She saw only honesty in Stirling’s eyes and she trusted that more than anything else. “Very well then, I agree to marry him.”
“Good.” Stirling then called for Huntley, who reentered the room. They assembled about the card table, where Finchley laid out several documents.
“Here’s the trust agreement, Huntley. I filled out the forms with the amount you bid. All you need do is sign, as will Miss Westfall. Finchley and I will witness the contracts to assure they are binding.”
Daphne watched Huntley bend over the table and scrawl his name before he straightened and held the quill out to her. She accepted it, her gloved fingers brushing his. A spark of heat flared between them, and just as quickly vanished. Huntley’s eyes darted away as he stepped back. She leaned over the table and penned her own name.
“Excellent. Huntley, you can collect Miss Westfall tomorrow after you have procured a special license.”
“Actually, I would like to marry in Scotland, unless the lady objects.” Huntley looked to Daphne.
“Marry in Scotland?” Daphne had to force strength into her voice. She hadn’t expected to leave so soon.
There’s nothing to tie you here, not anymore.
“Aye, there’s a little church not far from Huntley Castle. It’s tradition for the men of the Grant family to marry there.”
“Oh… I suppose that would be all right.” She had no friends left in London, none that would be seen with her. She had no real reason to stay here. In fact, it was quite possible that if word got out about her wedding, the victims of her father would come to the church and make trouble on her wedding day.
“We are agreed then?” Huntley asked. His blue eyes seemed to swallow her whole.
“Yes.” With that single word, she felt she sealed a bargain with the devil. A most handsome, intimidating devil...
“The paperwork is all in order,” Stirling said. “Anyone care for a glass of sherry to celebrate?”
Huntley shook his head. “Not tonight, old friend. I have a wedding to prepare for.”
Stirling turned to Daphne. “What about you? Sherry, my dear?”
“Yes, please,” she whispered. She needed a drink.
Huntley approached, grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. Their eyes met and held once again.
“Tomorrow,” he promised softly.
“Tomorrow,” she echoed. Then with a kiss to her knuckles that left her body burning with a strange sensation, he left the room.
Daphne watched him go, wondering if what she had agreed to would save her or damn her.
Chapter Three
Lachlan climbed out of his coach the following morning, stretched his legs, and climbed the steps of Stirling’s townhouse. He paused at the door, holding his breath for a moment. The moment he went inside, his life would change forever. He knew that he could turn and run from this, change his mind about his plans, yet he didn’t. Every emotion that had raged the night before was now locked away in a dark corner of his mind. Instead of focusing on his brother’s death and the man responsible, he focused instead on the woman, Daphne, the bastard’s daughter.
When he stood there in the drawing room the night before, as nervous as the other men, he had hated himself for showing such weakness. And then she had entered, a tiny creature with soft curves, dark hair and warm brown eyes. She had been as timid as a dormouse, her eyes as round as saucers as she’d gone through the introductions. Missing was the spoiled hellion he had expected from a man like Sir Richard Westfall.
Hewantedto despise her on sight and rally his vengeance, but it hadn’t been easy to hate her. He had managed it, but only just.
Lachlan growled in frustration as he rapped the knocker of the door. A moment later, a butler answered.
“I’m here for Miss Westfall,” he announced. The butler nodded and opened the door wider, allowing him to step into the vestibule.
“Ahh. There you are, Huntley!” Stirling descended the stairs, Miss Westfall at his side. She wore a soft green carriage gown with a blue satin sash around her waist. The colors emphasized her dark hair and alabaster skin. Lachlan clenched his teeth as his body responded to her subtle beauty. He did not want to desire this woman, but perhaps he could allow himself that one weakness. She would be his wife, after all, and he did plan to beget heirs upon her. It was his duty now, and hers as his wife.
“Stirling,” Lachlan greeted his friend with more warmth than he felt for Miss Westfall.
Her eyes were downcast, her lips parted, and for a brief instant he caught a glimpse of a woman beaten down, her spirit already broken. That was what he had wished for, wasn’t it? A broken woman? Yet he’d wanted to break her himself, not collect the pieces with pity.
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked her. “I suppose you have quite a few clothes and other possessions to take with you.”
