by Anne Gracie
She stiffened. “If you’re going to harp on about that again—”
“No, no, I wasn’t going to try to change your mind—quite the contrary. I feel the same.” He hesitated, and she felt him tense. “But if you’re quite sure about never wanting to marry, I have a . . . a proposition for you.”
Damaris withdrew her hand from his arm and stepped back. She couldn’t look at him, she was so disappointed. Daisy was right—he had been watching her with intent. Mrs. Jenkins too—he was a rake after all. “No, I won’t be your mistress.”
“Mistress? Have you got maggots in your brain?” He sounded indignant. “Do you think I’d propose such a liaison with the unmarried sister-in-law of my oldest friend? Let alone the fact that Lady Beatrice would skin me alive.”
“She wouldn’t.”
“No, she’d have that giant footman of hers do it. Good God, woman, what were you thinking?”
She gave him a wary look. “What were you thinking?”
“Nothing immoral or improper, for a start.” He frowned. “Well, it’s not exactly proper, but it’s certainly nothing society would condemn you for.” His frown deepened. “Well, they might censure you a little if they knew the whole story, but they won’t, so it’s me they’ll blame. You would—you will, I hope—come out of it smelling of roses.” He gave her a thoughtful look. “Or gardenias—you’re more of a gardenia type.”
By the end of this tangled speech she wanted to laugh. She’d acquitted him of dark designs on her person but was still no wiser as to the so-called proposition. “Perhaps you’d better explain what it is you want and I’ll be the judge of whether it’s immoral or not.”
“Right.” He took her arm again and they resumed walking. “You know, I think, that my parents have been putting pressure on me to get married—well, of course you know—you’ve met some of the muffins.”
“Muffins?”
“My mother’s favored candidates for daughter-in-law, the Armthwaite sisters—”
“What, both of them?”
“Don’t be flippant. Either would be quite horror enough. And then there’s Miss Blee, and Miss—well, you know what I mean. You’ve seen ’em in action.”
Damaris nodded. “None of them pleases you.”
“Good God, I should think not—far from it.”
“But there must be other girls, nicer girls—”
“That’s not the point. The thing is, I don’t want to get married at all. Or at least not for years. I like my life the way it is.”
“Without responsibilities.”
He seemed about to argue but then shrugged. “Without a wife.”
“So what do you want me to do?”
He stopped, turned to face her and took a deep breath. “Become betrothed to me.”
Chapter Nine
“I am excessively fond of a cottage.”
—JANE AUSTEN, SENSE AND SENSIBILITY
"Betrothed? How many times must I tell you I have no intention of ever getting marr—” She stepped away from him, looking unaccountably upset.
Freddy cursed himself silently. For a man of address, he was making a complete mull of this. He caught her hands and when she tried to pull away, he held tighter. “I didn’t ask you to marry me, I asked you to become betrothed to me!”
She stopped tugging and gave him a puzzled look. “It’s the same thing.”
“It’s not. I don’t want a real betrothal—in fact I’m counting on it not to be real. I want a pretend betrothal.”
She paused. “A pretend betrothal?”
“Just for a week or two. Or a month. Or more.”
“Why?”
He explained to her about the house party, and when he’d finished she said, “Why don’t you just not attend?”
“Because I have to. It’s a trap they’ve set for me.”
“The Armthwaites?”
“My parents.” And for the second time in a week he found himself explaining about George and the memorial service. And how he never went home any other time. He didn’t go into details, didn’t explain why his family home wasn’t home to him and hadn’t been so for years, just that the occasion was important to him. And if the place was swamped by muffins trailing around after him, popping out from behind bushes, trying to force him to propose—or worse, to compromise them . . . He shuddered.
“And at the memorial they’ll be dripping with sympathy, competing to outdo each other,” he finished. “I couldn’t bear it. I’d have to strangle someone.” Preferably himself.
“I see what you mean. It’s a difficult situation.”
“Then you’ll do it?”
She shook her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.” She started to walk away. “I’m going to be late for work.”
He caught her arm. “But you must do it—can’t you see, it’s a perfect arrangement. Neither of us wants to get married.”
“Hire someone.”
“I can’t. Apart from the fact that I couldn’t trust a hireling, I need a lady, someone who’s already part of society, someone my mother would accept. She’s a friend of Lady Beatrice’s; she’d have to accept you. Please, Damaris.”
She shook her head. “I can’t. Ask Jane.”
He grasped her by the shoulders. “I don’t want Jane, I want you.” He swallowed. He was completely losing it. Somehow he had to make her accept.
She narrowed her eyes. “Surely it doesn’t matter which of us you get to be a false fiancée.”
“Your sister Jane does want to get married. Even if she agrees to go along with this scheme, she might change her mind once she sees the house, and realizes I will inherit a title one day.”
She stiffened. “You don’t trust Jane to keep her word?”
“I don’t trust any woman—” He broke off, realizing he was getting deeper and deeper into the mire. “Look, it’s not personal and it’s no reflection on Jane. Ladies are expected to change their minds. If a gentleman and a lady enter into a betrothal and the gentleman discovers she’s an evil-tempered harpy, he can’t break the betrothal without disgracing himself. A gentleman’s word is his bond, and once he’s publicly given it, he’s honor bound to keep it. The poor fellow’s stuck with the hag for life. But she can call it off without any public censure whatsoever. It’s horrendously unfair, but there it is.”
“It is fair. A woman has more to lose in getting married.”
He stared down at her. “What? A woman loses? What nonsense. She gets a husband and a home, and she’s supported for the rest of her life.”
“If the husband is good and kind. But if he is not, she is wholly at his mercy for the rest of her life. If she has money before marriage, afterward she has only what he deigns to give her. He rules every aspect of her life—who she sees, where they live, how she dresses—even her body is not her own, and when she gives birth, her children belong to him.” Her eyes were bright with emotion, and she was breathing deep, ragged breaths. He tried not to notice the rise and fall of her bosom.
He thought about what she’d said. He’d heard a few other women speak of marriage that way before, but they were all widows, never an unmarried girl. She really had no time for the institution at all. Which for his current purpose was perfect.
She took another deep breath, which, again, he didn’t watch. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find someone else for your scheme. And now I really have to go.”
She’d taken no more than three steps when Freddy heard himself saying, “I’ll pay you.” It wasn’t what he’d planned, but now he’d said it, why not? It made the whole thing less personal, more businesslike.
She hesitated, then shook her head and kept walking.
He followed. “I’ll pay you well. Enough so you won’t have to work in this wretched pottery.” Suddenly it seemed the most urgent thing in the world to get her to agree. He didn’t want his false be
trothed to be anyone else. It had to be Damaris.
Again she paused. She was tempted. But: “No,” she said and kept on walking.
“Enough money to support you for several years. Or to buy a cottage, if you wanted.”
Damaris stopped dead. Enough to buy a cottage? Buy a cottage? Not just enough money to rent one. It was the kind of security she hadn’t even dared to dream of. She turned slowly. “You would buy me a cottage?”
“Yes.”
“It means that much to you to have a false fiancée?”
“Yes, but you’d have to come with me to my family home, Breckenridge House, make it look real.”
Make it look real? She swallowed. What would that entail? Still, a cottage . . . “How long for?”
“The visit? No more than a week—”
“And the betrothal?”
He shrugged. “Let’s see how it goes down. A few weeks, perhaps. Maybe a month or two.”
She considered it. “So we’d break it off at the beginning of the season?”
“To be honest, I haven’t really thought that part of it through. Once we get through the visit to my parents and my brother’s memorial service, it’ll be up to you. It does occur to me, though, that if we remained betrothed during the season, it would take the pressure off both of us.”
That was true. There would be no expectations then of her having to endure any kind of courtship. More and more this crazy idea appealed. And at the end of it, she’d get her very own cottage. A dream come true.
“So we pretend to be betrothed?”
“No, we become betrothed. Only you and I will know of our agreement.”
“You mean I can’t tell my sisters or Lady Beatrice?”
“No, they might let something slip.” He must have seen her hesitation, for he added, “And I will want your promise on that.”
“I don’t like deceiving them.”
“There will be no deception involved—we will be betrothed. I’ll give you a ring and send an announcement to the Morning Post. We’ll behave in every way as betrothed couples usually behave.”
She gave him a doubtful look. “And how is that?”
“How would I know?” he said with an impatient gesture. “A little billing and cooing, I suppose, nothing to make us nauseous. You can blush and flutter your eyelashes at me—”
“I never flutter my eyelashes, not at any man,” she said crisply. “And I wouldn’t know how to bill and coo—I’ll leave that to the pigeons.”
He gave her a thoughtful look, then nodded. “Quite right. Well-bred dignity, that’s the style. You remain your usual self—cool, distant and dignified. Perfect for the future Viscountess Breckenridge.”
Cool, distant and dignified? Was that how he saw her? She’d laugh if it didn’t make her want to cry. If he only knew.
“So, you’ll do it?”
“You really don’t want to get married?”
“No. And you? You really don’t want it, either?”
“No, not at all.”
“Excellent. Then, my dear Miss Damaris”—he took her hand and went partially down on one knee—not, she noted, enough to touch the filthy cobblestones and thus soil his immaculate buckskin breeches, but just enough to make a parody of a proposal—“will you do me the honor of betrothing yourself to me, in public and in private, for as long as it remains convenient to us both?”
She took a deep breath and ruined the parody. “In exchange for you buying me a cottage, sir, I will.”
He rose, grinning. “Avaricious chit.” He stepped closer, she stepped back and his smile faded. He frowned.
“What is it?” she asked.
“With another man, I usually seal a bargain with a handshake, but with a woman, it’s usually a k—”
“A handshake will do very well,” she said hurriedly and stuck her hand out. They shook solemnly, but then he lifted her hand and planted a light kiss on it.
“Bad luck not to seal a betrothal with some kind of kiss, even one through a glove,” he told her. “Now, when shall we announce it? I imagine you’ll want to tell your sisters and Lady Beatrice first—shall we return to Berkeley Square now?”
“You can announce it when I have the deed to my cottage.”
His brows snapped together. “What? But that will take—”
“The deed or a sum deposited in my name in Coutts Bank.”
“You’re not very trusting of my word, are you?”
“It’s not personal. I don’t trust any man’s word.” With good reason.
“Very well, I’ll see what I can do. Is there anywhere in particular you’d like this cottage to be?”
She thought for a moment. “Somewhere in the vicinity of Davenham Hall would be nice, so Abby and I could visit each other. And I’d want a little land around it.”
His eyes narrowed. “How much land?”
“Enough for a vegetable garden and some chickens.”
“Good God,” he said faintly. “Very well, Devon it is, and as near to Davenham Hall as practicable. And if nothing suitable is immediately available I’ll deposit an equivalent sum in your name. We shall announce the betrothal in a week, then.”
“A week?” She felt suddenly breathless.
“My brother’s memorial is on December the fifth, which is almost four weeks from now. I must give my mother time to cancel the house party.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
He shrugged. “Then I’ll tell her I won’t go. And I’ll threaten to call off the betrothal.”
“But I thought you said—”
“It’s a bluff. But it won’t be needed. She’ll be so pleased to think I’m finally getting married she won’t do anything to upset the apple cart. So we announce it in a week and two weeks later we go down to Breckenridge.”
She nodded, still a little dazed at the speed with which it was all moving.
“And you promise not to tell your family it’s not a genuine betrothal?”
She nodded.
“And you will quit that noisome pottery.”
“It’s not noisome, but very well, the minute I receive the deed or the bank deposit, I will quit my job.”
“God, but you’re a stubborn woman.”
She shrugged. “I’ve learned to look out for myself, that’s all.” She’d had to.
He groaned. “I suppose that means another week of early morning assignations.”
“They’re not assignations. And since I never asked for your escort in the first place you can please yourself whether you come or not,” she told him. “It’s nothing to do with me.” She walked down the lane and turned in at the pottery entrance without so much as a backward glance.
• • •
It did not please him to crawl out of bed before dawn, Freddy thought as he tied his neck cloth with great care, then pressed the folds just so into place with the judicious lowering of his chin, his freshly shaven chin. But for once he did not begrudge the inconvenience. This was an occasion, after all.
Tibbins eased him into his coat, his expression as lugubrious as ever. “Cheer up, Tibbins, this is the last time we’ll be up at this appalling hour.”
“Indeed, sir?” Tibbins said with a noticeable lack of joy. “How delightful.”
Tibbins, Freddy was forced to admit, was not a morning valet. Pity. Freddy was in excellent spirits. He almost felt like whistling. Almost. But whistling indoors a half hour before dawn might be the straw that broke the valet’s back.
He picked up the deed to a Devonshire cottage, delivered to him the previous evening, and tucked it into his pocket. Bartlett was a miracle worker. Five days it had taken him to find and purchase a suitable cottage on the very edge of Max’s estate, just outside the village and within easy walking distance of the big house.
The wench would have no exc
use now to drag him out of bed at an uncivilized hour.
He handed two letters to Tibbins. “Post this one, and drop this one at the offices of the Morning Post.” The first was a letter to his mother, telling her to cancel the house party, that he was betrothed already. The other was the formal newspaper announcement of his betrothal. He’d always imagined it as a knelling of his doom, and yet, he still felt perfectly lighthearted.
He popped his hat on at a jaunty angle and accepted the gloves his valet handed him. “And Tibbins, take the rest of the day off,” he said in a fit of magnanimity. “I won’t need you again until this evening.”
“Thank you, sir.” There was no noticeable lightening of the gloomy countenance.
Freddy marched through the streets with a brisk step. There was mist, but it was the kind of mist that might even burn off later and reveal a bit of sun—the kind of day it ought to be when a fellow’s plans all fell into place.
No more freezing dark-of-morning escort duty; Damaris would be free of servitude to that bad-tempered she-troll in the pottery; and Freddy, why, Freddy would be muffin free for the foreseeable future. Muffin. Free. He whistled the rest of the way.
“Good morning, Miss Chance,” he said the moment she stepped through the gate.
She gave him a surprised look. “Good morning, Mr. Monkton-Coombes. You look very pleased with yourself this morning.” She smiled, and it was a promise of the sunshine to come, he thought.
“I am. Miss Chance, you may congratulate me. And while you’re at it, you may congratulate yourself as well. We are”—he produced the deed from his pocket and presented it to her with a flourish and a bow—“betrothed.”
“Betrothed?” She took the paper from him and unfolded it and read it in silence. She went pale, then pink, then looked at him with an expression he wasn’t quite sure of. “You really did buy me a cottage?” She whispered it, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. She clutched the deed tenderly to her breast. “Where?”
“In Devonshire, not far from Davenham Hall, as you asked. It’s nothing to get excited about,” he added, feeling a little embarrassed at the wonder in her voice. “I’m told it needs some repairs and a good clean-out—it’s been empty for a few years.”
