“I take it that condition is satisfactory,” he said. “After all, it’s what’s expected of a husband. I merely wish to formalize that expectation.”
For what purpose?
Whitcombe glanced at Charles’s hands.
“I presume you question my motives,” he said. “It seems a small condition to make, given that you stand to benefit financially from it.”
He sipped his brandy and set the glass aside.
“It’s quite simple. I want there to be no possibility of an annulment. I’m no fool, Devereaux, and neither are you. We live in a world ruled by men where a man can behave how he likes because his title and sex protect him from censure. A woman, however, is not given such luxury. Her actions, whether through her fault or the fault of others, are scrutinized, ridiculed, and used to ruin her if Society deems her unworthy.” He placed his elbows on the desk and clasped his hands together. “All of which means that my sister has considerably more to lose, if this marriage fails, than you.”
Charles met the man’s gaze and caught a flicker of desperation behind the hard ducal stare.
Whitcombe was to be commended for wishing to protect the girl, but the vehemence with which he strove to shield her only served to confirm her guilt.
Nevertheless, ten thousand to be deposited in Charles’s account, with the prospect of another ten after rutting her, was not to be sniffed at.
Charles glanced at his valet, whose lips were curled into a smirk. John was thinking the same.
You’re a beast.
His conscience whispered in his ear, needling him with the image of the girl’s eyes, filled with fear. But, unlike other wives, she’d not have to suffer his attentions when they settled at Penham. He’d rut her and do his duty, then leave her alone to enjoy her jewels and gowns—or whatever young women indulged in when they had an annuity of their own.
“I take it the terms are acceptable?” Whitcombe said, lifting a quill pen from the desk and dipping it in an inkpot.
Charles nodded, took the pen, and scratched his name on the bottom.
“Good. I’ll have my solicitor make the arrangements. I’ve already spoken to the bishop.”
What bishop?Charles raised his eyebrows.
Whitcombe let out a huff. “You’re to be married in the chapel at Rosecombe as soon as possible. I’ve taken the liberty of securing a special license. While Sir Heath Moss has assured me of his silence, I’ve no wish to risk scandal breaking before my sister’s safely married. Nor do I wish to keep her confined in this house longer than necessary. I trust you understand.”
Charles signed,Your wish to protect her is your only redeeming feature. Perhaps you’re not a total bastard after all, in which case I’ll refrain from breaking every one of your fingers.
John’s eyes widened as he watched Charles’s hands.
Whitcombe’s mouth set in a firm line and his expression hardened. “Please tell me what your master said. I suspect it was not at all pleasant.”
Go on, John. Word for word.
The valet colored, then spoke. “My master has said he appreciates your wish to keep your sister behind closed doors, given her birth and the events of last night. He does not want her to disgrace herself and him any more than she has already.”
Charles glared at the valet.Fuck you, John.
“How dare…” Whitcombe began, but Charles raised his hand, then grasped the pen and scratched out a few words at the bottom of the contract.
That is not what I said. My man is protecting my interests.
“As I’m protecting my sister’s,” Whitcombe said, rising. “Believe me, Devereaux, I like this no more than you. But remember, if you want your full twenty thousand, you must refrain from such insults.”
Charles nodded, then offered his hand.
Whitcombe took it, then withdrew as if Charles’s skin burned him.
“You may go,” he said, “unless you wish for an audience with my sister?”
Charles shook his head.
