Page 57 of Bargaining for the Barrister
Louisa wrapped her hand around his arm and squeezed it. “Thank heavens for that,” she whispered.
Paul nodded, looking down at her hand on his arm. She shouldn’t be touching him. She knew how he disliked being touched, and yet she did not remove even a finger. The warmth seemed to seep through his jacket. His head pressed against the back of Ian’s, a most awkward position that only offered him a breath’s more separation from her.
Conversation from the front veranda sounded, and Paul focused his attention on the words.
“I’m more worried about this next stage in our plans. If it doesn’t work, I’m afraid our efforts will have failed,” his mother said.
Lady Kellen responded. “This step was a bit extreme of us, but it’s done now, so we shan’t worry until we have to.”
When nothing more was said, Ian pulled back a step, bumping Paul directly into Louisa. Her head went into his chest, and he steadied her. He used his hip to move Ian and put Louisa on the side of him.
“Whatever they’ve planned, it’s already in motion,” Ian hissed, none too pleased. “Those women are always one step ahead of us.”
“What do you think they’ve done?” Louisa asked. “I have to admit I’m worried.”
After Mr. Turner, she ought to be concerned. Paul gave her his best commiserating look. “I’m sorry, truly I am. I didn’t think my mother would be so diligent in her efforts to force us together. If it helps at all, I have sent a note to Mr. Davies, and I imagine he will be leaving in the morning.”
“What exactly is in this note?” Ian asked. His act of folding his arms pushed Paul tighter against Louisa.
“Just a reminder about a case I had that he was involved with last year. If he doesn’t want it coming to light, he will not only leave immediately but will never bother Louisa again.”
Louisa breathed out a sigh—one he hoped was of relief and not more worry. “It won’t be too soon. I thank you.”
“That solves one of our problems but not the other,” Ian said. “I wouldn’t put it past these women to have you both kidnapped and taken to Scotland for a forced marriage.”
Paul laughed at the absurdity of the scenario. “These are our mothers you’re talking about. They’re harmless.” Well, until recently they had been. After Mr. Turner, Paul was questioning his previous rationale.
“If you think that, then you’ve never seen my mother maneuver around a group of politicians. She is cunning enough to be a spy for the Crown.”
Paul’s stomach churned at the thought of more discomfort, or even harm, coming Louisa’s way. For some reason, it triggered thoughts of Mrs. Hammond. The stories she told him to convince him to give up his money likely stretched the truth, but she did not care who she hurt along the way as long as she got what she wanted. No one deserved to be taken advantage of in that way. He nearly reached for Louisa’s hand to reassure her but stopped himself just a hair away from touching her.
“Lord Reynolds,” Louisa began, remiss to Paul’s hand hovering by her own.
“Enough of that title. It hurts my ears. Call me Ian, or do not call me anything.”
Louisa smiled. “All right, Ian. Is there a reason we are still standing crowded together behind a hedge?”
He groaned. “No reason at all,” he said and climbed out of their hiding spot.
Paul quickly followed suit.Once they were on the lawn, he could finally breathe. “I’m going to speak to my mother and tell her I know about her scheming and demand it stops. This is beyond innocent matchmaking.”
Ian gave a firm nod. “I shall do the same with my mother.”
Louisa hugged herself. “I do think that is the only way to end things.”
End. Paul didn’t like the sound of that word, but Louisa was right. “Let’s leave out that we know about their musical club. It is better we know about their meetings than for them to get away with more behind our backs.” He turned to Louisa. “Have Ian send word if anything else happens. I want to hear about it.”
It was harder than it should have been to walk away from her, leaving Ian to see her home. Why did he feel like he should be the one escorting her—unchaperoned? Better yet, part of him still wished she were staying at Rothbrier, where he could keep an eye on her. He jogged up the stairs and let himself inside.
“Is my mother still in the drawing room?” Paul asked Mr. Barret.
“She was on her way to speak with your father in his study.”
Good. His father deserved to know what was happening under his roof as much as anyone. Paul crossed the vestibule toward the study. After a few raps on the wood, Paul’s father called him inside. A familiar wave of sandalwood mixed with his father’s unique flavor of snuff itched Paul’s nose.
His mother sat on the edge of his father’s desk, and her eyes widened in surprise. “When did you return from your time with your friends?”
“I’ve been home for a good half hour.”
