“If you force this point, I’ll tell Rayne and Farring what you’ve done.”
Bromton flattened his lips. Farring was his oldest friend. He was buoyancy to Bromton’s seriousness and loyal beyond measure. Rayne he’d counseled and guided since Rayne’s father’s death. Their friendship had strained, of late, but to entirely lose his good will?Unthinkable.
“I’ll not admit to cheating,” he said.
“I’ll not accept your responsibilities,” Markham rejoined.
“We’ll address your concern with another round, then,” Bromton bluffed. “A cup and die, this time. The higher of two throws wins?”
Grim resolve settled behind Markham’s gaze. “No.”
Find the wound, stem the bleeding—the stricture came to mind as if the late marquess had whispered in his ear.
Bromton inhaled, eyeing Markham. Fury was unusual for the good-humored earl. Behind Markham’s anger Bromton sensed…need.
“You will not accept my land, but there is something you wish of me,” he said. “Is there not?”
Markham’s gaze dropped to the intricately pattered carpet. “Payment I would accept comes to mind.”
Bromton cocked a brow. “Well?”
“When your mother wed again, the Bromton estate lost its chatelaine.”
“Correct.” No other reply was fit for a civilized man’s ears.
There was no longer a Marchioness of Bromton, dowager or otherwise. He had withdrawn prohibition against his mother’s second marriage after she’d told him he was a bastard.
He had, in fact, withdrawn from his mother entirely, not that she’d taken his withdrawal to heart. She’d married her lowborn artistandhad a prince serve as witness.
Not only a prince, but the propriety-flouting, profligate crown prince—a Whig. Internally, he shuddered. None of her betrayals ceased to sting.
“How,” he asked, “is my lack of a marchioness your concern?”
“I do not want your land, but I want you.” Markham’s cheeks darkened. “That is to say, I want you to make my sister the next Marchioness of Bromton.”
In his mind, he tumbled through the branches of the Langley family tree just as surely as he’d been shoved. Vaguely, he recalled finding Markham’s name scrawled between two women. He had not given their names a second glance.
“You decline all I possess,” his lips curled into a brutal smile, “yet you wish to win me.”
“Well, yes.” Dawning assurance suffused Markham’s voice. “If I won by chance, you owe me. If I won because you cheated, you still owe me. Keep your lands. Take my sister.”
Bromton laughed bitterly. “Forgive me, but I find betrothing myself to a woman sight unseen just a touch unreasonable.”
“Forgive me, but wagering one’s estate fails to scream reason.” Markham gritted his teeth. “I am not asking you to sign agreements tonight. I am demanding you court my sister with honest intent.”
So, the young earl had an iron core of his own.
“I assume you know,” Bromton spoke carefully, “that there was an…expectation between myself and Rayne’s sister.”
“Was.” Markham wet his lips. “You have not escorted Lady Clarissa to a single entertainment this season, and White’s betting books favor a match with the Duke of St. Alden to the rumored alliance with you.”
He really did need that drink. He turned toward the cabinet and flung open the doors.
If, indeed, Clarissa had secured St. Alden, he was genuinely relieved. Perhaps Rayne would finally forgive him for failing to offer for his sister. His alliance with Clarissa had been arranged when the former marquess invested in the now profitable mines on Rayne’s estate. Clarissa—and her dowry—were to serve as return on the Marquess’s investment. But betrothal agreements had never been signed and sealed, as Clarissa had still been in the schoolroom. For that, at least, he was grateful—he’d been able to free Clarissa from their arrangement. After all, he could not offer her a name he had no right to possess. The crystal decanter clinked against the rim as he filled his glass.
…Nor could he offer the name to anyone else. Markham’s suggestion was ridiculous. Beyond the pale. Absolutely out of the…
Whoa. The iron in him cooled and hardened.
