Love With the Proper Husband (12 page)

“Indeed I do, Miss Townsend. I have no choice.” Marcus groaned to himself at the formal note in his voice and his overly cool manner. This was not at all the way to press his suit. Reggie cast his gaze toward the ceiling.

She pulled off one glove, then slowly removed the other. “As much as ours is an unusual match, it is still disconcerting to hear the truth stated in such an unequivocal manner.”

Blast it all.
“I am sorry, Miss Townsend. I did not mean—”

“An apology is not necessary.” Her gaze met his. She was as controlled as he, and he could read nothing in her eyes. “You are entirely right: you have been given no choice in the matter. Therefore I would suggest”—she drew a deep breath—“we discuss the terms of the arrangement.”

“Terms, Miss Townsend?” He didn’t especially like the sound of that. “What do you mean by
terms
?”

“Terms. Expectations. Conditions. Provisions and so forth. Of our”—she swallowed hard, and he wondered if the coolness of her manner was due to nerves and the significance of the moment—

“marriage.”

Relief swept through him, and a touch of something unexpected. Not joy, surely, but a certain pleasure nonetheless. Abruptly he wondered if the nonsense he’d spouted to her about fate might well have some veracity after all. Perhaps this was meant to be.

“Well, I say, congratulations to you both.” Reggie beamed as if this were a love match and not an arrangement more akin to business than affection. “And, as you both have a great deal to discuss, I shall take my leave.”

“You needn’t go,” Marcus said quickly.

“You could be of some help,” Gwendolyn added.

“I would offer my assistance, of course, but I have just this moment remembered an appointment I must keep.” Reggie stepped to the door, pulled it open, then glanced back at Gwendolyn and grinned.

“Do be careful, my dear, he is exceedingly dangerous.” He turned and stepped into the hall. “Take care, Godfrey. You’ll soon have a new mistress.” The door snapped shut behind him. An uncomfortable silence settled between them. Marcus had no idea what to say now. Or what to do. She looked as ill-at-ease as he.

“Would you like a brandy?” he blurted.

“That would be lovely,” she said with obvious relief.

He moved to the desk, selected a clean glass from a silver tray, filled it, then refilled his own. He was grateful for the activity and the respite from conversation. He turned toward her. She’d taken off her hat and was smoothing her hair away from her face.

“Oh dear. I do hope you are not going to chastise me again for a lapse in decorum. As I told you yesterday, I have always been exceedingly proper in behavior and attitude. However…” She wrinkled her nose in a charming manner that made her appear entirely too young and far too innocent. “I know hats are a necessary evil, correct and all that, but I simply hate wearing them.” She dropped it onto the sofa, as if daring him to protest.

“Then we have something in common. I am not fond of wearing hats myself.” He stepped toward her. “Besides, this shall soon be your home, and you should feel free to behave as you like here. Within reason of course.”

She cocked her head. “Within reason?”

“I should hate to scandalize Godfrey.” He handed her the drink. “It’s very good brandy. I hope you like it.”

“I’m certain I shall.” She eyed the glass with a skeptical smile. “Although I have never had brandy before.” She took a swallow and gasped. “It’s very”—her voice was choked—“intense.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.” He grinned.

Her eyes watered, and she clasped her hand to her throat. “And extremely warm.”

“That too.”

“Still…” She took a second, far more cautious sip. “It does have a not unpleasant taste.”

“Not at all unpleasant.”

She licked her lips and nodded thoughtfully. “Quite pleasant, really. Don’t you think?”

“I do.” Without thinking, he leaned forward and lightly brushed his lips across hers. “Very pleasant.”

She caught her breath and stared up at him. “Why did you do that?”

He grimaced. “I’m not sure. I am not usually given to impulse but—”

“But you have not been in this position before.”

“Which position.” He stared at her lips, slightly parted, full and firm and tasting delightfully of brandy.

“Marriage?”

“Ah yes.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I should apologize again.”

“For kissing me?” Her eyes were wide, and her breath was shallow.

“Yes,” he said softly. “We met only yesterday, yet it seems I am always apologizing to you for my behavior.”

“You needn’t.” She lifted her chin slightly and leaned imperceptibly closer. “Not for this.”

“I can’t.” He wanted to kiss her again. “Not for kissing you.” Pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. “I would not mean it.” And lose his own senses in the process. For an endless moment he could do nothing but stare into her eyes, and he saw his own unforeseen desire mirrored there. And, unexpectedly, apprehension or perhaps fear as well. And he realized that too was a reflection.

“Yes, well…” He stepped away and resisted the urge to run his hand through his hair, the moment broken, the tension between them shattered.

“Yes, well…” She uttered a short, awkward laugh. “Indeed.” Gwendolyn pulled a long swallow of her drink.

“Take care with the brandy, Miss Townsend, it is extremely potent for one who is not used to it.”

His manner was again cool and remote, and as much as he regretted it, he wasn’t at all sure it wasn’t for the best at the moment.

“Thank you, Lord Pennington.” She smiled politely and drew a deep swallow of the liquor. She too was now brisk and impersonal, and once again he both regretted it and was grateful. “Perhaps we should now discuss the terms of our arrangement.”

“
Marriage
, Miss Townsend, not merely an arrangement,” he said firmly. “This is to be a marriage, which implies any number of things that indeed we should resolve.”

“I quite agree.” She marched to the sofa and perched primly on the edge, the vision of stiff propriety somewhat spoiled by the glass of brandy in her hand and the tendril of red hair that had freed itself from the knot on the top of her head. “You may begin.”

“I may begin?” He shook his head. “I think not. You are the one who insisted on laying out the terms of this marriage.” He set his glass down, crossed his arms over his chest, and propped his hip on the desk. “You should be the one to begin.”

“Very well. First of all”—she took another sip—“as you know, I will acquire a tidy personal fortune when we wed.”

“Just how much is tidy, Miss Townsend?”

She hesitated.

“Come now, I have no designs on your money.”

She downed the rest of her brandy. “One hundred thousand pounds.”

He blew a low whistle. “That is tidy.”

“That money is to be mine and mine alone,” she said quickly.

“Once we wed, what’s yours is mine, Miss Townsend.” His tone was mild. “It’s the law, the way of the world.”

“I don’t care.” Her defiant gaze locked with his. “You are to have no say over that money, and I shall not make an accounting of it to you. Not now or ever. And I further wish Mr. Whiting to draw up an agreement specifying this.”

“And if I do not agree?”

“Then there will be no marriage.” She smiled smugly. The woman had the upper hand in this game, and she well knew it.

“Very well. As this marriage will ensure the stability of my own fortune, I will have no need for your hundred thousand pounds.” He shrugged. “It is, in truth, a pittance in comparison with my resources.”

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

“Really. And as my wife, you will certainly share in my wealth even if you refuse to allow me to share in yours.” It was interesting to note the play of expressions across her face. Not greed as much as awe and even perhaps relief. Not surprising. She had spent the last years of her life with very little. It must indeed ease her mind to realize she would not have to worry about money ever again.

“Imagine that,” she said under her breath and up-ended her glass, only to discover it empty. He grabbed the decanter, crossed the room, and filled her glass, firmly ignoring the voice in his head that said this was a mistake. He did not want her foxed.

“Thank you,” she murmured, staring into the glass. “It really is extremely tasty.” She looked up at him. “I believe it’s your turn. For terms, that is.”

“Ah yes.” He returned to his perch on the edge of the desk. He had, of course, already considered the conditions of their arrangement, but that was before he’d met her. He was expecting a marriage of convenience for them both. Once she had provided him with heirs, they could both live their own lives. He was no longer entirely certain that was what he wanted. Still, it was a place to start. “We need to discuss children.”

“Of course,” she said coolly, but there was an odd look in her eye. “You shall want sons, I assume.”

“Absolutely. Two should do nicely.”

“I see.” She took a gulp of her drink. “When?”

He started. “I had not considered when. Soon, I should think.”

“And what of girls?”

“What of girls?” he said slowly and studied her closely. Even though she showed no outward appearance of inebriation, it was probable the brandy was taking its toll. She heaved an annoyed sigh. “What if we have girls?”

“Frankly, Miss Townsend, I have not considered that question either. It’s heirs that I am concerned with.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You don’t like girls, do you?”

“I have never given them any particular thought.”

“Of course not.” She got to her feet in a surprisingly steady manner, straightened her shoulders, and glared at him. “I am a girl.”

He bit back a grin. “Yes, indeed, I can certainly see that.”

“Do you like me?” she said in a lofty manner.

“I’m afraid I do.”

She tilted her head and stared at him. “Are you really? Afraid, I mean?”

He nodded. “I really am.”

“Why? Shouldn’t I be the one who is afraid of you?”

“Possibly.” He paused. “Are you?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

He laughed. “Why not?”

“Well…” She paused. “Because you are an adult, I suppose. And I quite consider myself equal to you.”

“Do you?”

“I do indeed.”

“I can’t imagine you being afraid of anything.”

“What a very nice thing to say. Inaccurate but nice.” She sipped her drink and considered him. “I have always been rather afraid of children.”

“I doubt that that is at all uncommon, Miss Townsend. I suspect many women are fearful of bearing children.”

“Oh, I’m not talking about that.” She waved away his comment. “Although that does not sound especially pleasant. My mother died in childbirth.” Again she paused. “Did you know I was a governess?”

He nodded. Between Whiting and his mother, he knew most of the details of her life thus far.

“I was not a very good governess,” she said wryly. “Children do not seem to like me. Even my own ne—charges were not fond of me.” Her brows pulled together thoughtfully. “I think they sensed my fear of them.”

“Why on earth would you fear children?”

“I have tried to determine that myself.” She shrugged. “I can only think it was because I was scarcely more than a child myself when I took my first position. In truth, I had no experience with children, no idea what to do. I believe I expressed my fears by being too harsh and rigid in my treatment of them.” Her questioning gaze caught his. “Does that make any sense at all?”

“It seems quite logical to me.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” She nodded in agreement. “I have recently discovered that treating children as rational beings rather than completely foreign entities seems to elicit a far better response.”

What was she talking about? “I should think so, although admittedly I have had no experience with children myself.”

“And you don’t like girls. That does make things awkward.” She heaved a sigh and wandered toward the fireplace. A dark, old-fashioned portrait of the seventh Earl of Pennington hung above the mantel. “Is that your father?”

“Yes.” Marcus joined her and stared up at the painting. The artist had managed to capture his father’s character well: the expression on his face was firm but not unkind. And there was a hint of a smile in his eyes.

“Do you miss him?”

“Indeed I do.” Marcus had quite liked his father and never doubted the affection was mutual. Even now, in the situation his father had placed him in, he was hard-pressed to resent the man who had always done what he thought best for his son. “Do you miss yours?”

“I did not know him well enough to miss him.” She continued to stare up at the painting. “He wanted sons and had only daughters. It was a great disappointment to him. He sent me away to school when I was very young, and I saw him only infrequently.” Her manner was matter-of-fact, as if she was relating facts that had nothing to do with her.

“You said daughters. Do you have sisters then?”

“One, but she married against my father’s wishes and went off with her husband to wander the world in search of grand adventures. I did not know her at all.” She sipped her drink. “She’s dead now. Eaten by cannibals, I believe.”

“Good God! Cannibals?”

“Something like that. It’s of little consequence.” She shrugged. “She’s dead and I am quite alone.”

He stared at her profile for a long moment. She was so dispassionate, as if having a sister eaten by cannibals, or whatever; a mother dead in childbirth; and a father who seemed to care nothing for her was not at all unusual. His heart twisted for her.

“Not quite alone,” he said quietly. “Now you have me.”

She laughed. “Whether you want me or not.” She turned her gaze toward him. “I cannot believe marriage to a woman you do not know would be your preference.”

Without thinking, he took her hand and pulled it to his lips. “You, my dear Miss Townsend, have become my preference.”

“Because, as you have so plainly stated, you have no choice.”

“I was mistaken,” he said firmly. “I do indeed have a choice. I can choose to ignore my father’s decree, forfeit my fortune, and make my way in the world on my own. It would not be easy, but I do not doubt I could do it. Isn’t that precisely what you did?”