CHAPTER 1
Desperate Measure
“You cannot possibly be serious,” Morgan said with a chuckle.
Gerald looked at the Marquees of Whitemore and his best friend as the whiskey sloshed inside the precious glass, the amber light catching the light of the fireplace. Gerald drank slowly, sitting on the armchair in his study. Morgan’s face dropped immediately when faced with Gerald’s stony expression.
“Let me rephrase that without the chuckle so there is no confusion,” Morgan repeated. “And perhaps more formal. Your Grace, Duke of Albury, there is no way you are serious.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Gerald said, in his low, gravelly voice that made people keep one step away from him at all times.
“Because,” Morgan protested, “this, let’s be generous and call it a document instead of a joke, is talking about living, breathing human beings as part of some transaction!”
“Everything is a transaction.”
“Not this!”
“It is a contract.”
“It is a joke between two obviously heavily intoxicated men!”
“Can you stop shouting?”
“I don’t know,” Morgan shook his head. “Could you try basic human emotions?”
“I am trying basic human logic.”
“Logic? Are we bringing logic into this?” Morgan laughed. “Because this,” he pointed at the contract on the table, “is the very definition of illogical.”
“It is a contract between my father and the Viscount of Lambourne that clearly states that I can marry any of the Viscount’s daughters. I fail to see the problem.”
“You fail to see-”
Morgan ran his fingers through his hair and went for the whiskey decanter to pour some for himself. The room was filled with a heavy silence, interrupted only by the crackling of the fire. Morgan downed the whiskey in one gulp, feeling the burn.
“Gerald,” he said seriously. “You cannot invoke this to get married.”
“I can and I will.”
“Gerald, this was clearly a jest between your father and the Viscount.”
“If you knew my father,” Gerald said with an icy voice, “you would know he was not one to make jokes.”
Gerald got up from the armchair, and suddenly the room seemed to dwarf. He was a tall man with a build that set him apart from the rest of the ton, looking more like a northern warrior of the old, rather than a refined gentleman.
“Even so,” Morgan tried, “this is clearly not legally binding.”
“It is a contract of honor between two gentlemen.”
“A person is not cattle nor land to be given away at their master’s will.”
“I will merely ask the Viscount to honor his word.”
“You mean you will terrorize the poor man into giving you one of his daughters?”
Gerald looked at his best friend over his shoulder, his eyes cold and calculating. Morgan sighed and shook his head, drinking more of his whiskey.
“What I really want to know,” Morgan said, “is why would you go to such lengths to secure a wife by invoking a doubtful contract when you could, I don’t know, try the old-fashioned way?”
