Good God. The house party. All the arrangements were in place, and the design of the thing was for him to propose. Ghastly idea—and that had been his thoughts before he knew he wanted to propose to another lady entirely.
He chose a seat at a safe distance. “Of course,” he said. “I should have expected as much. Naturally.”
His mother’s eyes narrowed in warning. “Charles.”
You are selfish. And you hurt me.
He had no choice.
“Lady Rosamund,” he said. “Would you take a turn about the room with me?”
She turned her gaze to his, and he thought he caught a flicker of apprehension before she rose. “Of course.”
She accepted his arm, and he drew her to the window, far from the listening ears of their respective mothers. This was the closest thing to privacy one could get with a young lady.
He thought again of Evelyn leading him into her bedchamber, unsure yet certain all at once. Perhaps she did not know what she was doing, but that had not changed what shewanted. At the time, he had not fully recognised the privilege for what it was.
He turned to face the young lady at his side. She was, to every trained eye, beautiful. She was also young enough to be his daughter. The prospect of marrying her—being intimate with her—filled him with quiet horror.
“I feel as though I ought to be plain with you,” he said. “I’ve allowed things to progress too far and for too long, and for that I’m sorry. But neither of us had a hand in our courtship, aside from to agree with it, and I expect you wish to marry me as much as I wish to marry you. Which,” he added, “is not at all.”
Two arched brows rose. “I see you were not mincing your words when you said you would be plain,” she said dryly.
Perhaps that had something to do with Evelyn—her dislike of circumvention had taught him to speak his mind. That bled into every aspect of his life. Even when she wasn’t there, she steered his behaviour with an unerring hand.
“I have discovered that it is better to be upfront with one’s meaning,” he said.
“You have no desire to marry me?”
“I do not. Do not think it a reflection on you,” he added at her expression of consternation. “You would make another man—a younger man—a very fine wife. If I may, I think you are a trifle young for me.”
“I am twenty.”
“And I am nearly forty.”
“I see,” she said, tapping her closed fan against her bottom lip.
“I would not make you a good husband, Lady Rosamund. Whatever my intentions, you would be unhappy.”
She fixed him with a piercing gaze. “I know you are in love with Miss Davenport.”
Shock made him cough. “Excuse me?”
“I always suspected it after seeing you together.” She ran a slim finger along the feathered edge of her fan. “Half thetondoes, I imagine, but you never offered for her, and when my mother approached yours about a prospective match, you agreed.”
He had, more fool him. His mother had argued that duty demanded he wed and sire heirs before too much more time passed, and he had bowed to pressure and expectation. He, who scoffed at the notion of marrying for love—who had unknowingly loved Evelyn his entire life.
Ah irony, cruel mistress.
“I did not know then where my affections lay,” he said, and Lady Rosamund’s brows creased.
“You were unaware when your every action displayed it?”
“And you would be content to build a life with me under these circumstances?” He shook his head. “You deserve better than that. Yes, one day you would have been a duchess, but at what cost?”
She looked at the window, crusted with melted ice. “And so you are here to ask me to relinquish my claim on you?”
In reply, he took her hand and kissed it with as much grace as he could muster. “Regardless of your actions, I will not be proposing,” he said. “But given my attentions have been marked, I know this will prove… an item of gossip for a while. I’m sorry for that. If there’s anything I can do to ease the sting, let me know. Say you threw me over—that I was too old, too licentious, too scandalous for your liking. Say whatever would set your heart at peace.”
