Page 3 of The Baron Without Blame
Turner awaited him behind a giant desk made of imported mahogany. Martin wondered if it came from the Spanish colonies or the British West Indies. Turner himself was in a dark coat over pale green cotton breeches. They both wore white wigs; this was a formal visit, after all.
“Lord Preston.” Turner gestured to a red leather chair.
A perverse part of Martin – the little boy in him who screamedI did nothing wrong!– wanted to refuse it. Instead, he sat.
“You find my daughter irresistible,” Turner said. Martin hated to note the hint of kindness in his eyes. “I do not blame you. However, I must hold you accountable to it.”
Last night, after the disaster at the Leighster ball, Martin had raked through his copies of Debrett’s and Burke’s to find the Turner family. They had been knighted under Charles II and awarded an earlship by William and Mary. The Turner facing Martin now was the second son of the second earl; when his brother died prematurely eight years ago, he had inherited. Burke’s listed three daughters, all of marriageable age, none of whom were named Lolly.
It was a common enough nickname. Martin only wished he knew whether he was betrothed to Rosalind, Charlotte, or Louisa.
“I apologize for causing a scene last night.” That was as far as he would go in an apology. He could not find it in himself to apologize for whatever gossips of thetonseemed to think he had been doing, nor could he apologize for choosing to help Lolly when she was in distress. “I, of course, should like to offer to marry her.”
Turner smiled. “Tell me about what settlement you can offer her.”
Martin obliged, outlining his annual income, his property holdings, and the pin money he was prepared to guarantee his wife. He was not the richest bachelor in London, but neither was he the poorest, and considering everyone seemed to think he had compromised Lolly last night, Turner didn’t have much choice in accepting. Still, the old man negotiated an extra three hundred pounds per year for her pin money.
“She will want for nothing,” Martin said, though he feared it was a lie.
She might want for some things. For example, a husband interested in the normal pursuits. A husband who relished in importing goods from exploited lands. A husband more concerned with chasing thousands of pounds than doing the right thing.
Turner shook his hand. “The ladies await us upstairs. Let us go make their mornings joyous.”
The upstairs drawing room was surely the most fashionable room in the house. The walls were draped in a pale pink damask pattern, and the furniture was all gleaming wood with silk-covered cushions. An expensive oil painting of the French countryside hung above the marble mantle.
As the centerpieces of the room were the Turner women. There were four of them, all bent over embroidery as if they hadn’t the faintest idea something momentous was occurring. Martin surveyed them: the mother with silver hair, a blonde in green, a brunette in blue, and another brunette in yellow.
Martin’s stomach sank. On the balcony last night, Lolly had worn a wig, not her natural hair. The sisters were close in age, the eldest twenty-three and the youngest nineteen, so he couldn’t use that as a deductive device, either. He could only hope Turner didn’t expect him to greet the correct girl without any introduction, or else he might never live down the embarrassment.
“Rosalind.” Turner clasped his hands behind his back. “Lord Preston would like a moment alone with you.”
The eldest sister, then. At least he knew her name now. As if the moment were slowed to the pace of sludge, Martin watched the ladies react. Lady Turner lifted her head directly, a twinkle in her eyes as she regarded him. The blonde and the brunette in blue elbowed each other. And the brunette in yellow – she was the one who stood.
Martin’s heart skipped a beat. Of excitement, he supposed. Or perhaps relief. Or perhaps simply acknowledgment: this was happening. He was marrying this woman with fierce allergies and misbehaving skirts and false names.
This was his Lolly, whether he liked it or not.
Turner led them to a smaller sitting room, then retreated, closing the doors with a wink.
Martin felt a sudden wave of embarrassment. It was one thing to accept Turner’s insinuations on his own. It was another to do so with Lolly at his side. It felt almost as if they were conspiring. Only he couldn’t think what they were conspiring to do.
Lolly stood as far away from him as she could within the confines of the room. Her face was turned not towards him but to the window. She was of an average height, her hair the light brown of a dusty road, her skin more olive than cream. He noted what he could not see the prior night: thick eyebrows knitted in doubt, a brown mole dotting the crest of pink lips, rounded shoulders, distracting breasts rising from the pressure of her corset.
Martin hadn’t expected such a beautiful wife.
He cleared his throat. “Lady Rosalind, I have come to offer my hand in marriage. Would you do me the honor of being Baroness Ashforth?”
The words were new to him, but they sounded right, hanging in the air. It was a strange start, to be sure, but it was what fate had decided for him. Martin couldn’t bring himself to resent it.
Except Lolly regarded him with one swift look that swept from his head to his toes. Then, returning her attention to the window, she said, “No.”
?
The night had not been kind to Lolly. First with the allergies, then with the scandal, and finally, with not sleeping for even an instant. Her neck ached from trying so hard to find comfort on the pillow. It did not help that now her whole body trembled, even her stomach.
She could feel Lord Preston’s eyes boring into her. She imagined they were filled with shock. Perhaps injury, too, which would morph into anger soon enough.
Lolly had not planned to refuse him. When she opened her mouth, she expected it to say “yes.” It was the only sensible reply.
