ranged beyond generalities to her life in Dorset and his tribulations with his inheritance. She’d displayed a sharp intelligence and a generous heart and a beguiling sense of the ridiculous.

How could a man be anything but enchanted?

Even at the time, Elias had recognized that she granted him a rare privilege. And while he’d ached to kiss that soft pink mouth, he’d had the wisdom to keep his demeanor merely friendly.

Since the house party, they’d rarely spoken, and when they did, she retreated behind a thorny reserve. Last night’s prickly little exchange had been as close as he’d come since Christmas to the Marianne he’d known at Fentonwyck. He was sure that since her return to London, her bulldog of a father had convinced her that Elias was after her money.

Elias cursed himself as an impetuous blockhead for cornering her last night. He should have known better than to approach her in a crowd, but he’d been desperate to talk to her before she left for Wiltshire without him.

Lord Hillbrook hadn’t invited anyone related to the Thornes, and that included his close friends, the Duke and Duchess of Sedgemoor. Rumor had it that Hillbrook set his eye on a parcel of land Marianne’s father owned in Hampstead and he chose guests likely to keep the marquess in a cooperative mood.

Of Elias’s rivals, Desborough was going to Wiltshire while Tranter wasn’t. The thought of Marianne marrying either miscreant made Elias want to smash his fist through the casement window in front of him. Desborough was a million years too old for her, however much her father wanted the match. Tranter was a handsome cipher. Neither man knew nor cared about the real woman. Both would bundle Marianne so tight in gracious manners and feminine duty that she’d damn well suffocate.

Which explained why Elias was here today, uninvited and far too early for a social call.

“Lord Wilmott,” a low, musical voice said behind him. A voice he heard in his dreams. Except in his dreams she called him Elias.

At Fentonwyck in the warm, loving atmosphere of a happy home, they’d used one another’s Christian names. Since returning to London, she’d reverted to using his title.

Like this morning.

Although at least she’d appeared.

Slowly he turned from the window, to savor the moment when he beheld her. He should be accustomed by now to the way his heart rose at the sight of her.

She was beautiful in the classic English style with her mink brown hair and deep blue eyes. Eyes that hid more than they revealed, even during those few cherished hours at Fentonwyck when he’d had her to himself.

“Lady Marianne. Thank you for seeing me.”

So polite when his blood rushed with primal need. This was the first time they’d been alone since Christmas, although she left the door open behind her as propriety demanded. To hell with propriety. It would kill her before it was done.

“I can’t spare you much time. We leave for Wiltshire this afternoon.”

“I know.” Very deliberately he stepped past her to close the door. He didn’t want any nosy servants overhearing him.

“My lord?” The discouraging tone was regrettably familiar.

He turned to face her, his manner composed, while nerves churned in his stomach. “I want to talk to you.”

As she stepped back, he read a flash of fear in her remarkable eyes before she masked all emotion and became again the perfect lady. “Pray open the door, Lord Wilmott.”

Her voice was firm. But of course she’d never lacked courage. That was the first thing he’d really noticed about her, the way she’d held her head high last year when society had derided her as Sedgemoor’s leavings. Elias had admired her then. He admired her even more now. If only he could make her believe that.

“I have no intention of doing this in public.” Knowing their privacy could be short-lived, Elias strode forward and captured her hands. Unlike her voice, they trembled. When she tried to pull free, he firmed his grip.

“Doing what?” But he saw that she guessed his purpose. He admired her cleverness more than he admired her courage.

“Marry me, Marianne.” He’d planned a more subtle approach, but having her so close threw strategy into chaos.

For an instant, something in her expression set him ablaze with hope. Then cold set in, hard and unforgiving as a northern winter. “Let me go.”

Feverishly he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them with all the fervor in his heart. “Don’t send me away.”

“If you act like a barbarian, I have no choice,” she retorted, straining away.

“Marianne, please.” Desperate to touch her, knowing that if he could just pierce the polished shell to reach the real woman, she’d listen, he caught her around the waist. He hauled her up against him and for one searing moment, her fragrant softness pressed close. He felt the wild flutter of her breath against his jaw.

She wriggled to create some space between them. “How dare you?”

“Don’t fight me,” he said despairingly, before making the worst mistake of all. “I love you.”

She went completely motionless in his hold. Worried, he pulled back far enough to see her face. She was as white as paper. Clearly she’d never harbored the hope of hearing a confession of love from him.

“Stop lying,” she snarled.

Defeat began to pound around him like drums at a military funeral. He’d never spoken those particular words to a woman. Of all the reactions he’d expected, he’d never prepared for open disbelief. “I’m not lying.”

“This is madness.” More chill when under his hand, her skin was warm and smooth like living satin.

“I can make you happy.” Hurt tied his gut in knots and humiliated heat stung his cheeks.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Sarcasm weighted her statement.

This time he let her break free. What was the point of trying to hold onto her when she was so eager to have him gone? He was such a bedamned idiot. He knew when he’d arrived that unleashing his disorderly emotions would turn her hostile. Still, he tried again. “I
can
make you happy.”

Fury kindled in her eyes and a loosened tendril of hair curled down her shoulder. The dishevelment suited her, set his blood pumping with futile desire.

“Just as I’m sure my portion would make you happy.” Her lips curled with scorn. “We can all be jolly together, me with my handsome fortune hunter and you with all my lovely golden guineas.”

Appalled he stared at her. He’d long suspected the reason behind her reserve, but that wasn’t the same as hearing her say the words to his face. “Where in Hades did this nonsense come from?”

“From the brain you clearly don’t credit me as having.” Her erratic breathing made her lush bosom heave, ruffling the cream lace edging her pink gown. “Next time you try your wiles on an heiress, make sure she can’t put two thoughts together.”

“You can’t imagine—”

“Oh, yes, I can.” She sliced one hand through the air to silence him.

Nobody seeing her vibrant beauty now would dismiss her as colorless. She looked at him like she loathed him. He’d hoped to stir her to genuine feeling. He should have been careful what he wished for. His hands clenched at his sides. “At Fentonwyck, we were friends.”

Impossibly she turned paler, but she held her ground. What a gallant wife she’d make. Right now, though, he had a foreboding that she’d never be
his
gallant wife.

“I applaud your shrewd campaign, my lord. However I’m awake to your scheme.”

He sucked in a rough breath and strove to speak calmly. Difficult when his heart battered his ribs and he burned to tug her into his arms and make her see sense. “Your father warned you against me.”

“What if he did? The empty Thorne coffers are no secret. Your brother was a wastrel and everyone knows that you’re doing your best to restore the family fortune.”

He drew himself up to his full height until he loomed over her. “There’s no shame in wanting to make my family great again.”

She didn’t budge. Her eyes sparked blue fire as she stared up at him. “There is when you lie to achieve your ends.”

“When the devil have I lied to you?”

“Let’s start with five minutes ago when you claimed to love me.”

He sighed with impatience and ran his hand through his hair. Common sense dictated that he flatter and cajole. Unfortunately he was so on edge that his response emerged like a lecture. “Of course I damn well love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. You’re glorious. I’m not the problem here, you are. Since Cam jilted you, you’re convinced nobody could want you. Well, blast it, I do. You’re worth a hell of a lot more than your fortune, Marianne Seaton.”

If he’d imagined his declaration might soften her attitude, he was doomed to disappointment. She made a soft sound of disgust and turned to face the windows. “There’s no point in continuing this discussion.”

Her brief passion faded. She went back to sounding like a pattern card of decorum.

He refused to leave her like this. Her withdrawal usually hid deep emotion. He’d watched her long and hard for months and he was sure of that. The brittleness in her ruler-straight posture cut at his heart.

What a blasted dunderhead he was.

“Marianne, I’ve gone about this all wrong. Forgive me. My feelings overcame me.” He sucked in another shaky breath, cursing his deuced recklessness. “I’d count myself the most fortunate of men if you honor me with your hand in marriage.”

Her laugh was derisive and irony sharpened her tone. “Thank you for your proposal, Lord Wilmott, but I find myself unable to accept.”

His temper, barely mastered, exploded and he strode up to catch her arm and bring her around to face him. “So what are you going to do? Marry that dry stick Desborough? Or even worse, that puppy Tranter?”

Without pulling away, she regarded him with a dislike that fired his anger. Why couldn’t she see that they were meant to be together?

“That’s none of your concern, sir.” Then proved that her own temper was far from serene. “At least those gentlemen are interested in more than my dowry.”

“I’m not interested in your bloody dowry,” he snapped, blasting his brother for leaving the family affairs in such disarray. It wasn’t the first time he’d damned Peter’s fecklessness since he’d inherited. “You know I want you for yourself alone.”

“Save your breath.” She broke away and backed toward the wall.

Surely she wasn’t genuinely afraid of him? If she was, he’d go straight home and blow his brains out. What an infernal mess he’d made of all this. “Marianne—”

“Why is this confounded door closed?” Large, burly, belligerent, Lord Baildon barged into the room and glowered at his daughter.

Bugger. Elias had hoped to have longer with her, if simply to apologize for acting like such a boor.

“Papa, Lord Wilmott was about to leave,” she said steadily, looking like a queen and shifting further from Elias.

“What are you doing here, Wilmott?” the old man barked.

Elias struggled to look as if he and Marianne hadn’t just been shouting at one another. “I’m taking my leave, sir.”