Page 22 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“Oh, yes, because peers always do that. The Earl of Plenderith, for example. He is fifty-four, if I recall correctly, and he just married his seventeen-year old ward. He’s followed your society’s rule splendidly, hasn’t he?”

“That is a different situation entirely.”

“Why? Because it’s the man who is older and not the woman?”

“Yes, as unfair as that might seem. Plenderith is a widower with no heir, and he wouldn’t be likely to gain that heir by marrying a woman of his own age. But I suspect you already understand his reasons,” he added dryly, “and you are being deliberately disingenuous, though whether it is to tout women’s rights, or to justify Foscarelli, or merely to try and prove me wrong, I cannot be sure.”

“All three, perhaps? Though I confess, the latter is the most gratifying prospect.”

His lips actually twitched at that, but when he spoke, his voice possessed its usual coolness. “Regardless, we have wandered from the point, which is that my mother is about to marry a man with whom she has nothing in common to sustain a happy marriage.”

“She has love, a deep and passionate love, it seems.”

“Quite,” he said, a clipped, polite reply that showed how insignificant he deemed that consideration. “The result of that love shall be a life of disgrace, and—quite likely—romantic disillusionment. My sisters may now never marry at all, for regardless of whatever dowry I might provide, no peer shall want to claim Foscarelli as his stepfather-in-law with so many other eligible young ladies available to wed.”

“There are paths in life that a woman might choose that do not involve marriage.”

“Not for a peer’s daughter. Her destiny is determined by her success in matrimony.”

“A point which hardly recommends the institution. Forgive me, but if Foscarelli is so unsuited for your mother, if you are so convinced that their marriage would bring her nothing but disaster, why do you not simply buy the man off? If he’s as bad a lot as you believe him to be, that should be an easy thing to do.”

His expression became even more bleak, if that was possible. “Give me a little credit, Miss Deverill. I tried that tactic two days ago. My solicitors tell me he has refused the money.”

“Good for him.”

“You think his refusal admirable?” Torquil gave a humorless laugh. “It isn’t, believe me.”

Irene knew any discussion of Foscarelli’s character was pointless, for it was clear Torquil was determined to think ill of him. “Either way, at this point, the matter has little to do with me.”

“No? Your interference shall have been the catalyst, if not the cause, of my family’s disgrace. I am here because before that happens, I expect you to rectify the situation.”

“Do you, indeed?”

“I do.” He reached again into the portfolio beside him, and from its interior, he withdrew a sheaf of papers. “When you sow the wind, Miss Deverill, you should always be prepared to reap the whirlwind.”

Irene’s amusement faded at once, his ominous words causing a prickle of alarm to dance along her spine. “What . . .” She paused, her voice failing. She swallowed hard, shifting her gaze to the papers in his grasp. “What do you mean?”

He leaned forward and placed the documents on her desk. “That,” he said before she could ask, “is a purchase agreement signed by myself and your father.”

Her apprehension deepened into dread. “A purchase agreement for what?” she asked, but even as she posed the question, she began to fear she already knew the answer.

“Society Snippets.”

If she weren’t already sitting down, her knees might have given way. “You are offering to buy my family’s newspaper?”

“The offer has already been made, the terms accepted. Once my bank tenders the money, the deed is done.”

Irene tried to force down panic and think, but her head was reeling. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered. “It’s not possible.”

“It was not only possible, Miss Deverill, it was easy.”

“You bastard,” she breathed, glaring at him. “Out of a desire for revenge for this perceived slight upon your family, you would take away my family’s only source of income?”

“Not at all.” He pushed the papers closer to her and leaned back in his chair, looking infuriatingly at ease, while she was sick to her stomach and angry as hell. “The purchase amount is generous, enough to provide a substantial marriage portion for you and for your sister and enable your father to pay off the mortgage held on these premises. In addition, there will still be plenty left to provide him with a respectable income for the remainder of his life.”

“So because you are a wealthy duke, you think you can buy whatever you want?”

“Unfortunately, life is never that simple, even for those of us fortunate enough to have wealth. I can’t buy my family’s reputation back if it is sullied. I can’t pay people not to snicker at my mother and call her ridiculous. My money can’t spare my sisters the embarrassment and pain they shall suffer as a result of my mother’s social downfall. But with my money, I can, if I choose, prevent this newspaper from ruining anyone else’s life through its gossip, innuendo, and ill-conceived advice.”

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