Page 3 of The Proposition
“Perhaps it was foolish to rail so against marriage, dearest, one does tend to succumb to it, in the end.” Honora squeezed her tighter. “But the humiliation should be his, unless you did something to make him go so cold.”
“Nora!” Clemency pulled her head back, aghast.
“I am not accusing you! Sweet sister, I would never.” Honora shook her head, her darker ringlets bouncing against her cheeks. “I only…I know you can be willful, and opinionated, and…Well, and stubborn. Occasionally impropriety gets the better of you. And men are strong in their guises and fragile in their hearts, perhaps you unknowingly gave some offense.”
It came out like a question, but Clemency was too upset to answer. Yet she did search her mind. Had she said something?Donesomething?
“Nora…” She let out a giant gust of breath and sank against her sister. “All I did was love him with all my heart. I loved him better every day and feared I should use it all uplong before we were dead or bored with each other, but while my affection grew his simply faded away. Now he will not so much as look at me, and I will be married to a heart of stone.”
But the family would go on, and there would be a roof over their heads, and food on the table, and nobody would be turned out in disgrace. That it all came down to money made Clemency more disgusted with herself. They were quiet for a moment, and Mariah, their maid, entered to light the room with candles and pull the curtains shut and then, she was gone again. Honora rubbed Clemency’s back, and gradually the urge to cry dissipated.
“I can be courted again, dearest. There is no need for you to continue in this way if you think he is lost,” Honora said.
“No! Absolutely not. No. I forbid it!”
“You cannot forbid me—I am your elder sister.”
“I can and I do. No, Nora, this is my error,” Clemency insisted, turning until she sat with her legs dangling over the side of the bed. She took both of her sister’s hands in hers and checked Honora’s face. Her sister was willowy and had a more elegant face, wiser yet still unmistakably feminine. If Clemency was a rose, then Honora was a lily of the valley, delicate and sweet, shy and ever drawing inward.
“This is my error,” Clemency repeated. “And I will…I will simply learn to live with it. I have soldiered on for weeks now; I can do so for longer. For us. For the family.” She forced a thin smile. “But mostly for you.”
“Perhaps the Bagshots will have a better season,” Honora suggested hopefully. Her eyes sparkled with optimism, but it was a dull shine. They all had that look lately, a family of bright eyes gone dim in the face of so much adversity andhorrible surprise. “If their profits rise again, then you can be free of him, dearest. Maybe your freedom is near at hand.”
“Maybe,” Clemency said.But probably not.
Honora, taller, leaned her head down and rested it on her sister’s shoulder. “Say you will come to the Pickfords’. I cannot survive it alone. There are always so many pitiable glances at these dances; I hate it. I hate to be pitied and fussed over and made to feel the loss all over again.”
“Then let us both stay here and feign illness.”
“Mother will be cross, and it will disappoint Tansy so—you know how she loves to dance and be seen, and she needs something to lift her spirits now,” Honora pointed out. “She has talked of nothing else all week! Miss Brock will be there, and she has all the best fashions, and Mr. Greer’s cousin is returning from abroad, and Mrs. Sable will have the latest gossip from London. So says Tansy, of course. Repeatedly.”
“You must stop being so sensible,” Clemency said with a long sigh. “And persuasive.”
Honora wrinkled her nose and sat up, climbing up from the bed and smoothing out the folds in her dark green gown. “A distraction will do us all a world of good,” she insisted. “And I will fill your dance card, and find you a better prospect, and free you from this cold entanglement.”
At that, Clemency had to laugh, for who else would ever seek to court her, Clemency Fry, the woman who had sworn off marriage and called herself unconquerable? The headstrong girl who had surrendered to one man only to find herself locked away in the frigid and unforgiving prison of his total indifference.
Miss Taylor was right—it was all, quite frankly, a swindle.
2
Mr. Audric Ferrand supposed that under a different moon, he might find the village of Round Orchard tolerable, even charming. But his poisoned mood did not allow for such generosity. He had tracked the scoundrel to Round Orchard, and that was all that mattered. His purpose. His mission.
Audric had tracked many such rakes to many such secluded villages, but this time it was altogether different.
His cousin Mr. Frank Greer acquired an invitation to the dance for him easily enough. Like any genteel English family, the Pickfords were eager to make more rich acquaintances, and Audric was certainly that. Rich.
Rich and determined. A dangerous combination in any man of wit and means, in a man like Audric, with acuity to spare and a lightning-fast sword hand, it was lethal. He was a seeker under a hunter’s moon, come to do what he did best: bring unruly dogs to heel.
The last freezing gusts of winter blew his greatcoat hard to the left as he made his way to the door. The Pickford residence, a comely if rustic estate called Harrop Hall on the outskirts of Round Orchard, south of Heathfield, glowed with a welcoming light, every window filled with a cheery candle, each of them a promise to banish the chill. He hadcome late but not impolitely so, hoping to blend into an already drunk and rowdy crowd. If he was lucky, the music and laughter would be so loud that nobody would notice him being announced.
The wind brought with it a breath of nostalgia that he drank down greedily. It reminded him of the woods and fields of his boyhood, the idle hours spent educating himself in his father’s library, collecting insect specimens and chasing frogs along the banks of the Vesle River. It was there, along that river, that he had learned to hunt and gained a talent and a taste for it. That he only ever enjoyed the thrill of the chase and not the act of killing troubled him and embarrassed his father. Yet it was undeniably so—to spy a hare in the brush was galvanizing, to spill its blood a minor devastation. Always the scent of woodsmoke and cool gravel transported him to the Vesle, to the crunching leaves, the hares, his father standing like a marble column at his back…. He banished such sentimental thoughts from his mind, remembering that somewhere inside the Pickford estate the focus of all his rage and ire waited, unwitting, ignorant of what was soon to befall him.
Thatthought he relished. He let it nourish him, let it propel each step toward the front door. It was painted dark green and swung open as he approached, a ready manservant on the lookout for late guests. His coat and hat were taken, and Audric stood adjusting his sleeves in the expansive foyer, his keen eye taking stock of every detail in the place. The front hall was choked with people, their combined heat creating a swelter, but he was glad of it—he might just go unnoticed. The Pickfords had decorated Harrop Hall in a strong hunting motif—furs, antlers, and stuffed rodentspouring from every available corner and shelf. He had to admire their commitment, for the tapestries and heavy rugs were out of fashion but did somewhat lend a timeless air to the house, as if a medieval knight could stroll around the corner at any moment and not look out of place.
A large, wide staircase framed the hall leading toward the ballroom. To his left and right, corridors led to salons overflowing with guests. A sea of ladies in white silk and muslin was dotted with the occasional blue or red or black gentleman’s coat.
“Sir.” The manservant had returned, a young man with white-blond hair and a spotty complexion. “If you will please follow me—”
