His face settled into a somber expression. “I met someone last Season. She’s Scots. I thought to court her with the intention of asking for her hand.”
The knowledge stung.
Could she marry a man who loved someone else?
Lord Bretheridge wanted to marry her although she carried another’s child. And she’d thought she loved Charles before he brutally annihilated her affection.
“Do you love her?” Angelina’s tongue formed the words of their own accord.
“I found her fascinating and enchanting, yes. But, I don’t think I can claim to love her.”
The marquis directed his contemplation overhead. “Perhaps the true test of my affection lies in whether I’d be willing to sacrifice my family and honor for her.”
He veered a sideways glance toward Angelina before returning his attention to the cloudless sky. “And I can unequivocally say the answer to that is no. I imagine true love, if the sentiment actually exists, would tempt me to do so.”
Smoothing her skirts, Angelina made her decision. If he meant what he said, he’d agree to her terms. If not, well, she would be no worse off than she was now, except Uncle Ambrose would be more intolerable until she escaped his household.
“I’ll want a contract in advance, stating each of these conditions, including the monetary amount you’ll settle on me as well as the specific stipulations about an heir. I’ll require a house too, nothing elaborate, but adequate to raise my child in. And I’d like the child’s education paid for.”
Mortifying heat flooded her. She’d become calculating and mercenary, not so very different than a mistress listing her conditions. Her scruples lay in tatters. The knowledge rankled as well as mortified.
She took a bracing breath and avoided meeting Lord Bretheridge’s eyes. This was for her child. “I’ll concede to live with you for a year, after which time I’ll leave, and you agree to seek an annulment or divorce.”
“And if neither is attainable?” He studied her, his expression impossible to decipher.
Folding her hands, Angelina squeezed her fingers together until she couldn’t feel the tips. She must be fair. “If, after two years, you have been unsuccessful in obtaining either, I’ll acquiesce to your request to provide you with an heir.”
A wave of bile threatened to choke her. Negotiating for a child as if their offspring held no more value than a new landau or a team to put before it. Did she dare stipulate that any issue resulting from their joining would reside with her, and she’d permit his lordship visitations?
“Only one?” Humor crinkled the corners of his eyes. “No spare?”
Angelina lanced him with a glower. Nothing about this could be construed as amusing. “Yes. Only one.”
“I’ll expect you to keep your affections from becoming otherwise engaged during the entire duration.” His tone grated low and insistent.
She couldn’t mistake his meaning. She almost asked if he intended to impose the same restriction on himself. Understanding the nature of men, she needn’t bother. What was that old saying, Do as I say, not as I do?
She gave a stiff nod and managed to mutter, “Of course.”
As if I’d allow a suitor to sniff about my skirts.
Pondering what else might she need, she fiddled with the lace at her waist. Planning the details in such a rush, particularly when her traitorous mind kept returning to that business about an heir, proved most difficult.
She’d require a carriage. “I’d like a conveyance too, something simple, as well as a suitable team and furnishings for the house.”
“Is that all? Perhaps you should make a list. Don’t forget to include stipulations in the event you give birth to twins.”
Irritation reared its head, prepared to strike sharp and lethal. Teeth clenched, Angelina sucked in air until her lungs could hold no more, then exhaled the breath with deliberate control. She quelled her exasperation, willing the terse response on the tip of her tongue to subside.
The pinpricks of fear that assailed her at his mention of twins proved harder to dispel. Nonetheless, her emotions had been worthless guides to this point. Logic and reasoning made better rudders, even if somewhat difficult to cultivate given her vacillating moods of late.
Lord Bretheridge quirked a brow, a hint of cynicism in his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that, my lord. You’re benefiting greatly from this arrangement—for the sake of your family. Why shouldn’t I do the same for my child? The babe I carry is as innocent as the people in that house,” she pointed to the mansion, “whom you love dearly.”
Presenting her with his profile, he stared at the house. “There’s nothing I’d not do to keep my loved ones from suffering.”
A jay swooped to the ground a few feet from where they sat. Peering at them, it took a couple of cautious hops. His lordship shifted to face her once more. Releasing a raucous cry, the startled bird took to the air.
Angelina followed its swerving flight before meeting Lord Bretheridge’s gaze straight on. “You know, another argument wouldn’t have won me over. Your concern for your family made me decide in your favor.”
“And when you were about to swoon, your distress for the child you carry convinced me of your intrinsic goodness.” Something beguiling flickered deep in his eyes.
A flush of pleasure suffused her. She cleared her throat. Best to get right to it. “When did you want to wed? Are we to go through the farce of reading the banns when we’re both in mourning?”
“I think not. We could wed by special license.” Lord Bretheridge rubbed his chin contemplatively. “That would raise brows and questions too. Ones I’m sure you, as well as I, would prefer not to answer.”
He slapped his thighs. “I suggest we go to Scotland. It’s a long day’s journey from here. I have family I’d like to visit while we’re there as well.”
He had thought this through.
Weren’t divorces permissible in Scotland? Did one have to reside there to obtain one? For how long? Would Mama know? Angelina needed to pursue that notion at once.
Standing, she faced him, preferring to have her back to the house for this part of their conversation. No telling how closely Aunt Camille and the Dowager Marchioness watched.
“There is one more matter we need to discuss, my lord.”
Lord Bretheridge considered her, apparently not the least concerned. “And that is?”
“I don’t intend to consummate the marriage.”
His jaw dropped even as his dark brows ascended to his hairline.
Scorching heat swept her face at the expression of disbelief on his. Nonetheless, she forged on. “Not even after the baby is born, unless of course, an annulment or divorce cannot be obtained. I think it best if you send me to live somewhere else immediately after the wedding. No one can question—”
He raised his hand. “I understand the logic of your reasoning, but I’m afraid I cannot agree.”
She toyed with a curl. “Whyever not?”
“It would upset my mother, as well as Grandmamma and Franny. I won’t do anything to jeopardize Mother’s recovery.”
He rose and straightened his waistcoat and jacket before facing Angelina.
For a moment, she thought he would take her hands. Anticipation deluged her. She wanted him to.
Instead, he let his fall to his sides.
“Lina, you have not met her yet, but Mother’s the most amazing woman. Her illness, compounded by Father’s death, almost killed her. If I wed and send my bride away post-haste, she’ll know something’s afoot.” His voice rang with admiration and devotion.
The marquis’s well-formed lips curved at the corners.
“Mother’s not one to let things go. She wouldn’t rest until she uncovered the truth. If she ever learns Father was fo
xed to the gills and gambled away his very identity before shooting himself . . .”
He pulled at one cuff, murmuring softly, “I have no doubt it would destroy her.”
Angelina laid a hand on his arm. “I understand. Of course she mustn’t know. I only thought to ease some of the gossip. That vileness will swirl thick and ugly when I do leave, and might prove trying for them as well.”
“Let’s worry about that when the time comes, shall we?” Lord Bretheridge covered her hand with his much larger palm.
“How soon can you have our contract drawn up?” Without each detail in writing, Angelina refused to move forward with their plan. And, the contract between her and Lord Bretheridge must remain a secret. If Uncle Ambrose caught so much as a whiff, he might add stipulations to the marriage contract.
She couldn’t take that risk.
“I’ll leave for London tomorrow, after speaking to your uncle. I’ll claim I want my man of business to review the agreement. Waterford shouldn’t suspect anything.”
“Yes, I think that’s wise.” She paused, torn between loyalty to her family and this man who would soon be her husband. “My lord?”
“Since we’re about to wed, I think it’s acceptable for you to call me Flynn or Bretheridge.”
Angelina ignored the warmth sweeping her. The weather was to blame, not any fascination with him. “Yes, well, that will take some getting used to, since I’ve known you scarcely more than a day.”
Gads, she agreed to marry a man she met yesterday afternoon. Was she addled? And why did she sense she could trust him? More than her uncle or Charles?
“You were saying?” His lordship prompted her gently.
“I don’t believe my uncle should be trusted. At all.”
Flynn’s hearty chuckle took her aback. What, pray tell, did he find the least bit amusing about this appalling situation?
“I agree.” He crossed his hands over his heart. “I promise I’ll be on my most diligent guard.”
Angelina narrowed her eyes. He dared mock her? “I’m glad you find this entertaining.”
That sobered him. “No, you misunderstand. Please don’t take umbrage. What I find humorous is your adorable need to protect me by advising me not to trust Waterford. Rest assured. He’s the last man I’d put my faith in.”
Flynn grasped her hand and raised it to his lips. “I apologize for offending you.”
“I . . .” A movement caught her attention. Angelina leaned away, peering past his shoulder.
Chatterton marched across the lawn. From the disgruntled set of his mouth, he appeared none too pleased.
“Your butler approaches.”
Flynn tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and turned them in the direction of the house.
“Yes, Chatterton?”
“The Duke of Waterford has arrived.” The majordomo’s voice dripped with censure as he sent Angelina a guarded glance. “He’s not at his best.”
Flynn clenched his jaw and stifled the oath pressing against the back of his teeth. Difficult enough to reason with sober, in his cups, Waterford was a consummate ass. Unless . . .
This might work to Flynn’s advantage after all. He allowed a small smile.
Catch the duke unaware by announcing the betrothal today.
Yes, that would do nicely.
Once he collected his copy of the marriage contract at Wingfield Court tomorrow morning, Flynn would depart for London. Mother’s recovery progressed remarkably well. He needn’t be as concerned about leaving her as he’d been even a day ago.
The legality of the contract Angelina insisted upon presented the greatest challenge. He’d bet his bread the agreement wouldn’t be enforceable in court.
She need never know.
Flynn intended to honor their bargain to the letter, after he had an heir.
“I assisted His Grace to the drawing room, my lord,” Chatterton said, “but the Dowager Marchioness is most anxious for your return.”
“That can’t bode well.” Angelina bit her lower lip, her gaze riveted on the drawing room windows. She trembled slightly.
“Thank you, Chatterton, we’ll be there directly.”
“Yes, my lord.” After a subservient nod, the butler returned to the house.
Angelina furrowed her brow and clamped her lower lip between her teeth.
Flynn patted her arm. “What say you to announcing our betrothal now?”
“Now?” Eyes enormous, she cleared her throat, uncertainty skating across her features. “Do you think that best? Uncle Ambrose is . . . It’s possible he is not . . .”
“Exactly so.” Flynn bent his head nearer, savoring her scent. “Waterford won’t be as sharp-witted, and I hope he won’t object to us departing for Scotland immediately. He may wonder at our eagerness to wed, however.”
Flynn winked, enjoying the becoming hint of color bathing her face. The dozens of freckles smattering her nose stood out impishly reminding him of the pixie in the tree yesterday.
“I suppose now is as good a time as any.” She sighed and her shoulders slouched.
Slowing his steps, he drew her to a halt behind a shrub bordering the terrace. “I know this is sudden, and you haven’t been allowed time to grow accustomed to the idea. However, I do believe it’s to both our benefits to move swiftly.”
Did Angelina already have second thoughts?
He had plenty himself.
Yet hours of ruminating and devising possible alternatives inevitably led to the same conclusion. A match between them appeared the least of the evils available.
The heir issue seemed the biggest rub. Only God knew what might happen in a year.
Flynn definitely wasn’t opposed to bed sport with her. No, not opposed at all. In fact, he quite anticipated winning Angelina to his bed.
Emotions played in concert upon her lovely face. Though drawn, her fair skin glowed smooth as ivory. Was she that pale everywhere? The intoxicating notion earned a twinge in his groin.
He touched her cheek. Soft as silk. “Are you in agreement?”
“Yes, given my condition, expediency is prudent.”
The severe line molding her pretty mouth revealed her wariness.
In the conservatory, her lips had been warm and soft, tasting slightly of lemon.
She tilted them weakly. “Can I trouble you to post a letter to my mother when you’re in London? I need to inform her of our marriage and where she may reach me in the future.”
“It’s no trouble at all.” Flynn gave her hand a tiny squeeze as they continued on to the entry.
“Ready? Chin up and steady on. Your uncle cannot be worse than Deamhan.”
“If you’ll recall, my lord, the bull treed me.”
Her demeanor cynical, they stepped onto the paved stones.
“Ah, but I rescued you from that beast.” He waggled his eyebrows at her. And by heaven, Flynn would see that Waterford bullied her no more.
The terrace doors sprang open. The Duke and Duchess of Waterford sailed forth.
Well, more aptly, the duke lurched out the doorway, tottering unsteadily, followed by Grandmamma leaning upon her cane.
Displeasure lined her face.
Flynn tucked Angelina closer to his side. “I’m delighted to inform you, Mrs. Thorne has agreed to become my wife.”
“Good thing.” His Grace leveled his bloodshot eyes on his niece. “And the shooner the better.”
The bounder was ape-drunk.
Had the man no care for his wife’s delicate sensibilities? Her strained expression hinted she would like to throttle her husband.
Grandmamma eyed the duke with thinly veiled distaste. Her hand flexed around her silver-topped cane.
The Duke slid Flynn a sly peek be
fore attempting to focus on Angelina again.
“A letter from your mother arrived this afternoon. Some Frenchie chap named Morneau, or was it Mourant?” Waterford scratched his head, weaving slightly. “Doesn’t matter,” he mumbled, squinting at her belly. “He’s trying to find you. He’s in England.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 16
