What was her uncle thinking, trying to coerce her into an unwanted match when she was in mourning? What did the bounder hold over her? Unless, perhaps she wasn’t as opposed to the match as she claimed.
Flynn rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease some of the tension yet snarled there. “You needn’t be embarrassed, nor should you apologize for your uncle.”
“I dare say you will never accept another invitation to tea again.”
Her lips quivered, though whether from amusement or dismay, he wasn’t sure.
He chuckled. “I suppose it would depend on who was in attendance.”
Dealt as severe a blow as he just now, Mrs. Thorne hadn’t once objected on her own behalf. Her concern had been for him. She possessed a generous, caring nature. Either that or she’d developed a consummate actress’s skill.
He studied her again. No, she wasn’t acting. The tightness around her mouth and chagrin in her eyes held no hint of deceit.
Flynn gestured toward the abandoned tea service. “I confess I’m not fond of the drink.”
His gaze lit on the mantle clock. Surely it was later than half past four.
“I prefer coffee myself. It’s absurd serving a hot beverage in this heat.” She fanned herself with her hand. “We’re already warm as fleas in fleece.”
Flynn laughed. What a delightful wit.
“Do let me see you to the door.” She motioned to the entrance and drifted in that direction.
“A moment, Mrs. Thorne, if you please.”
She sent him a questioning glance. “Of course, my lord.”
Though tall and not a diamond of the first water by Polite Society’s standards, she was indisputably a treasure.
He canted his head and considered her.
Dewy pink-tinted lips, petal soft skin, and golden hair with fiery highlights, combined with those arresting green eyes, she was more of a prize flower than a jewel. Yes, an exquisite bloom.
Hadn’t her uncle called her Angelina-Rose?
A rose. Perfect.
Quick-witted, gracious, and possessed of a compassionate nature, she would make an acceptable wife. Perhaps not his first choice, but as Waterford gloated, Flynn didn’t have many alternatives.
Actually, none at present.
He’d come to Wingfield Court anticipating an introduction to a long-toothed harridan, ages past her prime. Instead, he’d been presented Mrs. Thorne. A future with her wouldn’t be objectionable. Given time, it might develop into a companionable arrangement.
Prior to meeting Lydia, Flynn had never contemplated marrying for love, thus an arranged match wasn’t abhorrent to him. Being forced into one by Waterford was repugnant as maggots on a corpse, however. Of greater concern was Mrs. Thorne’s role in this scheme.
Innocent pawn or devious siren?
Lydia’s smiling face edged to the forefront of Flynn’s mind. He doggedly shoved the vision aside, finding it easier to do than he expected.
He had responsibilities. Duties. Others’ entire existences depended on him. Their well-being must take precedence over the desires of his heart.
As things stood, he didn’t have the means to provide for his family. If he didn’t agree to marry Mrs. Thorne, he might have a week, two at most, before Waterford demanded his winnings.
“Lord Bretheridge?” Mrs. Thorne’s slightly husky voice interrupted his musings. “You wished to say something?”
“Would you mind terribly if we moved farther away from the entrance?” He darted a glance toward the drawing room’s open door and lowered his voice. “I’ve no wish for eavesdropping servants, or anyone else, to be a party to our conversation.”
She scrutinized the doorway. Did she worry about an interruption or her reputation? Her demeanor hesitant, she consented. “Near the terrace windows would suffice, I suppose.”
“Thank you.” He forced his lips to tilt reassuringly.
Once they crossed the room, he faced her. “I think it only honorable to tell you, your uncle called on me this morning.”
Other than the slight raising of her finely arched brows, she didn’t respond.
Ah, so she wasn’t the sort who pried or jumped to conclusions. He rather liked that. Unless, of course, his revelation came as no surprise. The notion didn’t sit well at all. That meant she was a fraud, as much a charlatan as Waterford.
More than one woman of his acquaintance concealed a treacherous heart behind her beauty. Those women used their allure to manipulate and deceive.
He searched Mrs. Thorne’s eyes, peering beyond the composure and leeriness lurking there.
She met his gaze unflinchingly.
“He told me he wanted us to marry.”
An edict better described the duke’s request, but she needn’t know that.
Mrs. Thorne gasped and backed away. “Pardon?”
Confusion, rapidly followed by alarm flitted across her face. She threw a panic-filled glance to the entry. “You conspired with him, and then pretended ignorance when Felicia mentioned what she overheard?”
His gut coiled at the patent betrayal in her voice. The fear in her eyes pierced him as sharply as a blade. Why did he feel guilty? It wasn’t as if he’d plotted with Waterford.
Had she?
“No, not at all. His suggestion staggered me too.” Flynn shoved a hand through his hair.
She frowned and folded her arms. “I think you had better start at the beginning. You’re not making sense.”
At least she’d allow him to speak his peace instead of flouncing from the room in a fit of temper.
“Yes, perhaps I should. Let’s have a seat, shall we?” He pointed to wine-colored wingback chairs arranged before the west-facing mullioned windows.
The manor cast elongated shadows the length of the terrace at the rear of the house and wrapped it in welcome coolness. Lilac bushes framed either side of the window, their blossoms now only a memory.
Sinking gracefully onto the cushions, Mrs. Thorne adjusted her crisp skirts. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and settled her gaze on him, calm wariness in its depths. Nevertheless, a strained pinch remained about her lips.
Flynn sat opposite her.
Where to start? With the worst.
Still uncomfortable with the signet ring on his little finger, he twisted the band and took in a fortifying breath. “My father died in May. He . . . he took his own life—”
“Lord, no!” Mrs. Thorne clasped a hand to her mouth. Moisture edged the rims of her eyes. She blinked, obviously struggling against tears. “I’m so sorry.”
“As am I.”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You and only a handful of others are aware of the truth, and I beg you, please keep my confidence. The knowledge would cause immeasurable grief to the women of my family.”
“I shan’t breathe a word.” She wiped a tear leaking from the corner of one eye. “I promise.”
Flynn gripped the chair’s arms and struggled to control the grief and rage suffusing him. The emptiness gnawing at him every waking moment and haunting his restless dreams squeezed the air from his lungs.
He examined the scenery beyond the window, unable to bear the desolation simmering in her beautiful eyes. “Plied with drink, he gamed away everything he owned. Outside of entailed properties, nothing remains.”
“How utterly awful,” Mrs. Thorne whispered.
“Your uncle won the wager.” Flynn kept his voice deliberately devoid of emotion. He’d no idea what the nature of her relationship was with Waterford.
“I, I . . .”
Her soft weeping drew Flynn’s attention indoors.
She swiped at the tears covering her cheeks.
He withdrew his handkerchief from his pocket. “Here.”
Giving him a grateful nod, she took the linen and dabbed at her tears. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m horrified and ashamed, and remorseful beyond words.”
Her sorrow seemed genuine.
“It’s no fault of yours.”
“True, but we carry the sins of our families, don’t we?” She plucked at the fine material of her overskirt.
“Please explain how these atrocious events led Uncle to suggest we marry. I’m afraid I don’t see the connection. I’d think he would steer far clear of you after what he’s done.”
“He offered to cancel the entire debt if I took you to wife.” Flynn relaxed farther into the chair. Was she also a puppet in this game Waterford played? Or, did she participate willingly?
“Oh.”
Oh?
Flynn just revealed her uncle’s plot to pressure him into marrying her. Surely she could muster a stronger response than that.
Mrs. Thorne stared at the carpet, seemingly obsessed with the floral pattern. Or perhaps her slippered foot fascinated her. She kept brushing the toe back and forth on the floor.
“Why is that, do you think?” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.
She raised her tormented gaze to his. “I cannot marry you.”
“Why?”
A startled expression whisked across her face.
The question surprised him as well.
She stared at him, her eyes huge and round.
And guilty?
Interesting.
His title alone made him a prime catch on the Marriage Mart. It wasn’t as if there were an abundant number of marquises searching for eligible women to take to wife. If Waterford cancelled the vowel, Father’s holdings and monies would be restored. That, combined with Flynn’s personal wealth, gave him very deep pockets.
If he accepted the duke’s proposal, he’d be considered a brilliant match once more. Unfortunately, Flynn would have one choice for a bride.
Her.
A fact perhaps, she knew well.
Mrs. Thorne regained her composure. Not quite meeting his eyes, she fidgeted with her wedding band. “Surely you’re not serious? There must be dozens of women more suitable for you to take to wife than me.”
He remained silent, noting her nervousness in the pulse fluttering at the base of her slender throat.
She tucked a loose curl behind her ear. “Besides, we have just met and know nothing about one another.”
“I cannot argue the truth of that.” He idly rubbed the velvety arm of the chair.
Mayhap her marriage hadn’t been a love match, and she was distrustful of wedding again. On the other hand, perhaps it had been, and still broken-hearted, she needed more time to mourn.
So, why Waterford’s push for an immediate union?
Flynn scanned her left hand. A rather garish ruby and diamond ring encircled her third finger. “You were widowed quite recently?”
“Er, yes, though I was married for a very short time.” Anger tinged her strangely constricted voice. “However, as you know, when one loses a spouse or a parent, a lengthy period of mourning must be observed.”
Flynn stretched his legs before him. God’s teeth, he was weary. The emotional stress of the past weeks had taken a toll on him physically. He’d risen before dawn every day since Father’s death—the few nights he sought sleep at all.
His head pounded from lack of slumber, too much sun, and now this conundrum. He felt half-foxed, as if he fished his thoughts from a deep, murky pool.
He pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Typically, yes. Your uncle is aware we’re both in the early months of our mourning period, yet he insists we marry. And soon. I’m given to wonder why a man who strictly adheres to social conformity would toss off mourning protocol.”
She didn’t respond, only wadded his handkerchief into a tighter ball. His laundress would never get the wrinkles out.
“It would be to my advantage to wed you.” Flynn tapped the fingers of one hand on his thigh. “If I refuse to make good on Father’s wager, my honor wouldn’t be worth the muck in a pigsty. It would spell social ruination for me and everyone I hold dear.”
He crossed an ankle over a knee. “However, should the gaming debt be cancelled, I’d have the means to care for my family—”
“Excuse me.” Mrs. Thorne’s expression tightened with concern. “You have family other than your mother?”
“I have a sister, Francesca—we call her Franny—who’s confined to an invalid chair, the result of a riding accident many years ago. My aging grandmother resides at Lambridge Manse, and soon my aunt will as well.”
The corners of his mouth tilted slightly, and he waved his hand. “I’m surrounded by women. They’re quite wonderful. I think you’d like them.”
“It would be a pleasure to meet them someday,” she replied politely.
“As I mentioned earlier, my mother’s convalescing from apoplexy.” Flynn fought a wave of ire.
He never imagined he’d be in this position, dependent on the benevolence of a man he loathed in order to care for his loved ones. It went against everything in him. The blow to his pride stung sharp as a rapier’s tip.
Mother’s recovery and her treatments added more reasons why speedy nuptials benefited him. Yet, what did Mrs. Thorne have to gain, if anything, from wedding him? Did she have family members with some sort of a need as well, and marrying a wealthy, titled lord would enable her to help them?
The marquisship alone is incentive enough for many position-hungry women.
“Have you family other than the Waterfords, Mrs. Thorne?”
“Yes, my mother and two younger sisters, Patience and Prudence. They’re twins also. Mama is Aunt Camille’s twin.” She settled further into the cushion, as if she sought the protection of the chair’s high back and sides.
He arched an eyebrow. “Twins run in your family? How extraordinary.”
An expression of utter devastation ravaged Mrs. Thorne’s face for a fraction of a moment before she recovered. She gave a stiff nod. “Every generation for as far back as anyone can recall there has been at least one pair.”
Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she rested her head against the chair. Ashen as cream, she seemed done in.
“Mrs. Thorne?”
Her eyes inched open. She stared at him silently, despair shadowing her face.
What haunted her? What secrets did she hide?
Now wasn’t the time to press for answers. He made a swift decision. “May I call upon you tomorrow?”
“I don’t think that would be wise, my lord.” Her attention dropped to her hands entwined atop her lap.
“Wise?” Flynn rubbed his jaw. He needed a shave. “I suspect you’re in need of assistance as much as I am.”
This curious need to reassure, and yes, to comfort her, though he didn’t, couldn’t trust her, intrigued him. She was kin to Waterford, after all. “I’d like to help you, if you’ll allow me.”
“You cannot.” Mrs. Thorne sighed and turned to the window, despondency obvious in her hunched shoulders. “No one can. My situation is impossible.”
He persisted. “Surely, your circumstances are not as hopeless as that?”
Unless . . . Was she ill? Dying? Did she have some ghastly sickness, mayhap cancer? Why marry her off? It didn’t make sense. True, she was drawn and pale, and quite slender, but she didn’t appear deathly ill.
“Are you unwell?” Ye gods. Couldn’t he control his tongue?
He tried again. “Are you declining to enter a union with me because you’re sickly? Ailing?”
Confound it.
Flynn’s tongue formed the questions of its own accord, his sleep-deprived brain plainly too sluggish to stop the unruly appendage. He bit down.
Hard.
No more questions.
Mrs. Thorne threw him an incredulous glare. She vaulted from her seat, her beautiful eyes flashing green fire. “First, my lord, I don’t recall hearing a proposal from you.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 11
