Chapter Twenty-Eight
Glynnis was confoundedby the appearance of her fictitious fiancé and even more so by his willingness to play the part for real.
“I didn’t go to your father’s home simply for the roast beef, Miss Talbot. I intended to ask for your hand when the time was right. It was the neighborly thing to do. However, you made it clear you wanted to experience a London Season and then another. If you fell in love, I was perfectly happy to step aside. But each year, you didn’t.”
He was wrong. She had fallen in love, deeply and irrevocably.
“I am not a passionate man, Miss Talbot. I am like our great yet ill king, a mild farmer, happy to have a wife who will be my companion and bear my children. I’m also not much for Town, but I will give you an allowance to go to London at regular intervals, as long as you don’t embarrass me.”
She wouldn’t be so rude as to gainsay him, but from what she knew, King George passionately loved his queen. In Glynnis’s brief conversation with Her Majesty, the queen mentioned her husband many times with pride, love, and sadness. Besides, Glynnis didn’t think a farmer any less able to be deeply in love than a shopkeeper, a nobleman, or royalty, for that matter.
That was all beside the point. She had never imagined such a plain-speaking, agreeable marriage arrangement as what Lord Aberavon offered. She would have freedomandan allowance.
And then there was Lord Payton, who had offered something similar but would have wanted her heart fully engaged.
Everything she had ever wanted in security and comfort were being offered by not one, but two men. She shook her head at her own stupidity. Instead of taking one of their offers, and gratefully, too, she simply couldn’t do it — she could not bind herself to a man for the rest of her life without loving him.
Either passion and a full heart, or no man at all!
“I’m sorry, my lord. It was all a mistake. Lord Hargrove was under the impression you and I were engaged, but I cannot marry you. As it turns, I have fallen in love.”
Lord Aberavon’s face took on a hound-dog expression. Then he shrugged. “No matter. I wasn’t engaged a half hour ago, and it seems I am not now, either.” He looked around. “My father asked me to pay my respects to Queen Charlotte and to the Prince Regent on his birthday, as he knew King George in better times. That is why I came all this way.”
Glynnis startled. “My lord, the Prince Regent might also be under the impression we are engaged.” She felt her cheeks warm. “I would ask you not to say anything that might discredit me or injure my reputation.”
He looked her up and down. “Are you certain you are in love? Perhaps it’s just indigestion. We can have a nice life in Swansea.”
“I am certain, but I thank you profusely for your offer. You have been most kind and gracious. Exactly as King George would have been, I’m sure.”
That seemed to lift his spirits. Nodding, he bowed over her hand before taking his leave.
Glynnis sat on the bench once more. The light-headed feeling of shock had dissipated, but a general melancholy settled over her instead. She had told not one but two menno, thank you, and had even confessed aloud her feelings of love, albeit to the wrong man
Perhaps she ought to tell James and see if it would make a difference.Would he believe her?And if he did, she didn’t know whether it would make a difference. While in Lord Payton’s company, as circumspectly as possible, she’d asked questions about his good friend.
James was a happy bachelor with a mistress of six months. Not that Lord Payton had outwardly declared the woman to be such, but she’d understood his meaning. Moreover, James had never been engaged, nor given any hint of having given his heart to any woman whom Lord Payton knew about.
When Glynnis wished to learn more than he would say, she’d returned to the lending library. London’s news arrived quickly and hung around for months in the form of a plethora of morning and evening papers, includingThe Sun,The Times,andThe Gazette, stacked on the shelves alongside French and English weekly journals, magazines, and popular periodicals.
In the society pages Glynnis perused, the gossip-mongers had spelled it out plainly — Lord Hargrove was a confirmed rake!
Besides his mistress, who was named in the papers since he occasionally took her out in public, he had been known to dally with young ladies of the nobility or even a young, joyful widow.
There had been the briefest mention of her own interaction with him. Nothing about an indiscretion, of course, as they hadn’t been caught, but he’d danced with her more than once, and so tongues had wagged.
What was plain to her was that James had no mind for marriage. And while it was obvious to her by his kisses — and more! — that he desired her, she had no intention of becoming his next mistress.
