Henry was not in the habit of acting rashly, and in the pause that followed, he considered his options very carefully. His father’s flagrant determination to act in the face of prudence was concerning, as was his mother’s distinct lack of concern for their financial plight. The very reason he had approached Venetia was to ascertain if she would be amenable to his suit.
It took him only a few more seconds to decide on his course of action.
“Thank you for your honesty,” he said. “Allow me to be honest in return. I am also not seeking a love match, nor do I expect one. Any wife of mine would have to accept the situation as it stands—I can offer her security and respect, but nothing more.” He paused, examining her expression, which showed no signs of dismay. “I would not like to mislead you.”
She gave a small, crooked smile. “Nor I you. But I hope—I would like to be friends, my lord.”
He thought then, damn him, of Louisa, always so bright, laughing, teasing. She would never, not in a thousand years, have ever accepted mere friendship from him.
He would never have offered it.
“Very well,” he said crisply, putting Louisa from his mind. “Then I believe we have a deal. How soon can we be married?”
“Not immediately, I think. It would be better for us both if you are seen to court me first. Not that anything will quell the rumours that you are marrying me for my dowry, but we should play the part if I am to take my place beside you in society.” She thought, one finger on her chin, and it struck him that although she had taken the lead in this conversation—highly unusual in and of itself—she showed no signs of being inclined to marry.
They were a pair, he thought grimly. Bound by reluctant duty.
“Two months,” she said. “And by the end ofthat, I am certain Papa would give you the money to purchase a special license so we are married immediately.”
Every part of him balked at the idea. “I am certain we can contrive a way to manage without that.”
“Perhaps, but there is nothing wrong with accepting assistance when it is freely given.” She shrugged, a loose movement of her shoulders. “Do as you please. We should return to the ballroom now.”
Once again, he offered her his arm and led her back inside. The heat of the ballroom swamped him immediately, and he was about to ask Venetia to a reluctant dance when his gaze caught on a figure at the other side of the room. Shock rendered every other sense mute; he stared at her in disbelief, horror. Dismay.
Desire.
Louisa.
In the frigid air of Hyde Park, she had been wearing a pelisse, her cheeks bright from the cold. There, she had been a vision, but here, in a burgundy gown paired with white gloves and gleaming pearls in her chestnut hair, she was frighteningly lovely. Time had done nothing but sweeten her face, giving it an edge of sorrow that made its beauty even more stark. Shewas late summer, the leaves slowly burnishing into autumn, the sky the sharpest, deepest shade of blue. A devastating sight. He wanted to despise the knowledge, but he found himself drinking her in with a ferocity that terrified him.
Time had twisted everything he had once felt for her into a thousand different knots. She had told him that it was not as simple as hating him, and she had been right. His love for her, stretched thin by the years and his futile attempts to forget her, was tinged by the sombre knowledge that she would never want him again.
He had been the one to ruin that.
His gaze travelled to her companion, a man standing over her. Not towering, precisely, because he did not have the height, but certainly intending to intimidate. His hand was clamped around her wrist.
Henry was not aware that he moved, or even that he had left Venetia behind in his wake. He knew of nothing except the defiant tilt to Louisa’s chin, the mutinous anger in her eyes, and the understanding, deep within himself, that he could not let this go.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, his voice as cold as the North Sea, the anger in it biting. “I must insist you release Lady Bolton immediately.”
Chapter Six
Louisa had known it was Henry before he had ever spoken. The air had changed as he approached; her heart leapt in her chest, and her stomach flopped in acknowledgement. No matter what she felt, her body remembered the feel of his proximity.
As she glanced at his face, the breath left her lungs at the violence in his eyes. For a suspended moment, a thrill ran through her. The Henry she knew, always in control, never had aspirations of violence. He never hungered for revenge. Even when she had come to him with the news of Bolton’s proposal and he had let her go, he had not been angry.
Yet here he was, cold the way ice burned. A shiver ran down her spine.
Mr Knight gave a thin-lipped smile and released her. Given the circumstances, there was nothing else he could do without causing a scene, and it was clear he did not want that. At least not yet—not until she had given in to his demands or made it clear she had no intention of upholding them. Until then, it behoved him to keep a low societal profile.
“Fear not, my lord,” he said with a quick bow to Henry. “I have no aspirations in her direction.” With a mocking glance at her, he departed, cutting through the crowd with unhurried ease.
Louisa turned her glare to Henry, who seemed not to notice as he picked up her arm, examining her glove as though he might find fingerprints there. “Did he hurt you?”
An unfamiliar feeling worked its way through her like a thorn, and she snatched her hand away. “Do all men consider it their God-given right to lay hands on me?” she demanded. “I decide who is to have that honour, Henry, and you forfeited your claim to it a long time ago.”
Something flickered in the depth of his eyes, but she couldn’t delude herself into thinking it was regret when he said, in an even tone, “I see you’re perfectly well.”
