Rival Desires

by Annabel Joseph

  He frowned at her exposed nape. “Nevertheless, I am here.”

  “Yes, you are here to perform your duty, and ask for my hand. My mother says you are a gentleman, but I can hardly believe it.”

  Her whisper held as much rancor as a shouted insult. “Lady Ophelia,” he replied, as calmly as he could. “Neither of us wished for this to happen. The unorthodox circumstances, the fire—”

  “Fire or no, it has ended in disaster. I should have refused your assistance.” She shook her head. “I’m ruined now. That’s the word, though no one is using it.”

  “You’re not ruined, because I’m here.” He grasped for patience in the face of her disdain. “Lady Ophelia, please accept my deepest apologies for my conduct last night. It was wrong of me to lie down with you. That was my fault.”

  She pressed her forehead to the window, letting out a breath. “I wish I’d made you leave,” she whispered.

  “I worked very hard to ensure you wouldn’t. It’s pointless to dwell upon it at this point. We must be married and make the best of things.”

  “The best of things.”

  He barely heard her peevish exhalation. Her shoulders drew up tight.

  “Yes, the best of things,” he repeated. “There’s nothing else to do. My lady, I wish you would turn to look at me. Otherwise, you won’t recognize me at the altar. I’m not much like Jack Drake, not on a typical day.”

  For a long moment, she made no movement. Then finally, slowly, she turned, her gaze faltering and lighting somewhere in the middle of his chest, upon his shining coat buttons. She looked so different now, here, in her childhood room, clean and wan, with her appearance so terrifyingly ladylike. Her blue eyes looked vivid as cornflowers in May.

  He must look different to her too, with his hair tamed and his stubble shaven, turned out in his best finery from head to toe. Did it offer any solace that she was marrying a member of the peerage rather than a common mister off the street?

  “My real name is John Daniel Worthington Drake,” he began, when her gaze finally traveled to his face. “I’m the eldest son of the Duke of Arlington, titled the Marquess of Wescott, although my mother and sisters still call me Jack on occasion, when they wish to make me feel like a boy.”

  But he was no boy, and she was no actress. He was a rake, and she his offended victim. She exuded delicacy and refinement—and helpless anger. He could hardly believe they’d lain together with such tender abandon. He’d made love to her mere hours ago, enjoyed her breathless caresses, and now she regarded him with vitriol and shame. He wished to reach for her, to see if she could possibly be the same woman, but he didn’t dare. Her expression and stance didn’t welcome familiarity, however they’d conducted themselves the night before.

  “It’s my pleasure to meet you,” she whispered in her barely-there voice, in a tone that let him know the sentiment was not true. She did not offer her hand. “You are quite different than I remember, and I suppose you must realize by now that I’m not who I said I was.”

  “If only we’d been honest,” he said, attempting a smile.

  “I chose not to be honest,” she whispered. “And now...”

  Now, she was clearly aghast at the prospect of marrying him. She was devastated by the situation, as he was. He believed she downright loathed him for his part in her ruination. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.

  “My lord, if you please...” She rubbed her forehead as her rosebud lips pursed in a frown. “I’m very tired from...from last night. Perhaps you might call upon me some other time.” She was already turning away when the door burst open.

  “Lady Ophelia, I wish to marry you!”

  Wescott and his betrothed spun as one toward the other side of the room, where a disheveled and wild-eyed Townsend stood ramrod straight, breathing full-on, as if he’d run across the whole of London to make his declaration.

  “You may think I’m being impulsive, but I’m not.” Lord Townsend gazed, transfixed, at Lady Ophelia, his hand pressed to his heart. “I love you, dear lady, more than anyone in the world, and it would be my honor to marry you without question or hesitation, no matter your current situation.”

  Ophelia turned to Wescott, her eyes wide, and whispered, “Who, my lord, is that?”

  Chapter Five: For Better or Worse

  Ophelia stared in shock as the young man strode toward her, running his fingers through disordered black hair.

  “My lady,” he began, halting a respectable distance away. “My deepest apologies for frightening you. It is only that I must—” He paused, out of breath. Had he sprinted up the stairs? “It is only that I must speak my heart, and offer you an option besides marriage to this—this— If I may be frank, my lady, he is a creature of the lowest moral habits, an inveterate scoundrel.”

  The man gestured toward Mr. Drake. No, the Marquess of Wescott. He drew himself up in return.

  “A ‘scoundrel,’ Townsend?” he repeated, with a taut edge to his voice.

  “No, Wescott.” He held up a hand. “I will speak without interruption from you, you blackguard. I have only just become aware of what transpired last evening, of the disrespectful and scurrilous way you conducted yourself whilst Lady Ophelia was in your care. It was wrong of you to ride with her through London and expose her to gossip, and imperil her good reputation with your—your selfish manipulations.”

  “You’re saying a lot of big words,” the marquess retorted, “but making very little sense.”

  “I used to regard you well, but no longer. Anyone who would carelessly risk such a worthy lady’s reputation—”

  “Her reputation shall survive, Townsend. Lady Ophelia and I are betrothed to be married.”

  He shook his head. “A betrothal can be broken. This betrothal must be broken, for she deserves far better than you.”

  “Let me guess,” said Wescott acidly. “She deserves you?”

  “Yes. I love her. I’ll treat her with the respect that is owed her, every day of her life.”

  “Strong feelings for a woman who doesn’t even know who you are,” Wescott snapped back.

  Ophelia watched as they argued, and had the sense the two men, in less fraught circumstances, might be friends. In fact, the man named Townsend looked much the way the marquess had appeared last night. His coat was mussed and his cuffs not quite clean. His ebony hair, while not as long as Wescott’s, looked equally straggled and wild.

  Townsend turned back to her, taking a step forward in appeal. “Lady Ophelia, you must break your betrothal to this man. Please understand, he does not have the tenderness of feeling, the concern and admiration that I carry in my heart.”

  “For me?” she whispered.

  Wescott snickered beside her. She wished him to be quiet, for he was not being kind.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Townsend,” she said, rubbing her throat. “I know we’ve made an acquaintance. We danced, didn’t we? Once?”

  “Indeed, only once, to my dismay. Before then, I admired you at other balls and dances, and observed your vocal recital at Lady Garland’s party in June. Your voice bespelled me. Since then, I’ve attended every one of your performances at the theater. If only I’d been the one to rescue you last night, you would not have been so disrespected, I assure you.”

  “See here,” Wescott said. “You did not rescue Lady Ophelia. I did. You don’t understand the circumstances. I suggest you stop your ridiculous exclamations of love and see yourself out of the lady’s drawing room, since this entire situation has nothing to do with you.”

  Townsend turned to her mother. “Lady Halsey, you must want better for your daughter. You must sense, with your maternal instinct, the absolute sincerity of my love.”

  Lady Halsey wrung her hands. “My daughter has already been promised to Lord Wescott,” she said. “The contract has been signed.”

  “By her?” Townsend held out a hand to Ophelia. “Have you signed it, lady?”

  “Don’t touch her
,” Wescott growled.

  Ophelia was taken aback by the possessiveness in his threatening words. As for Lord Townsend, she’d never seen a man behave so, spouting love talk and soulful declarations as if they’d courted one another for years.

  “Have you signed it?” Townsend pressed her, his voice like a plea.

  She shook her head. She had not read it, signed it, or learned anything of what was in it.

  “I’m a marquess, you see, the same as him.” When he gestured toward Wescott, Ophelia noticed that the other man’s hands looked ready to strike. “I’m a duke’s son.”

  “So am I, you utter buffoon.”

  Lord Townsend ignored him, speaking only to her, and occasionally darting a look toward her mother. “I’ll be Duke of Lockridge one day, my lady, with a holding as great as his, and you can be my duchess. Unlike him, I adore you. I have adored you since I first laid eyes on you, and reflect often on your lightness and grace.”

  “Are you quite finished?” Wescott’s voice sounded like a warning, but Townsend was not cowed. He moved toward the man, who was just a little bit taller and broader than him.

  “I am not finished.” Townsend tipped up his chin. “I don’t care about the damage you caused to her reputation, Wescott. I don’t care if people gossip. I am prepared to marry her nonetheless.”

  “I rescued her, so I shall marry her. If the gossips—”

  “Damn the gossips. They can just as well gossip about me instead of you. At least I will love and respect the lady in a way you never can. I know you, Wes. I know your moral shortcomings, and your wicked, damnable habits.”

  Her mother gasped. Wescott’s spine snapped even tighter and straighter than before. “Continue that line of argument, and you’ll regret it.” His voice sounded low and sharp as a knife. “I know you, too, Townsey. I have plenty of stories to tell regarding your own ‘wicked habits,’ but I won’t, to protect the ladies’ sensibilities. Have some manners, you mad, lovesick calf, or I’ll use my fists to teach you some.”

  “That’s your way, isn’t it? You’re unfailingly brutish and rude.”

  “No, brutish and rude is intruding on a lady’s privacy and behaving in this manic fashion.”

  “My lady.” Now he did take Ophelia’s hand, and went down on one knee. “Tell Wescott you will not marry him, that you prefer to make a life with me.”

  Ophelia’s thoughts spun. Townsend’s gaze was so intense, his eyes a vivid amber-gold beneath dark lashes. Wescott was at her other side, his hovering presence radiating anger. If the men had been friends once, she feared they never would be again. As for which she would choose for a husband—at the moment, she didn’t want either one.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered.

  “Why won’t you speak aloud?” Townsend asked. “What have they said to silence you?”

  “She’s lost her voice. Get off your knees. Lady Ophelia cannot marry you, because she’s betrothed to me. We’re to marry within the week, by special license.” He paused and stared very intently into Lord Townsend’s eyes. “She cannot marry you, Towns. It’s not possible.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Damn it, Townsend, it’s not possible at this point.”

  For the first time since he’d entered, Townsend was silent.

  “It’s not possible,” Wescott repeated. “Do you understand?”

  Townsend looked disbelieving, then so furiously angry that Ophelia took a step back. The next events happened so quickly, she could hardly separate them in her mind. Townsend lunged at Lord Wescott and next she knew, fists were flying. Her mother screamed and went to the door, calling for help. The men shouted curses and insults as they pushed back and forth.

  In the midst of the fracas, Wescott’s sleeve ripped, along with Townsend’s collar. Her mother shrieked at them to stop fighting, but they only shed their coats and threw them aside, and tussled like common boys in an alley, throwing punches and shouting more profane oaths. Blackguard, devil, damnable whoremonger. Ophelia stood with her back to the window, her hand pressed to her mouth. The things they said shocked her, but the sound of their fists striking one another shocked her more.

  “Please stop,” she whispered. “Please stop.”

  Her mute pleas had no effect. The men didn’t stop brawling until Lord Halsey and the Duke of Arlington strode into the room, flanked by the house’s heftiest footmen. They pulled Wescott and Townsend apart as her mother led her away from the chaos. She realized then that she was crying, tears soaking her cheeks.

  Her mother guided her to her bedroom and sat with her on the edge of the bed.

  “Mama,” she whispered, “I don’t want to wed either of those men. I’m not ready to be married. I’ve barely begun my singing career.”

  “Your singing career is over for now. There’ll be a scandal if you don’t wed the marquess. People saw you together, and they’ll talk because you’re the Earl of Halsey’s daughter. Didn’t I tell you for years how important it was to adhere to proprieties?” She gripped her arm to the point of pain. “You’ve done this to yourself.”

  “I could go to Europe and sing there for a couple of years, until the scandal’s forgotten!” Desperation—and fear—made her rasping voice tremble. “I could go back to Vienna and study a bit longer, until all this is forgotten.”

  “There’s no ‘forgetting’ what you’ve done.” Her voice was not kind, not gentle the way she needed at that moment. “You’ve got to marry Lord Wescott, Ophelia. You haven’t any other choice.”

  “But Lord Townsend...” Her chin trembled. “Wouldn’t he be better? He seems kinder and more loving than Lord Wescott. He said he loves me and would marry me.”

  “I don’t think he will anymore,” she said tightly. “You must marry Lord Wescott now, for better or worse. As for a career onstage, you must forget that dream. It’s ruined for you now, daughter. He will not allow you to perform publicly after this, if he permits you to sing at all.”

  * * * * *

  Wescott wed Lady Ophelia in a small, private ceremony in his parents’ garden, looking as dignified as anyone might with two somewhat-healed black eyes. Since his best coat had been ruined in the fight with Townsend, he wore his second best, a dark blue coat that clashed with Ophelia’s daffodil-yellow gown.

  As for his bride, she cried through the entire service. He tried not to take it personally, but she appeared so miserable, so completely devastated that it was hard for him to stand beside her throughout the charade. She said her vows in a bitter, tremulous tone, her contempt for him perfectly clear to all in attendance, now that her voice was restored.

  Well, nearly restored. He’d saved her from the fire, but apparently the smoke had weakened her sensitive, Vienna-trained vocal cords. He was sorry about that, sorry about so many things. He was sorry Townsend wasn’t at his wedding, that his old friend had left London in a fury after swearing he’d never speak to him again. Marlow and Augustine were here though, supporting him through one of the most appalling days of his life.

  When the ceremony was finally over, there was the wedding luncheon to endure. His parents opened their town house to hundreds of guests so they could pretend there’d been a normal, happy wedding between two people in love. He and Ophelia circulated to greet everyone, but managed not to speak a word to each other. As the guests thinned out, it became harder to avoid his sulky bride.

  “Darling.” His mother joined him, taking his hand. “Your sisters are leaving with Louisa and her husband soon, to visit the children. You ought to say goodbye.”

  All four of his sisters, two of them happily married, gathered around, wishing him well.

  “Lady Ophelia is so pretty,” said Louisa, the eldest. “She seems...very sweet.”

  “Thank you,” he replied. “I’m happy that we’ve wed.”

  It wasn’t the truth, but well-mannered gentlemen followed the script. His father joined them, along with Wescott’s only brother, Gareth, who’d taken a rare day away from his studies
to attend the “happy event.” So many kind wishes, so many congratulations from his family, and all Wescott could think about was how much he didn’t want to be married, and how mournful Ophelia looked.

  “I cried on my wedding day too ,” his mother confided, once her other children had left.

  “I know, Mama.”

  “Some brides can’t help the tears. There’s so much anxiety, so many emotions. Once your father and I came to understand one another, there was plenty of room for love to develop between us.”

  “Once we ‘came to understand one another,’” the duke echoed with a half-smile. “Was it as easy as all that?”

  His mother’s smooth skin deepened in a blush. “Marriage is never easy, but it’s worth it to try your best. I agree with Louisa. Ophelia seems a lovely girl.”

  “She is lovely,” said Wescott, watching her across the hall, chatting with some members of her family.

  “And she’ll adore Wescott Abbey. Oxfordshire is so pretty at this time of year. The two of you will have time to learn more about each other as you set up your home.”

  He wasn’t sure Ophelia would adore doing anything with him, but his parents had been kind enough to refurbish his ancestral estate several years ago, when they first started hounding him about marriage. Wescott Abbey was the original seat of the Arlington holdings, a castle-like stronghold that had served as a religious retreat in ancient times. It was considered one of the most striking manors in England, with multiple towers, hidden rooms, winding stone staircases, and expansive gardens and meadows.

  “I’m sure Ophelia will love the Abbey,” he agreed. “It’s the perfect time to go there, now that the Season’s nearly over.”

  “And now that you’re married.” She tapped him lightly with her fan, then snapped it open, fluttering it in a rare show of nerves. If only a marriage could succeed on his mother’s hopes alone, but he feared it wouldn’t be so easy.

  As he turned with her, he saw Marlow and Augustine lingering by the door. “Excuse me, Mama.”