“I thought you wanted my help?”
“I do—not for myself, but for my father.”
“Then keep that in mind whilst I ask you these questions.”
“I do not see the relevance.”
“They are relevant to me. That is all that matters.”
The pause stretched between them, and eventually Maeve said, “I believe the gap between our ages was due to my father’s work, which in turn resulted in him being away from my mother a great deal.”
“Not down to miscarriages or any stillborn children, as far as you are aware?”
Her eyes fell to the carpet, and she muttered, “No.”
This discussion seemed to have satisfied the viscount because he did not resume his questioning. Instead, he said, “That will do. The thing is, Miss Walsh, I am happy to help your father. I would be pleased to help him. But I need something in return.”
“I did consider this, and I can offer my services as a companion to your mother. I have been trained as a teacher, but I believe the skills I have would transfer easily enough for me to work as a companion to the dowager—”
“You misunderstand me. I do not want you for a lady’s companion.”
For a horrible moment, his dismissal lingered between them, and then a hideous thought occurred to her: What if he was making her an inappropriate offer? Surely not. Surely his taste was not for spinster red-haired teachers? Her belly flipped with a bundle of emotions at the idea, not all of them understandable.
“Then, my lord—” she started to say, before he cut her off completely.
“I want you for a wife.”
CHAPTER3
The young woman opposite Silverton was a stranger. He was pleased to see she did not resemble Mr. Walsh, his former colleague. Clearly, she had inherited her mother’s feminine looks. She had striking auburn hair that had been crammed rather hastily under a dull-looking bonnet, but the buoyant curls were doing their best to escape. Her face was not classically beautiful but still pleasing. Her features were sharp and well made, with hazel eyes that tilted at the corners. He could not see much of her figure in her gown, but there was no indication of it being unsightly, so he reasoned she would not be unpleasant to bed.
When Miss Walsh had entered his study, Silverton had been brooding on the matter of finding a wife. Of getting himself an heir. It had been a topic that had swirled around his brain in ever decreasing circles for the last two days, with no clear answer. He had not told anyone that he was dying or that he needed a wife urgently. He had been contemplating writing to every one of his single female acquaintances and asking if they would consider meeting him in two weeks’ time in London for a wedding. There were three problems with this—one, what if all of them turned up? That scenario threatened to resemble a farce. Two, what if no one did? Three, and probably worst of all the options, what if his plan got out, and he was the laughingstock of society?
Which was when Miss Walsh had entered his study—entered his life—with a quizzical brow and a demand. She was in need. She was young. Unmarried. And her father was in dire straits. It nagged at his conscious that he was taking advantage of her. But desperate times called for desperate measures. The question was, could he trust her?
“My lord,” she was on her feet, clearly confused. “I—I…” She struggled over her words. “I did not come here to be laughed at.”
“Good. I did not make a joke,” he said. “I do not believe I am very good at making light of something so serious.”
“Then I do not understand you.”
“No. But I have not explained myself very well.” His eyes went to her face. He wondered how much he could rely on her, racking his brain for what Walsh had mentioned of his daughter, and what could be brought back to his mind now. John’s main refrain on his daughters had been that they were good, smart girls, which wasn’t much use to Silverton. Was she worth the risk? The problem was, he did not have much time to find out.
There was something in this scenario of mutual need, which would give the impression of this proposal being the perfect solution to them both. It was not especially honourable or nice of him, but neither were qualities Silverton could afford to possess right now. “I wanted to reassure you that I am not jesting, nor being dishonourable. I would like to offer myself to you. As a prospective husband.”
There was a pause. A long one that settled uneasily in the room rather like a hornet in a garden party.
Miss Walsh’s expression was one of bemused amazement. Her mouth twitched as if she were considering laughing. Until her hazel eyes widened, and she looked rather like a startled animal. “You aren’t just… how much whisky have you had?”
“You will forgive me for not lowering myself to the floor on one knee. But believe me when I say I am sincere.”
“But why me?” Colour had flooded her face at his mentioning of a more traditional proposal, and she skittered away from him, moving across the study towards the window. Not realising it seemed that this put her in the position of being fenced in, between the armchairs and himself. She would be encased by him if he were to stand up and close the distance. “I assume this declaration is not motivated by a sudden overcoming of romantic sensibilities. Which is why I ask if it is a joke.”
“Ma’am—”
“Now, I am not one for silly novels, but it doesn’t mean I don’t know about the tricks played in them. On unsuspecting spinsters and the like.”
“My intentions are honest. And I am planning on applying for a special license. You may read the letter.” He pointed towards the desk where the half-written draft to the archbishop languished. Only partly written since he could not complete it without a woman’s name. “I will speak frankly—” he said only to be cut off.
