Victor set the oranges down before passing her his hat and gloves.
Expression shuttered, she nodded as she set them on the entry table.
“Please have a seat, and I’ll let Papa know you’re here.”
Rarely had Victor been inside the parsonage, even when he and James had spent a great deal of time together as youths. It remained much the same as he remembered.
Uncustomary nerves caused his palms to sweat and his stomach to clench.
He wouldn’t have believed asking for a woman’s hand would unsettle him this much. Wasn’t that what he’d intended to do anyway? The only difference was, he was doing so before the ball rather than after.
Yes, but Thea wasn’t just any woman, and the outcome of his conversation with Reverend Brentwood mattered far more than it ought to. As much for Victor as Thea.
“Sir? Papa will see you in his study.” Jessica’s countenance revealed nothing. “I’ll let Thea know you are here as well.”
“Thank you.”
Victor followed her down the parish’s time-worn corridor. If memory served, the building was nearly two hundred years old. Everywhere he glanced, evidence of decades of wear met his perusal.
Jessica stopped outside a slightly off kilter open door.
“Papa, the Duke of Sutcliffe.”
Once inside the smallish, rather stuffy room, Victor took it upon himself to close the door.
“Thank you for seeing me without prior notice.”
Mr. Brentwood cut an unreadable look at the closed door before waving his hand to one of two cracked leather chairs angled before his desk. Elbows resting atop the ink-stained surface, the rector cupped one hand over the other.
Was it Victor’s imagination, or was Mr. Brentwood’s calm demeanor meant to conceal the edginess his shifting gaze, taut jaw, and stiff shoulders couldn’t hide?
Through the window behind the reverend, Victor glimpsed Jessica speaking to Thea. Both women turned toward the house, and even from where he sat, Victor could see the dark circles beneath Thea’s red-rimmed eyes.
Shoulders squared, she held her head high, brave and unflinching.
Such admiration welled within his chest, he couldn’t breathe for a moment.
By God, he’d save her from the fate her father planned for her, even if he had to abduct her.
Victor sank onto the chair, and the old leather crackled in protest.
“What can I do for you, Your Grace?” Mr. Brentwood’s voice held the same chill his gaze did.
Might as well get straight to it.
Taking a bracing breath, Victor tore his glance from the vision of loveliness staring at the parsonage.
“I’m here to ask for Miss Theadosia’s hand in marriage. I have a special license and would like the ceremony to take place immediately.”
The rector acted neither surprised nor shocked. Instead he leaned back in his equally worn chair and pursed his lips.
“A special license? With the bride’s name blank? How did you manage that?”
Definite censure there, though he must know a greased palm often made impossible things possible.
Victor scratched his neck as he nodded.
“Yes. I must wed before the sixteenth of August, and I wasn’t certain how long it would take me to find a bride. In the event there wasn’t enough time to have the banns read, I had a special license prepared, just in case. Now I’d like to use it to join with Miss Brentwood in marriage.”
“Then I regret to tell you that you’ve come in vain.” Mr. Brentwood repeatedly rubbed his fingers across his thumb, definitely not as collected as he would have Victor believe. “I’ve promised her to Mr. Leadford, and my . . . um . . . honor requires I keep my word.”
His honor or something else?
“With all due respect, Mr. Brentwood, I’m offering Theadosia multiple titles, a life of comfort and privilege, and the means to assist her family. I am also prepared to bestow a five-thousand-pound dowry and a house in Bath upon Miss Jessica.”
A noise echoed outside the door, and Victor angled his ear toward the panel.
Was someone listening at the keyhole?
After a moment, the reverend drew his gaze from the door. Not a doubt he’d heard the commotion as well.
“I appreciate your generosity, but Jessica, like Theadosia, will marry a man of the cloth, and therefore, has no need for a large dowry.”
Moisture beaded Mr. Brentwood’s upper lip, and he wouldn’t meet Victor’s eyes as he switched from fidgeting with his fingers to brushing his thumb against the pages of the open Bible he must’ve been reading when Victor interrupted.
Was this only about his daughters marrying clergymen?
Then why the uneasiness?
Victor rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and hooked an ankle over his knee.
He would poke the lion and see what he stirred.
“I’ll also pay for a complete upgrade and refurbishing of the parsonage, Church, and grounds.”
Extreme perhaps, but since its inception, the duchy had supported the church. There’d been no major improvements in decades, and in truth, a renovation was past due.
That offer gave the reverend pause.
An enthusiastic sparkle entered his eyes as he swept a swift glance about the fusty office and then the Church, visible through tall, narrow windows. He drew in a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his temple, his expression contemplative.
Only a self-centered cull would deny his family and parishioners what Victor proposed.
Only a selfish cull bartered for a bride as if she were a piece of property sold to the highest bidder.
True, but this was for Thea’s own good.
Releasing a resigned sigh, his shoulders slumping the merest bit, Reverend Brentwood shook his head once. A guarded look returned to his squarish features.
“Again, I must refuse your magnanimous offer, Your Grace.”
Of its own accord, one of Victor’s brows flew high on his forehead.
Was the man dicked in the nob?
It was one thing to be zealous about one’s beliefs—that, Victor could respect and even admire—but it was another entirely to force a daughter to marry a man she clearly loathed. Especially when the match would not improve her position or benefit anyone except the reprobate marrying her.
“You would deny your daughters the opportunity to improve their stations?”
The words had no sooner left his mouth than Victor realized how arrogant they sounded and that he’d made a grave mistake.
“What I mean is—”
Mr. Brentwood slammed his hand down, rattling the ink pot, and shot straight upward. Bracing his hands upon the desk, he glowered down at Victor, his contempt palpable.
“I know precisely what you meant. That a mere member of the clergy, a humble man, a poor man, is inferior to your blue-blooded peerage and heavy purse. You’ve wasted your time and mine, sir. Theadosia will marry Mr. Leadford as soon as the banns are read.”
Victor laced his fingers and considered the cleric.
“She doesn’t love him, and in fact, is afraid of him. Terrified, I’d say.”
That truth had been as glaringly apparent as the god-awful blemish on Leadford’s chin last night.
“And do you profess love for her, Your Grace?”
A sneer curled the reverend’s upper lip as he regarded Victor with the revulsion he might a pimp siskin.
“Perhaps not love—yet—but I have immense regard for her and want to provide for her and protect her.”
“And you think Leadford does not? He, at least, professes affection.”
“Leadford might be a man of the cloth,” Victor said, “but he is not the more honorable between us, as I believe you are already aware.”
“Honor?” Casting his mocking gaze heavenward, Mr. Brentwood choked on a scoff.
“God above, he speaks of honor.
“Even in Colchester, Duke, your sinful exploits are known. You’re a womani
zer and a drunkard. Did you really think I didn’t see the whisky bottle Theadosia tried to hide? You dared to blaspheme holy ground with the devil’s drink, and persuaded her to aid you in your irreverence.”
And yet, the good reverend had kept his silence these past days.
Why?
Because Victor was paying for the new organ and choir robes. That said much about the man of God’s character and his priorities.
The nostrils of Brentwood’s wide nose flared, revealing an abundance of unattractive hair. “I also know you kissed her. Treated my Theadosia like a common strumpet.”
Another muffled bump echoed through the study door.
Whoever eavesdropped had ceased being covert.
“The Nabity sisters told me so the other day.” The reverend shook his head and slammed his fist atop his open Bible, crinkling the page. “I vow, I shan’t have another daughter sullied by a handsome face.”
Victor refused to discuss the kiss and have it reduced to a tawdry episode.
It had been a taste of pure heaven, and despite the impropriety, he didn’t regret it. Theadosia had enjoyed it too, and he clamped his jaw to refrain from telling the rector to bugger himself for daring to use Thea’s name and strumpet in the same sentence.
Victor neither frequented brothels nor dallied with harlots. The risk of disease was too great. Besides, now he had a killer disease in his bloodline to fret about.
“All the more reason Theadosia and I should wed at once to prevent any tainting of her reputation—as well as yours and the parish’s.” That latter might be a trifle overdone, but he wasn’t leaving anything to chance.
Cutting his hand sharply through the air, Brentwood shook his head in disdain. “She’s Miss Brentwood to you, and she’s not one of your whores to be tossed aside when you grow bored with her. I don’t doubt for a moment you’d resume your lascivious lifestyle within weeks of marrying her.”
Damnation. That was exactly what Victor had planned to do, but that was before he’d decided to make Thea his wife.
“Your accusations and concerns are just. I’ve not lived a monk’s life, but I give you my word upon my father’s grave and the dukedom, that I would be faithful to her. I hold Theadosia in the highest esteem and would never deliberately cause her sorrow.”
But do I love her?
How could he so soon?
For certain, he felt something compelling, and it wasn’t just lust. He was quite familiar with that carnal urge. But was it love?
It mattered naught.
He’d do what he must to keep her safe from Leadford. And if, after they’d married, she wanted a divorce, he’d grant her one.
If she’d have him and agreed to, Victor would elope with her today. They could be across the border and wed within hours.
God, to see Leadford’s face when they returned. Victor could savor that satisfaction for a great while.
“I cannot believe you, as a loving father, would force Thea to wed against her will.” He wasn’t ready to toss in his cards just yet. If Brentwood insisted on this ridiculousness, he’d do so knowing others were well aware of what he was making Thea to do.
“It’s no concern of yours.” Face a mottled red, Mr. Brentwood ran a finger between his cravat and neck, then wiped his brow and upper lip with his handkerchief. Did he always sweat buckets or only when under fire?
“Now I shall bid you good day,” Brentwood said, scarcely this side of civil. “I have a sermon to finish preparing.”
Victor rose and after pulling his jacket into place, cocked his head.
The reverend fidgeted with his Bible, looking everywhere but at him.
“Doesn’t your honor and paternal affection demand you consider your daughter’s happiness? Would you subject her to a lifetime of misery? Surely you know, or at least suspect, what type of wretch Leadford is. He’ll abuse her for certain. Can you live with that knowledge?”
Jaw slack, Brentwood paled to a ghastly shade before summoning his bluster once more.
“Do not presume to impugn my integrity. I know what is best for my daughter. You are no longer welcome in this house, and I forbid you to see or speak to Theadosia. I cannot in good conscience ban you from attending church services, lest your immortal soul suffer, but you shall not approach her.”
Something suspicious was going on here. The reverend was far too overwrought. Far too defensive and irrational. Like a man concealing a dark secret. Something that might ruin him and his way of life if it became known.
James might be just the person to prod around a bit in that area. Horse’s hooves had echoed in the drive a few moments ago. Hopefully it was James returning home, and before departing, Victor intended to have a word.
“I’ve known you to be a reasonable man my entire life, Reverend. Always fair and just, if a trifle hard and unyielding at times. This community and your parish respect you, as much for your dedication to them and your position as for your commitment to your family. The Reverend Brentwood I know would never force his daughter into a loveless marriage, much less with a man who gropes her whenever you aren’t looking.”
Mr. Brentwood’s head jerked up, and his gaze clashed with Victor’s. Within the clergyman’s gaze, anguish warred with indecision and . . . fear?
Did Leadford have something on him?
He must.
What the hell would cause Mr. Brentwood to sacrifice a daughter to a man of Leadford’s character?
Victor extended a hand, palm upward. “Mr. Brentwood, I can help you, but only if you tell me what is going on.”
Self-righteous outrage snuffed out the other conflicting emotions from the reverend’s countenance.
Pride would be the cleric’s downfall. He’d do anything to save face. Even subject Thea to a debaucher.
“Once more you cross the mark, Your Grace.” His hand unsteady, Mr. Brentwood pointed to the door. “Please leave before I forget I’m a man of God and lose my temper entirely. My daughter is none of your concern.”
We’ll see about that.
Victor strode to the exit. His earlier anxiety had dissipated, and he had one focus now.
Protect Theadosia at all costs.
Was whoever who’d been listening still outside?
Making a pretense of grasping the handle and wiggling it, he gave whoever it was time to flee. If he had to guess, he’d vow Miss Jessica couldn’t contain her curiosity. Hopefully, she’d repeat everything to Thea.
This wasn’t over.
No, indeed.
Never before had Victor’s ability to keenly read people been as important. It was what gave him such an advantage at cards and other gaming, and was one of the reasons he’d been able to amass his fortune.
In the past fifteen minutes he’d learned something interesting.
He opened the door, and after checking to be sure the corridor was empty, faced Mr. Brentwood.
“Leadford’s blackmailing you, isn’t he?”
Why had Victor sought an audience with Papa?
Fighting back stinging tears for the umpteenth time since last night, Theadosia marched through the Fielding’s apple and pear orchard, her basket rhythmically thumping against her hip as she trudged along. She refused to succumb to the moisture prickling behind her eyelids. She wasn’t a blasted watering pot.
When Jessica had rushed into the garden and told her Victor had called, asking to speak to their father, Theadosia’s heart had dared accelerate in hope. For what, she wasn’t certain, but Victor had seen her desperation last night.
He’d given the slightest nod when she’d mouthed, “Help me.”
It was much too brazen of her. She’d no right to ask it of him, but from the moment he’d re-entered her life, she’d trusted him more than any other person. Although they’d only spent a few days together, she believed he would aid her.
Then, first thing this morning, he appeared at the parsonage door. Surely that must mean he’d found a way out of her horrible dilemma.
She cou
ld not—would not—marry Mr. Leadford.
How could Papa expect such a thing?
If she refused, would he disown her as he had Althea?
Her situation wasn’t the same at all. Her sister had eloped with a man she adored, but Theadosia was being forced to marry a sod she loathed. Nonetheless, her father expected blind obedience from his daughters, especially after Althea’s betrayal.
He might very well chastise Mama for allowing Theadosia to leave the house on this errand. When she’d swooned last night—a first for her—he’d been livid that she’d humiliated him thusly. Oh, he hadn’t permitted the duke and duchess to see his ire, but the instant they’d settled into the carriage, he’d threatened to lock her in her room until the wedding.
Mama, angrier than Theadosia had ever seen her, had called him an unreasonable tyrant and presented him the back of her head. This morning, she still wasn’t speaking to him.
That was also a first.
Mama must’ve known Theadosia needed to escape the house, especially after she’d seen Victor sitting in Papa’s study. Her mother had defied Papa and sent Theadosia to deliver a cold meal to the Fieldings. Plump, cheerful, and obviously adored by her equally jolly and rotund husband, Mrs. Fielding had delivered her fifth child yesterday.
Theadosia loved children, especially babies, but she’d rather become a dried up, shriveled prune-of-a-spinster than allow Mr. Leadford to bed her.
A forceful shudder rippled down her spine at the disgusting notion, and she hunched deeper into her spencer.
She’d brought a shawl today as well, but in her haste to leave the parish, had forgotten her bonnet. This summer was proving to be one of the coolest she could ever remember. However, revulsion rather than the disagreeable weather caused the chill juddering her spine.
Drawing in a deep breath, she ordered her careening thoughts to order. Responding like a ninny wasn’t going to help the situation.
A plan. That was what she needed. A logical plan.
And she needed one speedily.
On the ride home last evening, her father had declared he intended to read the banns for the first time this Sunday. If Victor hadn’t persuaded him otherwise during his visit, that was.
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