An Unexpected Gentleman (14 page)

“You made the loan knowing he couldn’t pay it back?”

“Certainly not.” He hesitated, not looking all that certain. “I knew, however, that the investment was a considerable risk. My reasoning was, he would either earn a profit sufficient to keep him occupied until we wed, or he would remain in prison.”

“Because of you.”

A hint of impatience crossed his face. “What would you have had me do? Free him? Give him the opportunity to ruin you? Watch the woman I adore lose the little she has left? He would have spent that inheritance in a fortnight and left you with nothing.”

“I’d not have given him the money to spend. I’ve more sense than that. And honestly, that is neither here nor there. You’ve lied to me.”

“I never meant—”

“Did you not think to ask what I wished? Did it not occur to you to speak with me of this decision?”

A furrow worked between his brows. “Matters of a financial nature—”

“I have cared for the finances of my family for some time.”

“You have performed the role of matriarch with aplomb. No one can dismiss the steadfast loyalty and good sense you have shown in the care of your family. You are an exemplary woman, Miss Ward. Your accomplishments are to be lauded.” He paused, and once again, his tone turned condescending. “But you are
only
a woman. You lead with your heart.”

She wanted to lead with the broad head of the wooden spoon. “I am not a silly chit just come from the nursery, sir.”

“I’d not have courted you these four months if you were,” he replied with extreme patience. “Answer me this—if your inheritance had been sufficient to free your brother, would you have done so?”

“He’s my brother.” And most siblings searched for ways to bring their brothers out of prison, she thought, not put them in.

“With the heart,” he repeated in a tone that made her feel like a foolish little girl. “Wolfgang would have petitioned the courts for what was left of your inheritance. You do know that.”

The thought had occurred to her, but at the time, she’d retained some faith in her brother’s loyalty and honesty. But that faith had been shaken. Would Wolfgang have respected the terms of their cousin’s will? She honestly didn’t know, and her uncertainty must have shown, because Sir Robert shook his head and pressed his advantage.

“Can you not see freeing your brother for the mistake it would have been?”

It troubled her that she could see it might have been a mistake. She hated that there existed the possibility that he was right.

Sir Robert sighed. “Perhaps it was my own mistake to have kept my involvement from you. But I can only claim the best of intentions.”

It wasn’t an apology, but it was an admittance of fault. She wondered how sincere that generosity was, and how deep it ran. “If I asked it of you, would you free him now?”

He shook his head. “When we marry. When I can protect you from his excesses.”

Not all that deep, apparently. “But if—”

“Trust me, Adelaide. Trust me to do what is best for you and your family.” He reached out and took her hand. “You need me, darling. Let us put this matter to rest.”

She hesitated, then gave a distracted nod. There didn’t seem any point in further argument. Sir Robert was not going to be persuaded that he was in the wrong. And though she wasn’t ready to forgive his methods, she conceded that his intentions—however misguided—had been good. And really, wasn’t it better that they should be able to part ways on civil terms?

“Excellent.” Sir Robert said, a new cheer in his voice. “I’ll have the banns posted immediately.”

“What?
No
.”

She didn’t mean to snap the refusal, or to yank her hand free of his,
or
to leap off the settee as if she’d been bitten in the backside, but she did all three.

Good Lord, that was not the matter she’d thought they were putting to rest.

Evidently, Sir Robert thought it was. He reared back, pale blue eyes going wide. “What the . . . What do you mean, no?”

“I thought we were agreeing to end our argument, not wed. Sir Robert, I am most dreadfully sorry—” Only, she wasn’t, particularly. “But in light of all of this, I cannot marry—”

“You must marry.” He rose from his seat, gripped his hands behind his back, and leaned toward her to impart in an excessively patient tone, “My dear, you have been compromised.”

She clenched her jaw and prayed for patience of her own. For pity’s sake, did he suspect her of having forgotten? Or somehow having overlooked that minor episode in the garden, and the one in the study, and the reason for her prompt departure? How ridiculous did he believe her to be?

“Miss Ward?”

“I was not compromised by you,” she ground out.

He straightened, slowly. “You
cannot
be considering—”

“Lady Engsly suggested that I should consider all of my options, and that is what I’ve done. Mr. Brice has made a respectable offer, and—”

“There is
nothing
respectable about Connor Brice.”

Very little, to be sure. And yet he was the wiser choice. Good heavens, how depressing. “Be that as it may, and whatever your opinion of Mr. Brice, he has—”

“You will not speak of him to me!”

Adelaide snapped her mouth shut, more out of shock than a willingness to obey.

Sir Robert looked to be on the very edge of control, and losing ground. His lips twisted. His skin grew red, and something dark and ugly clouded his eyes. When his hands curled into fists at his side, she took an instinctive step back. She’d never been the sole focus of his temper before. He’d been mildly put out with her in private, a little exasperated, but never truly angry. Even in the garden, it had been Connor who’d taken the brunt of Sir Robert’s displeasure.

Her eyes darted to the wooden spoon. Sir Robert stood between her and it. She edged a little closer to the door.

She needn’t have bothered. The storm passed as quickly as it had come. Sir Robert bowed his head and blew out a small, quiet breath. When he looked at her again, his color was returning to normal, his expression serene.

Good Lord, and she’d thought Connor mercurial. She wondered how the brothers would take the news that they had more in common than ancestry. Probably not well, and considering Sir Robert’s appearance a moment ago, she wisely kept the observation to herself.

“My poor girl,” Sir Robert intoned. “You have been through a trial, haven’t you? And here I am, acting the heartless ogre, insisting on a forgiveness I’ve not yet earned.”

Forgiveness? She wasn’t certain if he was speaking of his failure to guard his brother, his failure to mention his involvement with Wolfgang’s imprisonment, or his failure to treat her with a modicum of respect. At present, she didn’t care. She just wanted him to leave. Her regrets could be sent in a letter.

Sir Robert surprised her yet again, by stepping forward and brushing her cheek with his fingers. She immediately reconsidered the necessity of a retreat. His hand was cool and gentle, yet her stomach turned in protest of the touch.

“I’ll call on you tomorrow,” he promised.

Oh, damn.
“I’m afraid tomorrow will not be possible. I . . . I’ve only just arrived home, you see, and . . . and there are all manner of duties that went neglected in my absence. My nephew—”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He nodded in understanding. “You need a day or two to settle in. I shall call on you later in the week.”

She offered a noncommittal “hmm” and curtsy and indulged in a long sigh of relief after he bowed and let himself out.

Another step completed, she thought. Well, another step
nearly
completed. She still needed to write the letter. But right now, she needed something else.

Anticipation sent a tingle along her skin as she crossed the room and climbed the stairs, careful to avoid the very center of the third step. It had a disconcerting tendency to bow in the middle.

Sailing straight past her room and Isobel’s, she went to the open door of the nursery, and for the first time since leaving the house party, she smiled.

Oh, yes, this is what she’d needed—to see her twenty-two-month-old nephew fast asleep on his bed. George slept on his belly, with one arm caught under his chest and the other bent so that his fingers covered his face like a mask. He’d scooted down on the mattress, his head a solid foot from his pillow.

She ignored the urge to pick him up, straighten him out, and set him back on the pillow. He’d only wiggle back to where he was now.

Instead, she padded softly across the room and leaned over his sleeping form, soaking in the details of his face— the long lashes against pink, round cheeks; the rosebud mouth and small, crescent scar from a lost battle with the corner of a windowsill. She brushed a hand over his soft curls, so blond they were almost ivory now, but they would darken with age, as they had for all the Ward children.

Bending down, she placed a kiss at his temple, and though she knew it was silly, she took a moment to breathe him in. There was no reason why he should smell different than her and Isobel. They lived in the same house, used the same soap, slept on the same linens. And yet . . . She breathed him in again. And yet there was something unique about him, something distinctively sweeter.

She straightened with a sigh.

This was why it was so important she make the right decisions. This was why she could not afford to make the wrong ones.

This
was why she would marry a man she did not love.

A
delaide wrote the letter that very night but held off sending it the next day. Her reasons were varied but stemmed in part from the late-arising notion that it might be prudent to accept one offer—thereby authenticating its veracity—before rejecting the other. She rather thought ruination would be preferable to a marriage to Sir Robert, but her preferences came second to the needs of her family. The other—and possibly most influential—reason for delaying the letter was fear of Sir Robert reappearing on her doorstep to protest the rejection in person.

She had a day or two yet before he would call again. She’d send the letter tomorrow, or possibly the day after if—

“Are you constructing a sack?”

Adelaide pulled herself from her musings at the sound of Isobel’s voice. They were sharing the broad window seat in the parlor, a sewing kit squeezed between them.

Though she’d used it as an excuse with Sir Robert, in truth, there was a great deal that needed her attention at home. And when Mrs. McFee had offered to take George for the morning, she and Isobel had taken advantage of the resulting quiet to fit in a spot of darning.

Isobel was down to four usable gowns. Adelaide was down to five, including the ball gown she hoped to sell and the blue dress she was wearing now.

Isobel set down a chemise and pointed to the gown Adelaide was holding. “You’re sewing the hems together.”

Adelaide looked down at the mess she’d made of her work. “Oh, dear.”

“Only a stitch or two.” Isobel handed her the stitch ripper and turned to look out the window. “There’s a stranger coming down the drive in a phaeton.”

Adelaide glanced over her shoulder then quickly vacated her seat. “That is Mr. Brice.”

“Is it?” Suddenly fascinated with the view, Isobel set her darning aside without looking and squinted through the glass. “I can’t make him out as yet. But it’s a new phaeton. Quite stylish.”

“I don’t wish to see him this morning.” She needed more time, just a few more hours to collect her thoughts, decide on a course of action, figure through . . . Oh, very well, she wanted a few more hours with her pride. “Would you send him away, please, Isobel? Tell him I’ll be in this afternoon.”

Isobel shrugged, pulled herself away from the window, and headed for the foyer. Accepting that as a yes, Adelaide followed her to the parlor doors and closed them behind her. She grimaced as the warped wood scraped loudly against the floor. The parlor doors had remained open for the last six months for that very reason. And because she hadn’t the foggiest notion of how to fix the problem.

After considering and rejecting the idea of listening through the keyhole, she crossed the room and took a seat on the settee. She sat back against the cushions, then quickly righted herself again when the ancient wood frame groaned ominously—a new and unwelcomed sign of deterioration.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to go back fifteen years and tell her parents, no, she did not wish to learn how to paint and play the pianoforte. She would learn carpentry, estate management, and how to navigate a stock exchange. How different her life would be now.

She rolled her eyes at that bit of foolishness. One could not go back. And even if one could, one would probably be better served by going back a few weeks, declining an invitation to a certain house party, and making a bid for the carpenter’s son.