Page 8 of Vows in Name Only
Smothering a sigh, she entered the casual living room. Her father stood in front of the dormant fireplace big enough to fit two grown men. Well, maybe one and a half if the men were the size of Cain Farrell—okay, she had to stop thinking about him.
It’d been a little over a week since that impromptu meeting in his garden, and she couldn’t eradicate him from her mind. More than was probably healthy, she turned those stolen moments over and over, analyzing them. Trying to convince herself that his gentle stroke to her cheek hadn’t meant anything beyond gratitude. That she hadn’t spied heat in his eyes. Because to believe the alternative...
“Hey, Dad,” she greeted. “Is everything okay? Your message sounded urgent.”
“Yes, everything is okay. Better than okay,” he said, flicking a hand. A frown creased his forehead as he scanned her from top to bottom. “Good Lord, Devon. What are you wearing? I can’t believe you went out looking like that. What if one of my business associates or someone important had seen you?” He shook his head, uttering a low sound of disappointment.
Someone important had seen her. Severalsomeonesactually. The hundred-plus children she worked with as a youth coordinator at a community center located in East Boston.
“Since most schools are out for Columbus Day, we hosted a play day. Jeans and a shirt are far more appropriate for balloon tosses, three-legged races and kickball than a suit.” Very aware of her father’s low opinion of her job—a job he viewed as beneath her—she shoved aside the pang of hurt his condescending words elicited and switched the subject. “So what’s going on? Why did I need to rush home?”
Before replying, he crossed the room to the full bar built into the wall. Only after he fixed himself a drink and sipped from it did he turn back to her. “I have wonderful news, Devon,” he said, lightly swirling the alcohol in his glass. “We’re having a very special guest over for dinner. Which means you need to go upstairs, get out of those rags and dress in your best.”
“That’s the emergency?” She left off theseriously. But it echoed in the room. “You have people over for dinner at least three times a week. Why is this so important?”
“Because,” he paused, sipping from the glass and studying her over the rim, “the guest is your future husband.”
Devon rocked back on the heels of her sneakers in shock. The words boomed in her head, but they didn’t make sense. Husband? What the hell was he talking about? She wasn’t evenseeingsomeone much less thinking about marriage.
Swallowing hard past a suddenly constricted throat, she forced out, “What?”
“I’ve arranged for you to be married to one of the most sought-after bachelors in this city. Maybe the country. He comes from one of Boston’s best families, is rich, successful—you can’t do better.”
“I—” She shook her head, dread mixing with astonishment. Because he wasn’t kidding.
Oh my God,he wasn’t kidding.
“Dad, you can’t just arrange marriages like this is feudal England. I’m a grown woman fully capable of choosing men to date and one to eventually marry. And when I do, his credentials will include more than the number of zeros in his bank account or how far back he can trace his roots,” she argued. Wondering why in the world she was actually having this discussion.
“As your father, I have a vested interest in who you marry and who enters our family. This isn’t just about you,” he persisted. The steely note in his voice had horror coiling around her rib cage.
“Since it will be me pledging my future to someone, living with them, sleeping with them and having kids by them, I would say it’s most definitely about me,” she snapped, unable to contain her irritation...and growing panic.
His gaze narrowed on her, and he stalked across the room back to the fireplace, where he deliberately set his drink down on the stone mantel. “I have cared for you, provided for you, worked hard and sacrificed for you. There is no better judge of who you should call a husband than me. And that includes you.”
You did it all foryou. For your pride, your ego, your never satisfied need for more.
The scream filled her head. Only sheer will and a deeply rooted respect for his role as her father prevented the words from tumbling past her lips.
“Now,” he continued, “after all the trouble I went through to secure this arrangement, youwillbe at your best. Youwillimpress him tonight. He has connections that far surpass business. Thanks to me, you will be welcomed into Boston society and have all kinds of doors opened to you. To both of us. I won’t allow you to mess that up.”
“And what about kindness? Affection? Love? I don’t deserve that kind of marriage? Like you had with Mom?” she whispered.
“And you see how well that turned out,” he snapped. “I’m doing you a favor, Devon. Enter a relationship based on mutual benefits and common ground and if, God forbid, you end up a widow, you won’t be left devastated and broken. Remember that, Devon. Keep your heart out of this. And you will have the best life I could ever gift you with.”
“Dad, are you listening to yourself?” she demanded, disbelief and bone-deep sorrow pulsing in her. “You can’t possibly mean any of that.” She shook her head. Yes, her mother’s death had changed him. But this much? When had he become so...cold? So hard-hearted? “Sorry, Dad. I can’t do it. You might think an arranged marriage is some kind of blessing, but to me it would be hell. I won’t marry a stranger.”
And what kind of man would agree to this archaic and self-serving nonsense? What did he expect from her? More to the point, what did her father promise him to get him to agree to this farce? If he really was one of the country’s most eligible bachelors, then he should have his pick of women. Devon was a realist; she was kind, smart and a hard worker. But she wasn’t the most connected, the wealthiest or the most beautiful. Why her?
“You’ll do it, Devon,” he snarled. “Because I’ve raised you, sacrificed for you.”
“You did those things because you’re my father,” she replied, anger at his attempt at emotional blackmail coursing through her. “It’s what fathers do.”
“And daughters put their families first,” he snapped. Pausing, he drew his shoulders back, visibly calming himself. Turning, he picked up his glass again and drank from it. When he faced her again, he slid his free hand into his pants pocket and quietly studied her. “Devon, you’re going along with this—”
“No, sorry. But I’m not,” she interjected.
He continued speaking as if she hadn’t interrupted. “Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure the funding for that precious community center you love will be rescinded. And I’ll make the rounds with other donors and convince them the center is a bad investment. You know as well as I do that there isn’t a lack of charities where that money can be applied.”
