It was all Tabitha could do not to groan in frustration. She hadn’t been able to avoid the viscount in Marrywell, and now the same would be true back home in London.
After a perfunctory greeting, however, the viscount seemed content to ignore his betrothed and flit through the ballroom to peer down bodices, wine in one hand and a quizzing glass in the other.
Instead of accompanied by her betrothed, Tabitha found herself flanked by dual chaperones: her lady’s maid, and Mr. Frampton.
“What are you doing here?” she asked the latter with surprise. “Shouldn’t a man of business have… well, business to deal with?”
“Apparently, you are my business.” His dark brown eyes were warm, and his low voice as rich as fine chocolate. “I’m not to let you out of my sight until you become Viscountess Oldfield.”
“And then you need no longer worry about me?” she said in confusion. What could it mean? Perhaps the answer was as old as time.
For years, she had thought Lord Oldfield’s interest in her was because she was female and young. Whilst he clearly still held that preference, perhaps the advantage to marrying Tabitha was about more than mere access to her body. The viscount didn’t seem particularly mawkish about healing the rift between the two families.
Which might mean, what he really wanted was… her dowry. Ever since her come-out, when she’d first glimpsed his behavior toward the other debutantes, Tabitha had wondered if money had been Lord Oldfield’s true game all along.
As the only child, Tabitha was the sole heir to her father’s vast wealth. The title might expire along with the marquess, but his riches went along with his daughter. And since wives could not own property… that meant every penny of it would soon belong to Viscount Oldfield.
No wonder he had gone along with their ridiculous betrothal. The “match” might even have been the viscount’s idea. Papa was softhearted enough to sacrifice his daughter for the wellbeing of two powerful families. And Lord Oldfield was self-serving enough to take advantage of the situation for his own ends.
What would happen to Tabitha after the wedding? Would she be free to live her life as she saw fit, or would she be shuttered away from society whilst her husband frolicked through the rest of his life spending every shilling of her father’s money?
“Oh, dear,” murmured Mr. Frampton. “It appears you’ve come to much the same conclusions I have.”
She grimaced. “I’m feeling the weight of it.”
Her shoulders slumped. Going to Papa with her suspicions would not change anything. Of course Lord Oldfield would gain control of Tabitha’s life and finances. But she wasn’t being singled out as a martyr. That was how marriage worked for everyone.
She was just foolish enough to have dreamt it might play out in a love match, rather than… like this.
Her old friend Lord Carnaby materialized before her with a smile. “A new set is starting. Dare I hope I might claim this dance?”
“My pleasure.” Out of reflex, Tabitha placed her fingers on his palm and allowed him to lead her onto the parquet.
The truth was, it wasn’t her pleasure. She’d rather have stayed with Mr. Frampton. No—she’d rather have danced with Mr. Frampton. Her heart thumped at the idea. Good heavens, she wasn’t becoming soft on her bodyguard, was she?
Though if she were, who could blame her? He was not only the handsomest man in the ballroom, but also the one person who understood what was happening in her life.
He saw her clearly, as well as everything around them. That clear-eyed gaze could be disconcerting, but it was also a comfort. With him, she needn’t be Lady Tabitha, proper, demure, and dutiful young lady.
With him, she could simply be. She hadn’t realized how freeing that sensation could be.
For the next twenty minutes, however, her conversational partner was Lord Carnaby—and their only topics apparently the state of the weather, the quality of the music, and what a successful crush tonight was turning out to be.
The same exact conversation Tabitha had politely, demurely, and dutifully endured during every other dance with every other partner.
Somehow, she suspected Mr. Frampton would have something more interesting to say.
After the set ended, Lord Carnaby started to return her to her maid. Tabitha caught sight of her betrothed’s nephew and heir presumptive, Reuben Medford, also exiting the dance floor with his wife.
“Thank you, Lord Carnaby,” she murmured. “I see someone I must speak to.”
Tabitha wasn’t actually certain she had ever been properly introduced to Mr. Medford, though his reputation certainly preceded him. For years, he had been as much a rakehell as his uncle had been a shameless roué.
Until he met his wife.
Mr. Medford was now visibly, blissfully, happily married. He never so much as glanced at other women. Even after a full year of marriage, his besotted gaze never left his wife’s shining face. It was everything a romantic heart like Tabitha’s had ever dreamed of.
She decided to approach them before she lost her nerve. If Tabitha was to marry Mr. Medford’s uncle in order to settle the longstanding feud between their two families, then perhaps it was past time to discover for herself what that side of the family was like.
