Page 100 of A Dangerous Kind of Lady

Freddie was hunched against a wall, gripping the blue brocade curtain. She was scowling at Sculthorpe, her expression more furious than scared. The Treadgold family were watching the scene like spectators at a game of shuttlecock.

“What a conundrum,” Guy said to Sculthorpe, trying to affect a light tone to conceal the tension coursing through his muscles. “I am experiencing a very intense desire to turn your face into pulp with my fists and then rip off your arms and use them to beat you around what is left of your head.”

“Your ire is admirable but misplaced,” Sculthorpe said. “The fact is: You took what is mine, and I am entitled to a replacement.”

“Bloody hell, they are not dolls for us to fight over or toclaim. Freddie, let us be very clear about what you want.”

“I don’t want to marry him.”

“That isn’t what you said to me,” Sculthorpe broke in.

Freddie glared at him. “I didn’t say anything to you. You assumed.”

“Freddie, what the devil?”

“Lady Treadgold said no men wanted to court me so I would find it less distressing to marry whomever they chose. Then Lord Sculthorpe sent me a note, saying he’d broken off his engagement with Arabella because he had fallen madly in love with me and wanted to meet.”

“You were off meeting him?” He whirled back to the Treadgolds. “And you knew about this? Freddie?”

“I just wanted to know what it was like, to be courted.”

“And how was it?” Miss Treadgold piped up.

“Really dull. He kept saying things that made no sense, and talked about himself a lot.”

Guy clenched his fists. “Did he…touch you?”

“No. Well, he did kiss my hand. It was… You know.”

“No, Freddie, I don’t know. It was what?”

“Wet.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why everyone makes such a fuss about being courted. Why marry someone who’s boring and talks about himself all the time?”

The outrage on Sculthorpe’s face made Guy laugh. He wrapped an arm around his sister’s shoulders and planted a kiss on her temple. “Freddie, you are glorious. The poor bloke never stood a chance.”

Sculthorpe did not share his amusement. “As perfidious as the rest of them. But no matter, my lady. You’ll marry me anyway.”

“I will not.”

“She will not.”

Sir Walter jumped to his feet. “With all respect, Lord Hardbury, it isn’t your decision. As Lady Frederica’s guardian, I decide whom she will marry, a very solemn duty entrusted to me by your dear father.”

“Ah, so that’s what you got your knighthood for, Sir Walter: being a complete and utter weasel.” Guy wished Arabella were here; she would know how to navigate this. Guy was no diplomat, and he could not be bothered trying. “Enough with the pretense, man. First, you intended to marry Freddie off to your son, and now you try this little trick. Once we have a hearing in Chancery, you will no longer be Freddie’s guardian.”

Sir Walter spread his hands in a show of indignant innocence. “Whatever can you mean, my lord? Our darling Lady Frederica has no facility for making conversation with young gentlemen. Why, it would be cruel to expect her to endure the social rituals of a young lady’s Season. Besides, you must admit she does not exercise good judgment. Consider her trysts with Lord Sculthorpe! That special license was procured merely as insurance, in case she got herself into trouble and we needed to salvage her reputation. But now, here is Lord Sculthorpe, undeniably a suitable match for a marquess’s sister. How could you possibly argue that I am neglecting my duty?”

“Freddie doesn’t want to marry him.”

“Lady Frederica is too young to know what she wants. That’s why they have guardians. And Lord Sculthorpe has done the right thing in approaching me to ask for her hand. It isn’t as though he kidnapped her and whisked her off to Scotland, now, is it?”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Guy muttered.

Sir Walter was lying through his teeth. Guy would wager that Sculthorpe’s reappearance was the reason for Sir Walter’s good cheer, once he’d noticed the special license was missing. They must have met at the village tavern. The question was whether anyone else would see it, and if Freddie’s reputation would survive, should this matter be dragged through the courts.

Sculthorpe was smirking. Because Sir Walter was right: On paper, the baron was a good match for Freddie. If Arabella were here, she’d find a way to resolve this. In the meantime, Guy could borrow her methods.

“Have you told Sir Walter your secrets, Sculthorpe?” he ventured. “The one Miss Larke knows, for example.”

---