“Looks like weather rolling in, miss,” the not-footman replied, tipping his head in the direction of a lowering cloud. “Best fetch a wrap and an escort.”
“Frotheringale, you mean.” Lucasta stalked away. At least this footman understood the King’s English. The others hadmerely ignored her or given her curious looks when she railed at them.
Breakfast was brought to her room, a rare treat that somewhat foiled Lucasta’s ability to sustain her ire. Her cousin didn’t mean to starve her into submission, then. A light supper had been brought to her room the first night, shortly after she arrived, as if she’d been expected. The house had an air of disuse, as if it had not been inhabited in some time, but the housekeeper was perfectly pleasant. She’d brought in a maid—another unheard-of luxury in Lucasta’s world—who brushed her hair, delivered a deliciously soft bedgown and wrapper in her approximate size, and even produced a toothbrush and tooth powder.
Perhaps her cousin was trying to woo her consent to marriage by spoiling her with comforts? It was a clever tactic. Deprivation would have stiffened her resolve; largesse confused her. If she were trapped into marriage, forced by law to live in a large, gracious house with servants to attend her, every need provided for—how bad would that be, really?
“At the price of freedom?” Lucasta muttered to herself. “Really, Lucasta, show some fortitude of mind. Miss Gregoire’s girls do not succumb to shams nor idle flattery.”
Her cousin and jailer had been absent all morning, but shortly after noon she was summoned to a small, bright parlor where a table was laid for a light nuncheon. Lucasta steeled herself against the elegance of the buttery yellow room, the lush paintings and draperies of thick silk damask interwoven with golden threads. She tore her eyes from the pretty prospect beyond the windows, where a paved path wound through tended flower beds to a delicate folly overlooking a small pond.
“Your footmen aren’t allowing me outside,” she challenged Gale, who put down the slice of bread he was buttering torise politely at her entrance. The warm, yeasty scent made her stomach growl. “I am your captive, then?”
“You will have your freedom when you consent to be my wife.” Her cousin passed the slice to her, then grinned. “Well, as much freedom as the law allows a wife, I suppose.”
Lucasta checked the childish urge to throw the bread at his head. She was a woman of wit and intellect; she would use those weapons. She seated herself in the chair one of the not-a-footman held out—the loquacious one who had prevented her access to the gardens earlier. Lucasta glared at him and pulled the serviette from his hand, spreading it over her lap herself.
“And when I do not consent?”
Gale looked genuinely surprised. “Why would you not? I offer much more than Trevor Pevensey can give you. His father has all but bankrupted his estate, and mine has been wise in his investments.” He waved a careless hand in the air, indicating their surroundings. “This could be your home. Or Frotheringale House, or any number of villas and cottages. There’s a set of apartments in Bath for town entertainments, and the hunting box in Yorkshire.”
“You have nothing but Frotheringale House to offer, and that if the Dowager Viscountess permits, however much you are the heir and its proper possessor,” Lucasta said. “The apartments in Bath and the villa in the Lake District are Aunt Cornelia’s properties.” She knew nothing of the hunting box in Yorkshire, so held her tongue about that.
“Yes.” Gale bared his teeth. “And Aunt Cornelia will pass them to us eventually, or perhaps on our marriage, if we can persuade her sooner. And in time, her own manor and its incomes, along with her jointures, her annuities, and her investments will come to you—that is to say, your husband.”
Lucasta played her trump card. “I cannot conceive that our grandmother, the Dowager Viscountess, approves of yourmarrying me. The half-breed? She must wish much higher for you.”
Her cousin applied a thick slab of butter to his own bread with decided relish. “I don’t think you comprehend how very wealthy our dear Aunt Cornelia is.”
Aunt Cornelia was well-settled, that much Lucasta knew. Though Jem’s empire out-rivaled Aunt Cornelia’s for income, and Jem had built his successes with his own labor and skill, not by coercing landed relatives into marriage.
“I don’t thinkyoucomprehend that her income is hers to dispose of as she wishes. Her properties she owns in her own right, as a widow. A right married women do not have,” she added bitterly.
“I won’t trouble your head with talk of jointures and annuities and the rest of the legal terms. Nor of the obligation an aging widow might feel toward her favorite grand-niece, though our grandmother will freely admit she has never understood why you merit that distinction.”
Gale smiled blandly and passed her a tray of cold cuts. He was perfectly cordial about it, and nothing else about him was offensive. His hair was neatly trimmed, if unpowdered, and the cut of his morning coat was flattering, the fobs across his waistcoat quite in fashion. Still, Lucasta wanted to bite him.
“All you need concern yourself with, dear Lucasta,” he went on, “is that I will allot you a generous amount for your pin money and provide portions for our daughters and younger sons in the marriage settlements. My solicitor is drawing them up as we speak and will be here this afternoon for your signature.”
“And if I do not sign?” Lucasta put down her fork before she gave in to the urge to aim it at him.
He bared his teeth again. “Why, I’m quite enjoying our little interlude. There’s a village market close by, and the house has gardens. We shan’t starve, and after a certain amount oftime elapses, and certain assumptions have been made…” He shrugged, though the tight fit of his coat did not allow much range of movement for the casual gesture. “You’ll find that marrying me is the best of the other options.”
After it went about that she was compromised, her prospects of earning money as a respectable music teacher or governess of her own music conservatory would vanish. Marrying a man who wanted her properties would be the most attractive of possibilities afforded her, by far. Lucasta tried to swallow the burning lump of outrage in her throat.
“I am in charge of a benefit concert for the Foundling Hospital to take place next week.” They’d been rehearsing for days. The girls were counting on her. The governors were counting on her to bring in money for new musical programs, new instruments to provide to the blind and disabled children who would not have much other hope for an income. “I cannot miss it.”
Gale sank his teeth into a slice of ham, his eyes gleaming. “Then you had best sign those papers this afternoon, hmm?”
One brilliant, unthought-of hope exploded in Lucasta’s chest, burning like a phoenix risen from the ashes. Under one condition she could see herself being persuaded to marry her cousin, one benefit that would override all that she would give up. “Would you allow me to sing? In public? On a stage?” she pressed. “For money?”
His dark brows rose to an impossible height. “Absolutely not. No wife of mine will ever put herself out to solicit another man’s attentions. Going on stage is as much as advertising that you’re for sale.”
“It is not,” Lucasta muttered, picking up her fork.
She could try to contact her Aunt Cornelia, but what recourse did her aunt have? She did not travel, and so the most she could do was send letters threatening Frotheringale to behave.Gale’s mother was dead, and appealing to their grandmother, the Dowager Viscountess, would be of no use. The woman had used every family gathering to heap slights upon the head of her errant daughter Felicity, and then, after Felicity died, Lucasta. The Dowager had not even sent condolences on the occasion of Laurence Lithwick’s death.
Jem?
