Three Proposals and a Scandal: A Sons of Sin Novella (3 page)

“Then take your leave. We’re for Hillbrook’s place in the country today and she’s no time for her flirts.”

“Papa!” Marianne protested.

“I speak as I find, my girl. This ruffian has been sniffing around you for months. He can obviously smell a fortune.”

Elias’s lips tightened against a hot response. “You are offensive, my lord.”

“Offensive, am I?” Baildon regarded him from under heavy gray brows. “See how offensive you find this. My daughter’s portion is at my discretion. If she marries without my consent, I’ll cast her off. How amorous do you feel now you know that she’ll come to you destitute?”

“You do both of us an injustice, Lord Baildon,” Elias said stiffly.

“I don’t think so,” Baildon grunted.

“Lady Marianne’s person is fortune enough,” Elias said, meaning it, although he could see neither Baildon nor, more importantly, Marianne believed him.

“I’ve decided that she’s marrying Desborough, so don’t waste your time here, my fine fellow.”

The temper Marianne had so recently directed at Elias brightened her eyes. “Papa, this is not a suitable discussion to hold outside the family.”

Her father scowled and puffed up like an angry toad. “It is when I find my daughter closeted with a man whose very name is a byword for folly and vice.”

“Lord Wilmott isn’t responsible for his brother’s sins,” she retorted. Elias was surprised and gratified to hear her defend him. After all, her father’s insults weren’t far removed from what she’d said to him. He supposed he should take umbrage at Baildon’s churlishness, but what was the point?

“All the Thornes are useless charges on the state. This popinjay might have a handsome face, but that won’t keep you warm when he’s gambled away every penny of your dowry.”

“My lord, I charge you to watch your tongue,” Elias snapped, losing patience. He regarded the man down his long nose. He’d always known that Lord Baildon disliked him. Only now did he realize the depths of the man’s loathing. This wooing seemed more hopeless by the minute.

Baildon glowered. “I can say what I like when you’re in my house, whispering dangerous lies to my daughter. The minute I heard you’d turned up this morning, I knew what your game is. Marry my lovely Marianne to a scoundrel like you? I’d drown her first.”

“Nobody’s drowning anyone,” she said evenly. She crossed to place her hand on her father’s arm. “Be at peace, Papa. There’s no need for all this shouting. You know Dr. Manion said you shouldn’t get upset.”

“He’s an old woman,” Baildon said gruffly and patted her hand with an affection that, in other circumstances, might have soothed Elias’s resentment.

Marianne cast Elias a pleading look. “Forgive my father’s frankness. He’s very protective of me.”

Too protective in Elias’s mind, but he bowed shortly to the older man. He had grounds to call Baildon out. Unfortunately shooting his prospective father-in-law wouldn’t further his cause, much as the brute asked for it. “My esteem is sincere, my lord.”

Baildon growled his contempt for that statement. “You esteem her pounds and shillings.” He turned to Marianne. “You haven’t been fool enough to commit yourself, have you, lass?”

“No, I haven’t, Papa,” she said, and Elias wished to God that he heard a shred of regret in her answer.

“That’s good. You’re for Desborough. You should be bloody glad to take him after this blackguard’s hoyden of a sister snatched Camden Rothermere from under your nose.”

Marianne whitened and lifted her hand from his arm. “His Grace and I would never have suited. And Penelope is one of my dearest friends. You do nobody a service by clinging to this dream.”

“My dream would have come true if that hussy hadn’t stuck her oar in.”

“Whatever you think of me, my sister deserves your respect, sir,” Elias said coldly as shocked dismay seized him. He should have guessed long ago that more than mere aversion for a fortune hunter lay behind Baildon’s hostility. Clearly the marquess would never forgive any member of the Thorne family for the fact that Cam and Pen had fallen in love and as a result deprived his daughter of a duchess’s coronet.

Baildon must have realized that he’d gone too far. He made a conciliatory gesture with one hand. “Your pardon, Wilmott. I had no right to talk down your sister in your presence.”

Which, Elias noted, didn’t withdraw the insolent remarks. About Pen or about him.

“Look, lad,” Baildon said with the closest thing to affability he’d managed. “I know you’ve got your eye on my girl. No sin in that. But she’s not for you.”

“Papa, I do have a mind of my own.” The softness of Marianne’s tone in no way lessened its determination.

“Aye, you do. You’re no silly chit, ready to tumble into the clutches of the first pretty fool who winks in your direction.” Baildon turned to Elias and spoke in a clipped tone. “I’d thank you to take yourself off, Wilmott.”

What a bloody disaster. Today Elias had hoped to claim Marianne as his. Instead, all he’d done was drive her further away. Suffocating frustration lodged in his chest. If she accepted Desborough while she was in Wiltshire, Elias wouldn’t know until the official announcements. That prospect struck him as unendurable.

“Lady Marianne—” he started, knowing it was too late to save his cause.

She sent him a blank look and stepped away so he couldn’t even kiss her hand in farewell. “Good morning, Lord Wilmott.”

Hurt and anger flooded him. She dismissed him, and he had the galling suspicion that if he didn’t go, Baildon would tell the footmen to throw him out, scandal be damned. With the bitter knowledge that today’s debacle threatened to place the one woman he’d ever loved permanently out of reach, he bowed shortly to the marquess and marched out.

Marianne usually enjoyed the company of Jonas and Sidonie Merrick, Lord and Lady Hillbrook, her hosts for the fortnight in the country. But Elias’s self-serving proposal left her heart shredded. How dare he try to manipulate her by saying he loved her? She’d never have credited him with such duplicity. Or such cruelty. For surely he must know that it was cruel to pretend to care for her when he didn’t.

Elias had sounded so sincere when he’d claimed to want her as his wife. He’d stared at her with such longing. What an actor he was. But in weaker moments, she almost wished she was silly enough to believe him. At least she could bask in the fantasy that he loved her, if only until he showed his true colors after the wedding.

Good sense might save her from excruciating disillusionment. It couldn’t keep her warm at night or assuage endless yearning.

If she could, she’d go to ground somewhere she didn’t need to show a calm face to the world. She’d much rather return to her busy life as chatelaine of her father’s estates. There she felt competent and in charge of her own decisions in a way she never did in London.

Unfortunately when she’d suggested that her father travel without her, he’d reacted so angrily that she’d worried about his health. Any urge to rebellion had wilted under concern for a parent who loved her, however little he understood her.

Sometimes she had the vile suspicion that the one person on God’s green earth who understood her was Elias Thorne.

The first days at Ferney passed without incident, unless she counted how her avoidance of Desborough aroused her father’s disapproval. Luckily the party was large enough for her to disappear into the crowd. The Hillbrooks had included Richard and Genevieve Harmsworth, as well as a handful of Jonas Merrick’s business associates, hard-faced, narrow-eyed men who lingered over their port after dinner.

Nobody linked with last spring’s dramatic events was present. The events that had deprived Marianne of her ducal suitor and left Desborough humiliated after his chosen bride eloped with Harry Thorne. Hillbrook clearly worked to ensure that no uncongenial company spoiled his plans to purchase those fields in Hampstead.

Even before Elias’s visit to the London house had left her a shaking mess, Marianne had dreaded this house party. But so far the men spent the days on horseback taking advantage of the last of the hunting season. She passed the hours with Genevieve and her hostess. To Marianne’s relief, neither badgered her about marital plans. Gradually her wretchedness and confusion dulled and she almost started to enjoy herself.

Until on the fourth day, her ease abruptly ended. The morning dawned chilly and wet enough to deter the keenest huntsman. When her father requested her presence in the music room after breakfast, she should have guessed what was in store.

“You wished to speak to me, Papa?” She stepped into the lovely room with its view of Ferney’s extensive gardens, today gray under sheeting rain. Even for someone used to fine houses, the Hillbrooks’ home took her breath away. She was grateful she’d had a chance to see it.

Or she had been grateful until she glanced past her father’s sturdy form to where Desborough stood near the window.

Oh, dear God, no.

She tensed like a deer scenting the hunter’s approach. No, worse than that. A deer caught in a trap.

“Lord Desborough requested a private word, Marianne.” First thing, her father had been glum because of the weather. Now he sounded as if his horse had won the Derby.

She supposed in a way his horse had. Since he’d reluctantly accepted that Camden Rothermere would never be his son-in-law, he’d pressed hard for this union.

“Lady Marianne, I hope you can spare me a few minutes.” His lordship stepped forward and gestured to a couch near the gleaming Broadwood piano.

“I’ll leave you then.” At a glare from his daughter, her father stopped rubbing his hands together. “No need to hurry. In the country nobody thinks twice about two old friends having a quiet chat.”

Her father didn’t want her using propriety as an excuse to back out. But the minute Marianne entered this ambush, she’d realized that any retreat only delayed the inescapable. Lord Desborough had come to Wiltshire to propose. Her father had brought her here to accept her future as Lady Desborough.

She squared her shoulders and mustered a smile for her sedate suitor, even if somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of her dreams splintering. “Shall we sit down, my lord?”

Her father grinned. “That’s it, my girl. No need to stand on ceremony with a fellow who’s known you since you were toddling.”

Desborough cast her father a worried glance. Mention of his age was hardly likely to recommend him to a woman so much younger. Despite everything, Marianne found a grim amusement in her father’s blundering tactlessness.

Her papa cleared his throat, backing toward the door. “I’m off for a walk in the gallery. Heard tell there’s some fine pictures here. A man needs to see fine pictures.”

Her father possessed a large collection of old masters inherited from previous Seatons. Marianne knew for a fact that he couldn’t tell his Rembrandt from his Gainsborough. Although she’d once overheard him commenting favorably on the abundant charms of a fleshy Rubens when he hadn’t known she was within earshot.

No, her father would linger in the Hillbrooks’ long gallery for one reason. It had nothing to do with art appreciation. He waited for news of his daughter’s engagement.

He loved her, but she always felt that was conditional on her obedience. Accepting Desborough would finally achieve his approval, especially after the disappointment with Sedgemoor. She wished that fact gave her more satisfaction.

As her father closed the door behind him—Desborough’s proposal rated concessions that Elias’s hadn’t—Marianne sat on the blue and gold couch. Her pulse was measured; her calmness this time was no sham. Resignation wasn’t a romantic response to a proposal, but it was the strongest reaction she could muster. After a hesitation that hinted his lordship was more nervous than he appeared, Desborough joined her, maintaining a decorous distance.

“You must have an inkling of what I’m about to ask you, Lady Marianne,” he said quietly, watching her with a concentration that made her want to squirm. A lifetime of training was all that kept her unmoving. Her martinet governess had instilled the rule that ladies did not wriggle.

“My father isn’t the most subtle of men,” Marianne said with a trace of a smile.

“No, but he means well, and he loves you dearly.”

Yes, he did. And since her mother’s death eighteen years ago, he’d pinned all his hopes on his only child. Marianne had tried to please him, even at seven understanding his inconsolable grief at losing his wife.

When she didn’t speak, Desborough went on. “He would be happy if we made a match of it.”

She’d known what was coming—the stupidest girl in England would know—but hearing the words shook her. “My lord, I—”

Desborough raised one hand to silence her. “Thomas, please. I hope we’ve achieved sufficient intimacy to use Christian names.” He subjected her to another of those searching regards. “I hope we’ll achieve a relationship even more intimate.”

So much for resignation. Every muscle tightened in rejection. She could hardly endure the idea of Desborough using her body.

Marianne wanted to beg him to stop, but she stifled the plea as she remembered the eager light in her father’s eyes. An eager light missing since last year’s setback with Sedgemoor.

After a pause which he clearly hoped she’d fill with some encouraging remark, Desborough went on. “Of course, no lady should marry purely to please her father. I’m hoping that over the last months you’ve come to realize how genuinely I admire and esteem you.”

She needed to say something. She forced words through a closed throat. “I’ve enjoyed your company, my lor—Thomas,” she said in a low voice, staring into her lap and wishing fruitlessly that she was a woman who aroused more than admiration in the males of her acquaintance. Wishing that she aroused a fraction of the passion that her former suitor shared with his duchess.

Wishing was a waste of time. She didn’t love Desborough, but he was a good man. There were worse fates than marrying him. Even if right now, she couldn’t think of any. She swallowed and told herself that bursting into tears would be an unforgivable breach of good manners.