“I don’t give a damn what you do or don’t see, Ravenscroft,” growled Whitney. “These are my terms. Court her for a fortnight. Act the part of lovesick swain. It must all be quite proper. And in return, I will give my reluctant blessing upon the marriage, along with the dowry you requested with one exception. Half the North Atlantic Electric stocks will go to you and the other half to Clara, hers by law, along with whatever settlement I choose to bestow upon her, also entirely hers.”
Strange that Julian didn’t care to quibble over the division of the stocks but he did want to argue about a fortnight of waiting to make his little dove into his countess. Fifty thousand here or fifty thousand there, what was it when one had the expectation of nothing? He’d be a far wealthier man than he’d ever fancied possible either way. But he wanted the wedding, damn it, and he wanted it now.
Because he wanted her. Somehow, inexplicably, the plucky Virginia girl who’d shown up in his study unannounced had woken up a part of him he’d thought he no longer had. Desire. He hadn’t truly longed for a woman since Lottie.
To the devil. Perhaps he ought to rein himself in a tad. It wouldn’t do to become so enamored of her before he evenknewher, for Chrissakes. “Mr. Whitney, allow me to be blunt for a moment. You don’t want your daughter to marry me, and I perceive this courting nonsense as an attempt on your part to stop the nuptials from taking place. However, I am, you’ll find as you grow to know me better, an amenable bloke at heart. I propose, therefore, adétenteof sorts. I will do as you wish in return for your written oath that the wedding will carry on two weeks hence. Our lawyers will discuss the specifics of the agreement, I trust.”
Whitney nodded, regaining a modicum of his civility. “Clara claims to love you, and if there’s anything I know about my daughter it’s that no one, not even the Lord, can stop her from accomplishing something she’s set her mind to. I’ll not stand in the way, but as a father I must protect her reputation as best as I may.”
An odd sensation overcame Julian then, reminiscent of the way he’d felt when his mother had instructed one of the footmen to drown poor Alexandra’s favorite puppy as a punishment for being cross with her nurse. He still recalled the sound of his sister’s mournful howls. Three years old, poor lass. Pity. He supposed that was what he was experiencing just now. Pity for the father coming to terms with letting his daughter go to a notorious reprobate who he feared had only ruined her to gain a fortune.
But he hadn’t ruined her, not truly. Nor was he marrying her with the sole aim of securing her dowry, though that had certainly been the factor that had influenced him to sell himself one last time. He wouldn’t lie to himself about that. Part of his motive was mercenary. Part pure lust.
Wouldn’t do to think about that now, for he’d just allowed himself to be roped into a fortnight-long betrothal. Courting. Observing the proprieties. Fuck. When was the last time he, Julian Danvers, the seventh Earl of Ravenscroft, had been respectable?
“Draw up the papers,” he said, standing, uncomfortable with himself suddenly. Uncomfortable with the lies he’d perpetuated and the way he had so effortlessly and carelessly manipulated not only the man before him but also his beautiful, innocent daughter. “Draw up the papers, and it shall be done.”
Perhaps it was time to find his whisky.
Clara had drunk far too much wine at dinner the night before. Had it been three glasses or four? Five or six? It little mattered now, for the end result was the same either way. Her father had made his announcement. Her fate was sealed. She’d almost heard the clang of the prison doors thundering shut on her right there in the dining room. Her glass had been waiting at her hand, filled with a deliciously mind-numbing claret, refilled by an efficient footman whenever she drained it. Which, as it had turned out, had been often.
Unaccustomed as she was to indulging too heavily in spirits, she felt as though an entire regiment of soldiers had marched across her head while she’d slept. Pity that she felt so wretched, up before dawn with a mouth as dry as Virginia dirt in August after a month without rain. She pressed her forehead to the glass pane of her bedchamber window, absorbing its coolness. She was heated, flushed, and she didn’t know if it was down to the aftereffects of the wine or the terrifying fate she’d so stupidly chosen for herself.
Both, more than likely.
She wasn’t getting the hasty wedding she’d expected after all. No, not precisely. Instead, her father had somehow brazened it out with the earl, the results of which meant she was to be courted for a fortnight to make a case for their love match. Paraded before the society her father had embraced—the society she herself found so affected and silly—as though she were an ornament from the hunt.
The street below was beginning to wake. The grim, seemingly inescapable London fog was fiercely thick this morning, overtaking everything beyond her window so that all she could discern were some splotches of light and the dash here and there of a liveried carriage. Perhaps it was the hour when gentlemen returned from their clubs or from their mistress’s beds. All Clara knew was that it wasn’t an hour she would ordinarily be awake.
Courted. Her stomach roiled at the thought. She’d suffered enough pomp and pageantry the last few years. Finishing school, etiquette lessons, dancing instructions, her comeout, introduction to the queen… It had been endless, strict, laden with rules and tricks, wolves in sheep’s clothing. And now, just when her escape had seemed within reach, she was to be delayed by acourting,of all things. It may as well have been a hanging for all she looked forward to it.
What madness. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d become mired in something far larger than she’d ever planned. She’d imagined a quick marriage, her coffers filled, the freedom to do whatever she wanted. It would have been a tearful farewell with her father and Lady Bella, for she truly did care for them. But then it would have been off to the place where she belonged, the place that called to her heart in ways she had never been able to convince her dear father of.Your home is in England now, he’d counter to her every complaint.You will find this country’s appeal in time.
But she hadn’t. Time had passed—years had gone by—and she still disliked almost everything about the country in which she’d found herself unceremoniously mired. She’d committed nearly every act of rebellion she could dream up, short of simply running away, in an effort to dislodge her father from his stubborn determination to keep her in a place that was cold and rigid and dreary.
She turned from the window as her maid arrived, fresh-faced and irritatingly chipper. She brought Clara’s correspondence on a tray along with some tea. Clara seated herself at her desk as was her morning ritual and riffled through the letters while Anderson attended to her coiffure. A slashing scrawl caught her attention, and somehow she knew the owner of that bold penmanship. It seemed he too had risen early. As if it were him touching her and not a mere scrap of paper, warmth unfurled within her belly, and her fingers tingled.
Little dove,
Your father has convinced me—N.B. said convincing transpired sans the use of any firearms—that we must do our best to appear honorable and respectable for the next fortnight. I’ll call this afternoon. Dare I trust you’ll be at home?
Yours,
R.
Clara stared at the scrap of paper in her hand and realized she was smiling. Oh, he was a charmer, the rake she’d chosen for her mad plan. She’d do well to guard her heart against him. Catching her lip between her teeth to quell her unwanted reaction, she took up pen and paper to fashion her response.
Lord Ravenscroft,
While I’m gratified to hear my father didn’t threaten your person upon this occasion, I’m afraid I won’t be receiving callers.
Sincerely,
Miss Clara Elizabeth Whitney
She received a response just after breakfast, under the watchful eyes of her stepmother and the Duchess of Devonshire, who had paid a call on her social rounds. Feigning disinterest, she slipped the note into the pocket of her morning dress as though she weren’t enjoying their game of cat and mouse. She longed to read the contents of the note but dared not seem too eager. Nor did she wish to arouse the suspicions of Lady Bella any further.
The duchess and Lady Bella continued chattering about the duchess’s ball, which was to be held the next night. What music was to be played, what refreshments—certainly not any aspics, which the duchess deplored—but plenty of champagne, who was to be in attendance, etcetera, etcetera, and all rather boring stuff to Clara. A footman interrupted their lighthearted banter shortly, bringing with him a large arrangement of stunning white lilies.
