Halesome men.
Men of good character.
When he’d sought Julia out after signing the book, he’d been pondering the effects of her goodwill on his expectations, marveling that her belief in him had sparked a belief in himself, a belief that he didn’t have to remain frozen in his misdeeds but could change.Grow.
Atkinson had directed him to the private parlor. Then, he’d opened the door to greet Julia with his preferred, lascivious endearment—the one that heightened her flustered blush—but, instead of receiving a passionate welcome, he’d found himself gazing directly into the aghast countenance of Southford’s resident spinster.
Not just aghast but accusing, too.
From there, he’d plunged into the molten middle of an exposition eruption he barely grasped. Lesson learned. Behind Julia trailed a cloud of disruption.
Always. Full stop.
Then Cracked-skull himself had joined the fray, acting everything a gentleman should be, of course. The rapid-fire exchange between the three of them had been too much to comprehend at once, though certain words had snagged Rayne’s attention: Wedding, Bromton, and Bromton Castle.
He’d responded with an instant, ingrainedno.
No to his real existence—to the realities he couldn’t deny.
No to facing Julia’s family.
No to returning to the Grange.
No to calling on Bromton as if their mutual betrayal had never happened.
Impulsive of him to refuse a wedding invitation, of course. Rude beyond tolerance. Andnoto any and all of the above, at this stage, was simply out of the question.
So, he’d fallen silent while Julia smoothed his way. As if he were a child. As if he needed her to explain his actions.
Even though he had.
Was that the life they’d lead from now on?
Julia, wasting all her considerable talent making overly cheerful excuses for everything he lacked? Him, standing silently by, befuddled and wary?
How long would she last before he drained her belief in love?
How long would he last in the accusatory glare of her family?
And you and Bromton will be friends again, she’d said. As if everything could be easily smoothed.
Why had he believed pleasing Julia in bed would be enough?
There, at least, he wasn’t inadequate. There, at least, he knew he satisfied. And so far, he’d managed to fully pleasure and indulge without subjecting her to mortification.
Over time, would he ruin that as well?
The carriage pulled up alongside the white, expanded farmhouse now known as the infamous Gretna Hall.
Though not as infamous as the old blacksmith’s shop, Gretna Hall provided a slightly more respectable alternative. Their wedding would not be the wedding Julia’s loved ones would have wanted, but at least they’d be married in a hall, by a proper parson, followed by a decent repast with wine.
This much, he could and would give. The rest, he could not predict.
John Linton, the landlord of Gretna Hall, greeted the carriage. After Linton assured Rayne the parson could be summoned in a little over a quarter hour, Rayne agreed to a sum for his services, which was, no doubt, much higher than most.
No matter.
Wealth, he had. And though wealth could not correct his worst deficiencies, a flash of coin was more than capable of altering most tangible realities. He could buy fawning, if not respect—a knowledge he’d once used to excess.
