The thought that this man may have demanded Frederica’s hand, rather than asking for it, curdled his gut.
“I thought I had just said, I am not that kind of man.” His voice deepened to a point that it was almost unrecognizable to his own ears. “You have choices in this world. If you do not wish to marry me then say so now, and you will never hear another word spoken from me on that subject.”
A small voice started praying in his head that she would say yes, for he knew deep down that it was the only way to protect both of their reputations. He also knew Dorothy would never forgive him if he went to her and told her that her friend had refused him.
“Very well.” Frederica nodded.
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“It is.”
“Good.” He nodded, turning to face the door. He found his top hat on a hook where the butler had left it, picked it up, and returned it to his head. He hadn’t truly expected her to say no, but now that he had his answer, that tightening in his gut was beginning to loosen. “Then I shall take my leave of you now.”
“Wait,” she called to him as he rested his hand on the door handle.
A sound came from behind them, further down the corridor. She spun around, evidently looking for whoever had made it. Without warning or prevarication, she reached for him and grabbed hold of his arm.
“What are you doing?”
“No arguing, just come in here.” She dragged him to the nearest open door then thrust him inside.
“For one so small, you have surprising strength in you.” He pretended to rub a sore spot on his arm as she released him.
“Oh, tush, I barely touched you.” She shut the door quietly behind her, clearly intending to keep this particular conversation as secret as possible. “Before we proceed, there is something I must say to you.”
He was distracted, looking around the room. It was their music room with a piano pressed into one corner, but what interested him greatly were the pictures on the walls. They were all silhouettes, presumably of the members of Frederica’s family, cut out of black paper and placed on white canvases.
Frederica’s parents were unmistakable as was the silhouette of her. What interested him most was that each canvas was signed with a singleF.
Did she make these?
It was something he had never known about her.
“Do you like art, Frederica?” he asked.
“I knew you weren’t listening.” She must have been speaking quietly, but he hadn’t noticed in his distraction. She abruptly clicked her fingers in front of his face, and he turned to look at her.
“What?” he said, waiting for her start again.
“I wished to say…” she paused, breathing heavily as if building her own courage. She stood taller, taking on a little of that bolder manner he had glimpsed the night before. “…I do not wish to be a burden to you either. If we are to marry for convenience, My Lord, then I would still wish you to be free with your life to do as you wish with it. Do not change it at all because you suddenly have a wife.”
Startled, Allan faced her fully, raising his eyebrows.
“Did you imagine I would?” Something in his deepened tone shocked her, for her lips opened and closed, but no sound escaped. Something riled in his gut.
Again, Frederica was pushing him away. Perhaps, once they were wed, she even intended to stay in the country seat whilst he was in London to have them not only in separate chambers but in separate houses.
His ego was hurt. He had hardly expected Frederica to fall to the ground and thank him for offering to marry her, but a little gratitude or the appearance of not being indifferent to him would have been nice.
He felt an urge to lash out, to make her feel this pain. It was childish, yet he acted on it regardless.
“May I remind you that I am a marquess.”
She jerked her head backward.
“Are you so arrogant that you need to remind me of your title now?”
“You seem to have forgotten. As a marquess, I can do what I like. I already have my freedoms, and I hardly need the permissions of my future bride to indulge in those freedoms.”
