And then onward to London. How did he intend to put an end to the wager? Was it even possible? She remembered the desperation she’d seen on Flavion’s face when he’d attacked her. At the time, she’d thought he’d been overcome with wanting her. But now, upon hearing the staggering amount the winnings had grown to… So utterly ridiculous! Was there a man alive who would allow the opportunity to win such a windfall slip away so easily?
She touched her lips.
Lord Carlisle. Justin White.
Her betrothed.
He’d ordered her to stay put. He’d asked her to do something no one had ever done before. He expected her to leave matters up to him.
She shook her head in disbelief. He’d told her to wait. She was expected to do naught but look through fashion magazines, decide upon flowers and a menu. Where would they hold the wedding breakfast? Ought they to have a pre-wedding ball? She steeled herself to avoid trying to think of ways to put an end to the bet.
She needed to leave it up to him.
To a man.
Gah! These four days might prove to be the longest of her life.
Justin didn’t know very much about Rhoda’s father. In fact, he couldn’t recall ever crossing paths with the man in London or elsewhere. As he rode toward Bristol, the thought struck him that if the man had joined his wife and daughter in London to begin with, then perhaps this wager wouldn’t have gotten so out of hand.
A man ought to protect and defend his daughter. As Justin rode along, he pondered how little he knew about these devilish debutantes. One glaringly obvious fact, however, was that their fathers needed to further invest themselves in their daughters’ affairs.
No wonder they found it necessary to arrange their own and the lives of those around them. No one had ever done much to guide them in their own.
This thought brought to mind his own mother. Her own father had failed her, and then she’d lost her husband shortly after. She’d done what was necessary in order to survive.
A woman couldn’t sail the seas in search of treasure. She couldn’t invest, buy land, or learn a trade. Oh, yes, she could teach, or she could be a companion, but that left her at the mercy of others.
A woman had her family and friends, her wits, and her body. And even then, she didn’t have complete ownership of herself.
He remembered clearly the day he’d discovered how his mother provided food and shelter for the two of them. He’d been at school. Two rowdy, raucous boys had demanded Justin hand over his lunch. When Justin refused, they’d taunted him. They’d told him both their fathers had likely paid for it. They’d made crude remarks about his mother.
Justin had fought back, violently overcome by the need to defend her honor. And he’d paid dearly. He hadn’t been a weakling. He’d done his fair share of chores around their house, but without brothers, or a father, or any man really to test his metal on, he’d failed to learn even the most basic techniques of fighting.
He had not returned to the schoolroom that afternoon. With an injured foot and two black eyes, he’d practically crawled home.
And then taken another blow, not a physical one this time, but something even worse. Upon entering, he could still remember the shame he’d felt when he’d crept into his mother’s room and discovered Kent Crane’s father with his dear sweet mum.
On top ofhis dear sweet mum. Grateful his presence had gone unnoticed, he’d backed out of the room in mortification.
Justin hated that memory.
He’d wanted to lash out again but had been physically powerless to do so. He’d been powerless in all of it.
He’d wanted to scream at his mother and protect her at the same time, but he’d not been too young to notice the extra chickens in their yard later that night. He’d felt sick at heart, angry, trapped, and frustrated, but he’d also seen his mother for what she was.
A survivor.
He’d not liked it. He’d not been happy about it. But he’d understood.
Riding along the highway alone left him with far too much time to think.
Just a few weeks ago, he’d felt a similar sensation when he’d watched Rhoda fight off the blighter, the Earl of Kensington.
And then again, when she’d told him she was marrying Blakely.
He’d not liked it. He’d hated it, in fact. But he’d understood.
And although his vocation had taught him otherwise, that women needed to rely upon the men in their lives, Justin had respected his mother. He’d even respected Miss Mossant.
