I cannot tell them the whole truth… though perhaps they would find it amusing rather than strange.He considered his options, knowing that if anyone were to find last night’s situation entertaining, it would be the pair of them. Still, he did not want to begin his sudden betrothal by embarrassing his betrothed.
His mind drifted to the way Amelia’s hair had tumbled down in such glossy waves, the color of rich, dark honey, scented so powerfully that he could recall the aroma in an instant. As if it was still in his nose somehow, the memory clinging to his senses.
And those eyes. Like two glittering pools.In truth, he could not quite understand why such a woman had been forced to go to such extremes to barter for a marriage contract. Perhaps, her strangeness had made her undesirable; he did not know, but it certainly could not be anything to do with her beauty.
Caroline harrumphed, reminding him that he had not yet replied.
“The gentleman came to offer the hand of his sister,” he said, deciding on the plot that Amelia had tried her best to perform. “By chance, I had encountered the sister at last night’s ball and found her to be… exactly what I have been looking for.”
He hid a smirk as he recalled Amelia’s own description of herself: quiet, causes no trouble, and knows how to behave. It was all the funnier, considering the circumstances—all of her actions the previous night a contradiction to her rather bland ‘merits.’
“As such, I have accepted,” he concluded, raising his cup as if to toast the occasion.
But the response was not quite as celebratory as he might have hoped, Rebecca unleashing a horrified gasp, while Caroline stared at him like he had taken leave of his senses. It confused him temporarily, for he had made no secret of his purpose in coming to London after two years’ absence—seven, if he included the years he had fought for his country.
“Brother, no!” Rebecca cried, shaking her head vehemently. “You cannot just agree to marry the first lady who is thrown at you. I realize I know little of society, but I hear that the mothers are extraordinarily crafty—what if the lady in question is… thirty? What if you do not like her? What if she is rude or spoiled or… um… does not like the countryside?”
Lionel took a measured breath. “As I said, I happened to encounter the lady in question last night. If she is thirty, then she is a sorceress. If she is rude or spoiled, I saw no indication of it. And if she does not like the countryside, she may reside here in London.” He offered his sister a smile. “Truly, I am content with the situation.”
Though I do not yet know what the situation might be.He had it on his urgent agenda to visit with the Duke of Lisbret just as soon as he finished his breakfast, to iron out the details and any hiccups that might become a problem.
“But… what about love, Brother?” Rebecca’s brow creased. “What about courtship? What about spending time with her, learning what you have in common, learning what she likes and dislikes? Have you even danced with her?”
“I have not,” he replied. “I do not need to dance with her to know that she will be a suitable bride. Indeed, marrying her meansfarless dancing, which I shall not argue with.”
He had not yet attempted to dance with his temperamental leg and his poor eyesight, and if nothing else, that was a very good reason to choose Amelia. He would not have to attend any moreballs if he did not want to, sending her as his envoy. He would never have to potentially embarrass himself on any dance floor at all. It was the perfect solution to several problems, in fact.
“You are a wealthy Earl,” Rebecca pressed. “You do not have to marry for convenience. I beg you, do not be so hasty. Your true love might be out there waiting, and you might never find her because you have settled for this unknown lady.”
Lionel set down his cup. “Love is not for the likes of me, dearest Rebecca. Love is for the likes of you—thatis what being wealthy is for, to ensure that you marry whomever you please. It is for the security of both of you. Meanwhile, this marriage will be security enough for me.”
“In what respect?” Caroline finally spoke up, curiosity shining in her keen gaze.
“A gentleman of business will never be taken as seriously if he does not have a wife. Other gentlemen do not trust it, and do not trust such men in their homes. That is why I must marry, and how I shall be secure,” he replied, though that was only part of the story.
Judging by the faint shadow of sorrow that passed across Caroline’s face, she knew it too. In many ways, she knew the truth more keenly than anyone. And perhaps that was why she did not challenge Lionel’s decision but picked up her paper and returned to her reading.
“Bring her to the house before you wed her, so we can all stare at her like she is a circus curio, make her terribly uncomfortable, and drink obscene amounts of tea in silence until the awkwardness abates,” was all she said, from behind the slightly trembling sheets. In the thickness of her voice, Lionel knew she was trying to hold back her sadness.
For there was a curse on the Barnet men, and though Rebecca was still too young and naïve to think of it as anything but tragic coincidence, Lionel and Caroline knew better: he was not likely to be an exception.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Will you desist!” Amelia’s father, Francis Thorne, the Duke of Lisbret, snapped.
Amelia jumped in fright, nearly dropping the needle she had been shakily threading through her embroidery hoop. She glanced at her father and dropped her gaze, uncertain of what she had done to displease him.
“Tapping your foot like that—it will not do, Amelia,” Francis muttered. “It is incredibly distracting.”
Distracting you from what, exactly?She would not have dared to say such a thing out loud, but her father had done nothing but stare at the window for the better part of an hour. Martin, at least, was pretending to read a book. She knew he was pretending because it was a history written in Greek, and he did not speak or read a word of Greek.
“I apologize, Father,” she said as meekly as she could, stifling a hiss as the needle pricked her finger.
“Did you justhissat me?” Francis demanded to know, leaning forward in his chair.
Amelia shook her head slowly. “No, Father. I hurt my finger.”
A bead of blood rose up, and before she could stop herself, she put her finger in her mouth. It was the quickest way to stem the bleeding, everyone knew that, but one would have thought she had just hitched up her skirts and started running barefoot through the streets, babbling like a madwoman.
