Page 13 of Sinfully Wed
Reluctantly, Papa agreed.
Tears, Mama often said, were a lady’s greatest weapon.
But guilting her father with tears would only last so long. The trick was to rid herself of these unwelcome suitors while finding a man that appealed to her. Or find a way not to wed at all, a much more difficult proposition.
“Angus will realize sooner or later what you’ve been up to, Odessa,” Aunt Lottie gently reprimanded. “Your methods will not go unnoticed.”
The first test of Odessa’s newfound strategy had been a viscount whose name she couldn’t recall. Yet another self-important twit, more concerned with the cut of his coat than anything else. The viscount visited Odessa once, but never returned. It had taken little effort on her part to deter him. Some wool padding and the morbid tale of a man in Germany who gruesomely baked his wife into a pie had done the trick.
A few months later, a baron arrived to call. Lord Malfrey. He’d lasted a full two weeks before throwing up his hands and announcing to Odessa he would rather stay impoverished than wed her. An onion was used to great effect. A story about Madame Guillotine’s victims. More wool padding.
When questioned by Papa, Aunt Lottie pretended utter mystification over Malfrey’s sudden change of heart. Odessa put her hands to her face, sobbing, and pretended to be despondent over Malfrey’s rejection. The matter seemed to rest, especially when the baron up and wed the daughter of an earl barely a month later.
Relieved, Odessa had gone about her usual routine, secure in the knowledge that she had outsmarted her father and his ambitions once more. A great deal of Odessa’s time was spent either at the museum or at one of several booksellers she favored, feeding her fascination with oddities, macabre tales, and other strange amusements to be found in London. She adored a good ghost story or haunting, particularly if the area had witnessed a notorious murder. Creatures not of this earth that walked the London streets at night. Deaths caused by bizarre misfortune. She read and memorized the details of every execution and horrible crime in London contained in the criminal broadsides she devoured as if they were sweets.
A strange hobby to be sure, for a young lady, but without the constant lure of dozens of invitations for the Season, or anyone having the slightest inclination to pay a call upon her, Odessa had to keep herself busy. And she wasn’t any good at embroidery. Madame Tussauds wax exhibition was her new favorite activity. She’d visited the gruesome display of victims of the French Revolution three times alone in the last month.
“I don’t expect to continue this way forever, only until I have an opportunity to present a gentleman ofmychoosing to Papa. Or better yet, convince him to allow me to remain unwed.”
“A dream, Odessa. Angus will never allow you to remain unmarried, nor will he accept the sort of man you would choose yourself.” She shook her head. “You are simply delaying the inevitable.”
Aunt Lottie was wrong. Odessa had met a dashing cavalry officer a few months ago. Appealing to her in every way. A bit rough. Masculine. Unpadded shoulders. Lacking the scent of pomade. She’d been soterriblyexcited.
Then Lord Emerson appeared like a rotten, wormy apple in an otherwise perfect basket of fruit.
“I do not want some over-indulged fop who spends his time putting pomade on his hair and worrying over his waistcoat, title or not. Emerson quite possibly put me off well-bred gentlemen forever.” Drastic methods had been required to force Emerson to beg off. And he did. Or, at least, Odessa was certain he would have if his barouche hadn’t overturned.
“Odessa, there you are.”
Angus Whitehall’s voice filled the air as he stepped inside the drawing room, making the area seem that much smaller with his presence. Not because of his size, for he was no more than average in height and build, but from the sheer confidence he exuded. He was handsome, which drew the eye. Fit. Possessing a full head of silver hair and a well-groomed mustache and beard. Blue eyes, which twinkled and charmed a person within minutes of an introduction.
All of which Mama had often said belied his true nature and made one forget Papa was more wolf than gentleman.
Odessa had never seen evidence of Papa’s ruthless side, not until his determination to have her wed a title had surfaced. Society simply didn’t like him because he was low-born and self-made, which was incredibly unfair. But marrying her off to a title wouldn’t fix things.
“Good morning, Papa.” Odessa tilted her head as he pressed a kiss to her cheek.
“I’m here to speak to you concerning Lord Emerson.” Papa came forward and settled into the chair beside her, eyes shining like cut sapphires and just as hard. No twinkle today.
“Lord Emerson?” Her brows drew together in confusion. The barest hint of dread, like a swirl of smoke, caught around her. What more could there be to discuss? Emerson could hardly wed her from the grave. “But he has…died, Papa.”
“Unfortunate, to be sure.”
“I—am sorry that our association came to naught. You had such high hopes that I become a countess. In truth,” she added, “I was looking forward to being one as well.” The lie slid easily off her tongue. “I haven’t yet sent a note to Madame Theriot.” Her voice held just a touch of sadness at informing the modiste she would no longer need an expensive trousseau. “But I will do so today. I promise.”
“There is no need.” The brackets around her father’s mouth deepened as his lips drew taut into a grim, determined line.
“But Emerson is…dead, Papa.” Another sprinkle of dread made its way over Odessa’s shoulders. Had Emerson somehow managed to survive? Odessa had heard macabre tales of corpses about to be put in the ground suddenly coming back to life. Beating on the lid of the coffin, begging to be released before a shovelful of earth fell. Odessa had once even broached the subject with an undertaker, much to Aunt Lottie’s dismay.
“Bentley Sinclairisdead.” Papa gave a flip of his wrist. “You don’t recover from a broken neck. Fortunately, he has a younger brother who inherited the title.Alsounwed.”
Odessa’s fingers froze on the folds of her skirts, unable to as much as twitch. “A brother?”
Aunt Lottie slammed her book shut. “Angus, you can’t be serious. What you are suggesting is—”
“Entirely acceptable. Odessa and the first Emerson weren’t wed. Or even officially betrothed. I doubt he even touched her hand.”
“But you cannot merely switch one brother for another.” Aunt Lottie looked askance at Odessa. “The very idea is distasteful.”
