The proposition, p.2
The Proposition, page 2
Clemency fled the table, her vision blurry as she found her way to the sitting room, then to the grand front hall, and then to the stairs leading up and away. The bannister caught her before she could fall. She stayed there for a moment, finding her feet, then dragged herself up the steps. General chatter of alarm had erupted in her wake, but she didn’t listen, gaining her equilibrium and racing for her bedchamber, breaking through the door just as the first shuddering sob left her mouth.
Backing into the door and shutting it, she let the pain come. She had been holding it in for weeks, months, feeling it fill her up like smoke in a burning house. Just to be in Boyle’s presence was an insult. And yet she must try to marry him. When he first mentioned the possibility of an engagement, it had been the happiest moment of her life, his love, his assurances, making her feel as if anything was possible. She had always been labeled unmarriageable for her opinions and her stubbornness, and deep down she had always wondered that maybe she wasn’t unmarriageable but unlovable.
Then, Turner Boyle had starkly declared his love for her, and like a fool, just for a short while, she believed.
He had come to her just after Christmas, taking Clemency’s hand beside the hearth in the east sitting room while the snow fell beautifully and silently outside. The whole house had seemed so quiet, as if it too held its breath while Turner Boyle smiled tearfully down into Clemency’s face and said the words.
The words. The night after the proposal, Clemency had written them down in her diary, wanting never to forget them. She knew them by heart of course, and now they struck her not as a declaration of love, but as a curse, a curse binding her to him.
Will you love me forever, darling Clemency, and make me the happiest man in the whole of England?
What a magnificent bluff! In hindsight, she should have seen the traps hidden in the field of those words. Pretty they were, and perhaps truly meant in that moment, but like everything to do with their relationship, it was all about him.
Clemency hurled herself onto the bed and beat her fists against the pillows. Her hair and face would be ruined for the dance, but that hardly mattered. She needed to let all of this escape before it flamed hotter and consumed her from the inside out.
If she could cut off the understanding, in an instant she would, but Turner Boyle was a baron, an heir, his fortune dwarfing her family’s. William had married well, but Tansy Bagshot’s once-promising inheritance was now dwindling, her father’s lucrative shipping business struck with tragedy after tragedy, merchant vessels lost to storms and pirates. Unless a miracle turned the Bagshots’ circumstances around, William’s lovely wife might soon be penniless.
Their father’s ailments had kept him from meeting formally with Boyle to discuss the financial ins and outs of the arrangement, though she was assured by both men that it would all be seen to shortly. Yet over and over again, one or both of them stalled, leaving Clemency’s future hanging on the flimsy hook of mere words. In her heart, she wondered if her father kept postponing and dawdling because he simply disliked Boyle, money or no money.
Her sister Honora’s fate seemed similarly bleak, her husband dying unexpectedly, struck by a carriage in London. Their marriage had been so short that his family balked at her taking the majority of his inheritance. Honora had loved Edwyn Hinton mightily, and so he had loved her in return, but the Hinton family did not share his infatuation.
And of course, what a devil would Clemency be to let her sister be pressured quickly into another match? No, it fell to Clemency to secure their futures, and she had done it, against her own prejudices and hesitations, truly against her sense and beliefs, landing a baron. Lord Boyle.
Her fists beat harder against the pillow, so hard she almost didn’t hear the door opening and closing. A rustle of skirts and pitter-patter of slippers later, and her sister was there, stroking the hair back from Clemency’s forehead and sighing.
“Mother is concerned,” Honora murmured. Even before Edwyn passed, Honora had always spoken softly, now her voice barely rose above a whisper.
“Oh, hang Mother! I’m concerned!” Clemency flipped onto her back, staring up into her sister’s face. Her brows met in consternation. “He does not love me, Honora. He did! Oh, he did. But now…now…”
“Dearest,” Honora said, pulling Clemency up until she could hug her properly. “I thought something might have transpired between you. He does not gaze at you as he once did. What happened?”
“I do not know! I can only guess and conjecture. He will not even speak to me, Nora, and he will not drop me out of pity. How I wish he would just end it! I would rather be humiliated and scorned, and have the whole world laugh at me for daring to change my mind and fall in love. Miss Taylor wouldn’t even laugh at me now; she would feel only pity. Oh, but I should have taken her lessons more truly to heart.”
“Perhaps it was foolish to rail so against marriage, dearest, one does tend to succumb to it, in the end.” Honora squeezed her tighter. “But the humiliation should be his, unless you did something to make him go so cold.”
“Nora!” Clemency pulled her head back, aghast.
“I am not accusing you! Sweet sister, I would never.” Honora shook her head, her darker ringlets bouncing against her cheeks. “I only…I know you can be willful, and opinionated, and…Well, and stubborn. Occasionally impropriety gets the better of you. And men are strong in their guises and fragile in their hearts, perhaps you unknowingly gave some offense.”
It came out like a question, but Clemency was too upset to answer. Yet she did search her mind. Had she said something? Done something?
“Nora…” She let out a giant gust of breath and sank against her sister. “All I did was love him with all my heart. I loved him better every day and feared I should use it all up long before we were dead or bored with each other, but while my affection grew his simply faded away. Now he will not so much as look at me, and I will be married to a heart of stone.”
But the family would go on, and there would be a roof over their heads, and food on the table, and nobody would be turned out in disgrace. That it all came down to money made Clemency more disgusted with herself. They were quiet for a moment, and Mariah, their maid, entered to light the room with candles and pull the curtains shut and then, she was gone again. Honora rubbed Clemency’s back, and gradually the urge to cry dissipated.
“I can be courted again, dearest. There is no need for you to continue in this way if you think he is lost,” Honora said.
“No! Absolutely not. No. I forbid it!”
“You cannot forbid me—I am your elder sister.”
“I can and I do. No, Nora, this is my error,” Clemency insisted, turning until she sat with her legs dangling over the side of the bed. She took both of her sister’s hands in hers and checked Honora’s face. Her sister was willowy and had a more elegant face, wiser yet still unmistakably feminine. If Clemency was a rose, then Honora was a lily of the valley, delicate and sweet, shy and ever drawing inward.
“This is my error,” Clemency repeated. “And I will…I will simply learn to live with it. I have soldiered on for weeks now; I can do so for longer. For us. For the family.” She forced a thin smile. “But mostly for you.”
“Perhaps the Bagshots will have a better season,” Honora suggested hopefully. Her eyes sparkled with optimism, but it was a dull shine. They all had that look lately, a family of bright eyes gone dim in the face of so much adversity and horrible surprise. “If their profits rise again, then you can be free of him, dearest. Maybe your freedom is near at hand.”
“Maybe,” Clemency said. But probably not.
Honora, taller, leaned her head down and rested it on her sister’s shoulder. “Say you will come to the Pickfords’. I cannot survive it alone. There are always so many pitiable glances at these dances; I hate it. I hate to be pitied and fussed over and made to feel the loss all over again.”
“Then let us both stay here and feign illness.”
“Mother will be cross, and it will disappoint Tansy so—you know how she loves to dance and be seen, and she needs something to lift her spirits now,” Honora pointed out. “She has talked of nothing else all week! Miss Brock will be there, and she has all the best fashions, and Mr. Greer’s cousin is returning from abroad, and Mrs. Sable will have the latest gossip from London. So says Tansy, of course. Repeatedly.”
“You must stop being so sensible,” Clemency said with a long sigh. “And persuasive.”
Honora wrinkled her nose and sat up, climbing up from the bed and smoothing out the folds in her dark green gown. “A distraction will do us all a world of good,” she insisted. “And I will fill your dance card, and find you a better prospect, and free you from this cold entanglement.”
At that, Clemency had to laugh, for who else would ever seek to court her, Clemency Fry, the woman who had sworn off marriage and called herself unconquerable? The headstrong girl who had surrendered to one man only to find herself locked away in the frigid and unforgiving prison of his total indifference.
Miss Taylor was right—it was all, quite frankly, a swindle.
2
Mr. Audric Ferrand supposed that under a different moon, he might find the village of Round Orchard tolerable, even charming. But his poisoned mood did not allow for such generosity. He had tracked the scoundrel to Round Orchard, and that was all that mattered. His purpose. His mission.
Audric had tracked many such rakes to many such secluded villages, but this time it was altogether different.
His cousin Mr. Frank Greer acquired an invitation to the dance for him easily enough. Like any genteel English family, the Pickfords were eager to make more rich acquaintances, and Audric was certainly that. Rich.
Rich and determined. A dangerous combination in any man of wit and means, in a man like Audric, with acuity to spare and a lightning-fast sword hand, it was lethal. He was a seeker under a hunter’s moon, come to do what he did best: bring unruly dogs to heel.
The last freezing gusts of winter blew his greatcoat hard to the left as he made his way to the door. The Pickford residence, a comely if rustic estate called Harrop Hall on the outskirts of Round Orchard, south of Heathfield, glowed with a welcoming light, every window filled with a cheery candle, each of them a promise to banish the chill. He had come late but not impolitely so, hoping to blend into an already drunk and rowdy crowd. If he was lucky, the music and laughter would be so loud that nobody would notice him being announced.
The wind brought with it a breath of nostalgia that he drank down greedily. It reminded him of the woods and fields of his boyhood, the idle hours spent educating himself in his father’s library, collecting insect specimens and chasing frogs along the banks of the Vesle River. It was there, along that river, that he had learned to hunt and gained a talent and a taste for it. That he only ever enjoyed the thrill of the chase and not the act of killing troubled him and embarrassed his father. Yet it was undeniably so—to spy a hare in the brush was galvanizing, to spill its blood a minor devastation. Always the scent of woodsmoke and cool gravel transported him to the Vesle, to the crunching leaves, the hares, his father standing like a marble column at his back…. He banished such sentimental thoughts from his mind, remembering that somewhere inside the Pickford estate the focus of all his rage and ire waited, unwitting, ignorant of what was soon to befall him.
That thought he relished. He let it nourish him, let it propel each step toward the front door. It was painted dark green and swung open as he approached, a ready manservant on the lookout for late guests. His coat and hat were taken, and Audric stood adjusting his sleeves in the expansive foyer, his keen eye taking stock of every detail in the place. The front hall was choked with people, their combined heat creating a swelter, but he was glad of it—he might just go unnoticed. The Pickfords had decorated Harrop Hall in a strong hunting motif—furs, antlers, and stuffed rodents pouring from every available corner and shelf. He had to admire their commitment, for the tapestries and heavy rugs were out of fashion but did somewhat lend a timeless air to the house, as if a medieval knight could stroll around the corner at any moment and not look out of place.
A large, wide staircase framed the hall leading toward the ballroom. To his left and right, corridors led to salons overflowing with guests. A sea of ladies in white silk and muslin was dotted with the occasional blue or red or black gentleman’s coat.
“Sir.” The manservant had returned, a young man with white-blond hair and a spotty complexion. “If you will please follow me—”
“Not necessary.” Audric waved him off. Not necessary at all. The bumbling young man would draw only more attention. Here, he wanted to be as vapor. As smoke. There and gone again, and never remembered. “I will make my own way. Billiards room?”
The young man’s eyes blew wide with surprise, but he composed himself, bowed, and gestured to the right. “Follow through to the gallery, then you will find it the second door on your left.”
Audric set off, wading into the crush of rustling skirts and wine-red faces, expensive perfume wafted by swishing fans. A quartet in the main ballroom played a sprightly tune, while more quietly in this sitting room a girl hammered artlessly away at an étude. Her friends and suitor were delighted. Audric cut a path through it all, and most let him pass. He was hard to miss, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed in sober black, cut to perfection. If ladies eyed him as he passed, he did not care to notice, and his doggedness instantly dissuaded them. Only three people in Harrop Hall were of any interest to him that night—his cousin, his quarry, and the quarry’s woman.
Everyone else in the estate might have been just set dressing for the drama to unfold, papier-mâché dolls, as far as he was concerned.
His cousin would be in the billiards room, and so that was his first destination. He kept a wary eye on the moving heads before him, aware that he might stumble upon his target at any moment. Not that it would necessarily change anything. The blaggard had no idea what he looked like, or that he was coming, or the myriad ways Audric would make him suffer.
Still. Audric was a man who could appreciate the poetry of things. The symbolism. He wanted it all to unfold just so, for this to be like any satisfying revenge story, a quiet simmer to start, a roaring boil later. His other hunts were to satisfy a client, but this was just for him. It would somewhat spoil things if he were to blunder into the man now, instead of making a precise and calculated introduction at the time and place of his choosing.
He did not yet know if he would savor the kill, but oh how the pursuit would sustain him.
The music from the ballroom grew louder as he sidled by two open doors in the gallery that gave a glimpse of the rows of dancers merrily skipping toward one another and taking hands. Audric could not remember the last time he had danced at such an event; he expected it never to happen again. His was no longer a soul for dancing; it required a degree of buoyancy that he simply did not possess. The quartet no doubt played well, but to him it all sounded hopelessly out of tune.
Thankfully, the billiards room was less full. All the men were wanted on the dance floor, apparently. He spotted his cousin at once, a man of four and thirty, with thick black hair curling down to his shoulders and full, ruddy cheeks. He had the signature Ferrand ink-black hair and shockingly bright green eyes, inherited from Audric’s aunt, Cecile. She was long dead, but the family resemblance endured, strong enough to mark Frank Greer as his blood even though they had not seen each other in many years.
“By God! You really have come!” Frank caught sight of him while watching a game, sipping from a small crystal glass. He strode across the deep red carpet, reaching to clasp Audric by the hand. “Cousin. You look well! Or tall. Tall and well. How long has it been? God. Too long! Sixteen years at least.”
“At least,” Audric agreed, stiffly accepting his cousin’s hand and shaking it.
“And how do you find Sussex?” Frank asked, stepping back to look Audric over from top to bottom. His eyes sparkled. “Is Delphine with you?”
Audric frowned. “No. She is at the inn with my man.”
“Heathfield?”
“Obviously.” Audric glanced around the room, making certain his target was not there.
“Are you looking for someone, Cousin? Whom else could you possibly know here?” Frank laughed and steered him toward the liquor cabinet near the two billiards tables, both occupied with players that gave Audric a quick once-over, brows raised in curiosity. “Ah! But that is on me, yes? I must make introductions. You are not yet a married man, and there are so many young ladies here that would cherish your company, no?”
“No.” Audric allowed him to press a glass of wine into his hand. In truth, he had no interest in courtship or flirtation, only a single-minded need to find one woman in particular. “There is only one lady I should like very much to meet.”
Frank huffed, eyes widening as he clapped Audric playfully on the back. He seemed to notice how much Audric disliked it and immediately withdrew his hand as if burned. “Do tell, Cousin. I am at your disposal. I must say, it is damn wonderful to see you again. Have you given up Fox Ridge for good? Have you been in Calais all this time? Your accent is not as strong as I expected.”
He had forgotten that Cousin Frank was a little light on brains. Already his attention wavered. Audric sniffed the wine, deciding it was decent enough to drink. “Fox Ridge has not interested me in some years. Alas, I am never in one place for very long, though I hope to change that.”
