After a marriage like the one she had endured, she would rather have plunged in front of a bolting horse.
“My mother was mistaken,” she said, raising her gaze to look at the frost still trimming the tiled roof of the house opposite. “Believe me, sir, I have no wish to waste either of our time.”
“This is your final answer?”
“I have no other to give,” she said calmly, turning and observing him. “And I would rather not be obliged to refuse you—for both our sakes. Better you are saved the indignity of asking."
His nostrils flared and his jaw tightened. Not, she noted, the expression of a man so deep in love he might drown in it.
She had seen that but once.
“I will not change my mind,” she said, keeping her voice even. “And truly, I think you would be happier with another lady. One you hold genuine affection for.”
“Is that what you are saving yourself for? Love?”
“I meant what I said, Mr Knight. I have no intention of marrying again, no matter the provocation, and no matter who offers for me.”
This sentiment, while true, hid the fact that even if she had been tempted to marry again, she would not have chosen one of her husband’s cronies.
He rose to his feet, approaching her with his hat in his hand—the picture of humility, if only she could bring herself to believe it. "Is there nothing I can do to prevail on you to change your mind? To prove the depth of my affection?"
She almost snorted. There was not affection here, unless it was for the size of her fortune. Admittedly, no debutante this Season had a dowry to match, but she doubted he needed her wealth; few men did. But they were greedy enough to want it.
"There is nothing, sir," she said. "I will not change my mind."
His lips thinned and his eyes roved across her face, grey and cold and angry. For a moment, he hesitated, rocking on his heelsas though he was tempted to go in for another round, pitting his will against hers.
He would not succeed.
After a few more seconds, however, he merely clenched his teeth. “I see there is nothing more to do but take my leave.”
“I hope your disappointment is of short duration.”
He swept her a mocking bow and replaced his hat on his head. “Let no one say I didn’t try. Good day, Lady Bolton.”
And to think she had changed her dress for this. She rang the bellpull once again. “Goodbye, Mr Knight. Avery will see you out.”
Henry Beaumont always rose with the dawn. The war had given him the habit; the crushing weight of his responsibilities back in London had maintained it. And it was during his early breakfast that there was a commotion by the door, a familiar slurred voice telling Jarvis, the butler, that he did not require assistance. Sighing, Henry rose, putting aside his teacup and folding his paper, and went to see what the problem was.
His father squinted at him from the hallway, his hat lopsided and his cane dropped across the floor. Jarvis was keeping an impassive distance as his father pointed a finger at Henry.
“You,” he said.
“Me,” Henry said. “Would you like some coffee? I find it is tolerable this time of the morning.”
“Coffee? Bah!” Spittle flew from his father’s mouth. “In my own home?”
“It is a practice that is becoming increasingly common. Though of course, you may go out to a coffee house if you wish.”
“Damn your impudence. I’m going to bed.”
“How much was it this time?” Henry asked, reaching for the patience he found so little of these days. Perhaps it was his attempt to assimilate back into London society after years fighting a war that had seemed nonsensical at the best of times.
His father regarded him with a crafty eye. “No need to concern yourself, Eynsham. It’ll come back around. You’ll see.”
“We’re late with wages already.”
“The servants can wait. We feed and house them, don’t we?” His father waved an imperious hand and stumbled for the stairs. Rather than let Jarvis watch his father fall, Henry took his arm and hauled him upstairs.
