Chapter 7
Ten minutes until four.
Leonie sat in the side room located off the receiving room, waiting, her least favorite task. This was a cozy room with painted wood paneling and upholstered furniture in contrast to the larger room’s formality. There was a solid double door between them. She chose to wait for Roman here rather than upstairs.
She wore a day dress of emerald-green cambric with a high-necked bodice trimmed in a lace ruffle. It was the most modest dress she had in her wardrobe. She’d chosen it because she wished to persuade Rochdale into saying yes to her proposal, but for therightreasons, not the wrong ones. She did not wish to tease him.
Still, she knew the color complemented her eyes and brought out the golden highlights in her hair, which she had styled high upon her head. She’d spent hours over her toilette. For this meeting, every detail had to be perfect.
Leonie picked up the glass of brandy she had been sipping and glanced again at the clock on the mantel over the small hearth. Usually, she didn’t use a glass. She had no desire to leave any evidence of her occasional nips, but today was different. For what she planned to do, she needed fortification and a “nip” wouldn’t be enough.
On that thought, Leonie drained the glass and set it on the side table. The swiftness of her swallow burned her throat, but the feeling was fleeting. It was replaced with the blessed awareness and confidence that she had come to trust.
Leonie had not told anyone of her planned appointment with Roman. Her mother had wanted her to accompany her to a dress fitting but Leonie had cried off, saying she had a headache. Her father usually spent the afternoon at his club, so she was alone.
During her first Season, Leonie’s afternoons after an important rout had been filled with calls from gentleman admirers. Flowers had come through her door in wagonloads. It was telling that after the Marquis of Devon’s ball, no one had called, not even to leave a card. No flowers graced the tables in the receiving room—which was what she’d wanted, no? Hadn’t she believed herself tired of all the courting and silliness?
Funny, but she’d never stopped to think of those young women who made their debut and received little interest. Now she knew how peaceful their lives were. Of course, they probably didn’t think of it that way.
Leonie wondered how Willa and Cassandra were faring? Had the Duke of Camberly called? That would be four points in the game.
Or was he visiting Lady Bettina? Cassandra would be eaten up with envy if he did. It would also mean, to Leonie’s thinking, that Camberly was not “the one,” if such a paragon existed—
A firm knock on the front door echoed in through the house just as the mantel clock chimed four.
Leonie rose to her feet. She suddenly didn’t know what to do with her hands. She pressed them against her skirts.
She heard the door open and Yarrow’s deep voice. She couldn’t hear what was being said or the answer. She listened for footsteps and could imagine Yarrow leading Roman the few steps to the receiving room. She could see him offer the gentleman a seat before he sent a footman to search out his young mistress. She knew that Yarrow, being the guardian he was, would go in search of Mrs. Denbright, the housekeeper, to serve as chaperone since Leonie’s parents were not present. In fact, she had counted upon his doing so.
She waited for footsteps to go up the stairs. She opened and closed her hands and walked to the double doors, throwing them open.
Roman stood looking out the front window. He appeared every inch the Corinthian with his buff breeches, shining boots, and a midnight-blue coat that emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He was not a terrible choice for a husband. Certainly, there was something about him that attracted her, something that had made Arthur Paccard jealous.
At the sound of the doors opening, he’d turned, and did not seem surprised to see her. Amused gray eyes took in every detail of her appearance, including her well-covered bosom.
He approached, stopping a discreet three feet from her. He gave a short bow. “Hello, Miss Charnock.”
She didn’t waste time on niceties or offer her hand. If she did, she’d lose her courage.
“I need to speak to you alone and I don’t have much time before Yarrow or Mrs. Denbright join us. Were you serious about your marriage offer last night?”
He schooled the surprise from his eyes. “I was.”
“Then here are my terms.” She’d spent most of the day thinking how she wanted to phrase her demands, but words that had sounded confident in her bedroom now seemed a bit unwise in front of him. Still, with the careless defiance of the brandy, she forged on.
“I will accept your offer and you may have my dowry and eventually my inheritance, provided I am your wife in name only. And,” she hurried to add, “you will not set me aside but support me, in London, in the manner I wish to live.”
There, she’d gotten it all out.
She squared her shoulders, ready for his acceptance or rejection. She’d prepared herself for both.
Instead, there was silence, and then he said, “Name only? What exactly does that mean?”
His query annoyed her. “It means what I said. Now will you take my offer or leave it?”
“Have you been drinking spirits?”
That was not a response Leonie had anticipated. “Why would you ask such a thing?”
