Page 2 of To Love and to Loathe
“I’m not,” he said easily. “In fact, I think you should set your sights on me as your next target.”
Diana stumbled, missing a step; Lord Willingham steered her back into the rhythm of the waltz, hiding her error, while she continued to stare at him, mouth agape.
“You cannot be serious,” she managed after a few moments’ silence.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” His tone was casual, unconcerned; if he hadn’t been waltzing, she was certain he would have shrugged. “You seem to be quite eager for a husband. I am, in fact, excellent husband material.”
“By what qualifications, precisely, are you excellent husband material?” Diana didn’t allow him a chance to respond before continuing. “You drink too much, and you seem intent on weaseling your way into the bed of every widow you encounter.”
“I do say,” Willingham sputtered, and Diana awarded herself a mental point for managing to embarrass him before she’d even completed her thought.
“You don’t take anything seriously, and, worst of all, you’ve no fortune.” She pronounced the latter as though it were a death sentence—which, as far as marriage prospects went, it was. She had spent a childhood acutely aware that she was a burden on her aunt and uncle, understanding the expense her presence incurred. She was determined that once she married, she would never haveto obsess over something so vulgar, so endlessly tiresome asmoneyever again.
Willingham watched her with a steady gaze as she spoke, his face never changing expression on the surface, and yet she could somehow sense the feeling building beneath his calm demeanor. “I see,” he said, and there was a clipped tone to his voice that was somehow gratifying—if she was going to verbally wound a man, she’d like evidence of the effort. “And I suppose that you have received so many offers this Season that you are in a position to be so choosy?”
Diana didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. “I have indeed received quite a few offers,” she hedged, which wasn’t untrue.
Willingham’s gaze sharpened, and a furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “Have men been propositioning you?” His grip on her waist tightened, and some primitive part of her thrilled at the touch. “If they have, I will call them out.”
Diana rolled her eyes. “I think, given the number of married ladies’ beds you frequent, you’re in enough danger of winding up in a duel without deciding you need to challenge any man who is a threat to my virtue,” she informed him. “I can take care of myself, and I certainly don’t need you barging in like a knight in shining armor, no doubt mucking it all up.”
“So youhavebeen propositioned,” he said darkly.
“What do I have to tell you that will convince you that your concern is entirely unwanted?” she asked through gritted teeth, managing with great effort to keep a ballroom-appropriate smile upon her face. Judging by the skeptical look Willingham gave her, it likely made her appear slightly deranged.
“Let me be sure I have this correctly,” he said, ignoring her question entirely, as most men tended to do. It was astonishing that nearly all ofthem considered themselves to be the more intelligent sex, considering that they seemed to lack rudimentary listening skills, but one had to manage with the poor fools as best one could.
Willingham continued. “You are possibly being subjected to indecent proposals on the part of lecherous gentlemen, you’ve no marriage prospects in sight, but you still refuse to consider me a candidate for the position of your husband?”
Up until this moment, Diana had been certain that he’d been jesting. She could not think of a single gentleman of her acquaintance less likely to wish to settle into matrimony than the Marquess of Willingham. Had he not been rumored, just last week, to have been discovered in the Countess of Covendale’s bedchamber? Discovered by the earl himself, no less? This hardly seemed like the behavior of a man desperate to settle down to a life of quiet domesticity.
And, furthermore, he wasn’t the sort of man she wanted to marry. She wanted someone dull, someone safe. Someone wealthy.
Lord Willingham was not at all dull, nor did he feel particularly safe—especially not when he was gazing at her as though he could see right through her, as he was at this precise moment. When he looked at her this way, neither of those qualities—dullness or safety—seemed terribly desirable, whileeverythingabout Lord Willingham did.
But the third quality, wealth, was the one she refused to negotiate on, and the fact remained that the marquess was a second son who had unexpectedly inherited his title upon the death of his brother—and who was currently scrambling to pay the death duties from the depleted Willingham coffers. He would never suit.
And for that reason, she had to make him stop—stop gazing at her with his peculiar intensity, as though he saw right through her carefully built shell, right to the heart of her. Toherheart.
That was, quite simply, unacceptable. She had decided long ago that she wouldn’t let anything so foolish as her heart have any part in deciding whom she married.
And so, to make him stop, to remove herself from that unsettling gaze at all costs, she said the first thing that sprang to mind, razor sharp, guaranteed to wound.
“Even if youweren’tin debt…” She trailed off, letting his focus sharpen on her even more, granting the moment its full weight. “I certainly wouldn’t consideryoufor a husband. I can’t think of a man who would be less devoted to his wife.”
Because this was the Marquess of Willingham—rakehell, charmer, and seducer—he didn’t allow his flirtatious smile to slip for even an instant. But something in his gaze dulled and shuttered, and internally, Diana cheered.
Even as a small part of her, buried deep inside, cracked.
This, Jeremy supposed, was what you should expect when you attended a ball sober.
He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been at one of these affairs without the comforting warmth and distance provided by a blanket of brandy, fogging his senses, making him genial and fond of everyone he encountered. A glass of brandy or three made him more appealing to the ladies—smoothed any possible rough edge, any trace of bitterness, leaving behind only the Willingham they wanted to see: handsome, charming, and without an iota of depth. He had learned in his Oxford days not to fool himself—the ladies he lured to his bed were not interested in conversation, or feelings, or anything other than his faceand physique. This was a state of affairs that was, naturally, entirely satisfactory to him—he was certainly not looking for any sort of emotional entanglement. He liked his life the way it was: simple and full of pleasure. At least, that was how ithadbeen, prior to his brother’s death. These days, chasing that pleasure took a rather more concerted effort on his part.
So why, then, had he skipped his brandy, knowing that a certain Miss Bourne would be in attendance tonight, a lady on whom his charms seemed wasted? And what had further propelled him not just to ask her to dance, but also to half-seriously suggest matrimony while doing so? He could not think of anyone less suited to marriage than himself, no matter how appealing Miss Bourne was, with her hair gleaming by candlelight and her rather spectacular bosom evident even in the modest gown she wore. There was something about her that always had this effect on him, from the moment he had first met her, when he was a young buck at Eton and she still a skinny little hell-raiser galloping about her aunt and uncle’s estate. Even then, she had never lacked a biting retort to anything he threw at her, and it had done nothing but make him want to rile her even further. It had been maddening, then.
Now, it was still maddening, but there was an undercurrent of tension to it that he was not enough of a fool to mistake for anything other than attraction. The fact was, Diana Bourne was beautiful and intelligent, and that was a dangerous combination. And something about her still made him want to best her at any endeavor, including simple waltzing conversation. And so, listening to her coolly explain marriage as a financial transaction, he had wanted nothing more than to shock her, set her off-balance. And he had done so in the most obvious way he knew how.
He had not expected her to say yes. Had notwantedher to say yes. Marriage to Diana Bourne was something for a stronger man than himself—or so he reminded himself now, as they continued to turn about the room, sharing a silence that was growing tight as it stretched between them.
