The pertinent lines remained clear, even as he closed his eyes and sighed. The contract didn’t specify Walter’s name. It didn’t specify the fourteenth Viscount Harrow. It simply said that Lady Luella Tarlington would marry Viscount Harrow.
He’d have his solicitor look for loopholes, but he wasn’t confident the man would find any. Another line from the contract stood out: Lady Luella’s dowry—eighty thousand pounds.
It was an enormous sum. Combined with what John already had in his bank account, it would see the estates free from debt, the fields sown, the cottages repaired, and the houses staffed.
When Wilde had suggested marriage as a solution to John’s problems, John had balked at the thought of having to woo a wife. But here one was presented to him, with no need to search her out, and her dowry was more than he needed.
It was an amount that was almost unreasonable, which gave him pause. “Why so much?” he asked.
Lord Heywood’s lips thinned. “It’s a generous offer. Much more than you deserve.”
“Is she defective?” As soon as the words were spoken, he knew they were the wrong ones.
“Defective?” Luella’s voice cut through the air like metal wheels braking against a metal track. “Like you? P-p-poor st-st-stuttering id-diot. Yes, I’ve heard all about your deficiencies.”
John froze. His tongue locked up against the back of his teeth. The sound of the solicitortut-tutting felt like gunshots ripping through silence.
“Luella, shut up,” Heywood said, scowling. He turned back to John. “She’s not a virgin, and half thetonknows it, though no one has come right out and said it. Her tongue has run off every suitor that might have overlooked that point, except Harrow. The real Harrow, that is. That boy found something to like in her.”
That “something” was undoubtably the chit’s dowry, but her vicious nature had likely appealed to Walter as well. Like attracted like, after all. John looked at Luella. Her gloved hands gripped together so forcefully she was probably losing circulation. He could tell from the slight depression beneath her tightly pressed lips that she was biting the inside of them. Her expression was stone.
“I’ll think on it.” It was all he could say. He needed her dowry, but God, marriage to her…
The stare she gave him could have slaughtered a fully grown American buffalo. “Let’s be clear. It’s bad enough that I’m forced to marry Walter’s lesser brother, who is neither as handsome nor as witty. I won’t have people thinking that you aren’t ecstatic at your good fortune.”
His good fucking fortune, indeed. Damn Walter.
“You’ll call on me tomorrow morning,” she continued. “You’ll make it clear that you’re determined to earn my affections.” With a final sniff, she swished her skirts and stalked out of the room.
John turned to the two men still sitting in front of him. The lawyer’s eyes were wide, as though he himself could not quite believe her comments. Lord Heywood bore a look of half anger, half resignation. “The day my daughter becomes your problem, I’m going to open a bottle of the king’s scotch. I’ll see you soon, Harrow.”
He stood and followed his daughter out of the room. The lawyer nudged the contract on John’s desk before he followed.
John wanted to toss the papers in the fire. He wanted to call Newton, head to the docks, and board the first ship back to America. He wanted to crawl into a dark corner and hide.
But he couldn’t. Because when he agreed to return to England to take up the mantle of the viscount, he agreed to take responsibility for the welfare of all those who relied on him. That didn’t mean he couldn’t return to Boston. In fact, he planned to return as soon as humanly possible. He simply couldn’t do it until he’d sorted out the crisis Walter had left and installed some responsible, trustworthy stewards to run the place in his absence.
Perhaps sorting out the crisis meant marriage to a woman like Luella. But could he leave a wife as easily as he planned to leave his estates? Even one as awful as her? The dowry could be his salvation. It could see him home before the end of the year. But even though she was as caustic as stomach acid, abandoning her didn’t sit well. He didn’t think he could do it, which meant taking her to Boston with him.
If she was this wretched in London, just imagine what she’d be like when forced to endure the comparative savagery of America.
John stood and pushed the door open for Newton to enter. Then, he crossed to the lounge at the other end of the room, untying his cravat as he went. Perhaps if he closed his eyes now, he’d manage a few hours’ sleep.
He had just settled in when a shriek of outrage split the air. “You cannot possibly be considering marrying that witch.”
Chapter 4
Charlotte was incandescent with rage. How dare Luella speak to him in such a manner? How dare she try to manipulate yet another man into marriage after her failed attempt with Edward?
Charlotte stood peeking out from behind the open door that hid her as Luella stormed out, the skirts of her dress swirling like the violent maelstrom she was. Hot on her heels were Lord Heywood—a self-important jackass who Charlotte avoided—and a plain man in working trousers.
She waited until all three had turned the corner at the end of the corridor before she emerged.
“Grace, wait here,” she hissed, taking the heavy ceramic Dutch oven from her lady’s maid’s hands. With a deep breath, she entered John’s study. He was lying on the chaise longue, head resting on one arm, feet crossed casually on the other.
If she weren’t so angry, she might have paused. She might have stopped to revel in the way his long eyelashes rested against his tanned skin and how one hand lay on his chest—his long and beautiful fingers curled.
But she was too angry to experience anything more than a moment of appreciation. “You cannot possibly be considering marrying that witch.”
