Page 19 of Inconvenient Honor
“I need help,” she murmured.
At least she isn’t wailing.
He pulled the shirt over his head and turned to her. She lifted her shift back into place, covering her sweet breasts, but she groped in vain to fasten her chemisette. He would have her clothing burned also.
He knelt, closed the garment with a few short movements, and rose abruptly. He did not need the graceful slope of the back of her neck where she held up her glorious auburn hair to lure him to her. That dance had been done, binding him to her with silken cords.
He put on his jacket and handed her hers. The tailored riding habit did not look at all alluring. Yet, here he stood, his life in tatters.
They would marry of course. Not once in the entire night had he conjured a way out. They would marry. He pulled her to her feet and watched her fasten her skirt.
“We may still make Chadbourn Park before anyone rises if we set out now,” he said.
“Except the servants,” she retorted.
“They don’t matter. We can contain the scandal.” He picked up his coat and swung it around her.
She looked up then, hopeful.
“We will marry of course,” he told her. “Quickly, but not so abruptly as to cause comments.” He walked toward the door, expecting her to follow.
“I beg your pardon,” she called out to him. “We will what?”
He turned on his heel. “Miss Thornton, you will be the Marchioness of Glenaire. That is far from ideal, and the difference in our state will no doubt cause talk. We will have to endure it.”
“Why?” she demanded. “Why this ‘far from ideal’ demand? Has Lady Sarah refused you?”
“Don’t be coy, Miss Thornton. You have led me into folly at every step. After last night I have no choice. I shall have to marry you. My family?—”
“Your family would have kittens if I married you, which I will not.”
“You have respectable, if not the highest, breeding, you will show to advantage when properly dressed, and you will do well as a diplomatic hostess. My family, I was going to say, will have to deal with it.” He stalked away. “So will you.”
“I will not,” Lily shouted after him. He ignored her.
She isn’t a fool. She will leap at the chance to be a marchioness. Does the damned woman think she deserves poetry also?
Chapter Eight
Arching one’s back, Lily found, did little to stifle an ache when jostling along rough roads in a farmer’s cart. She brooded in solitude on the back of Farmer Justice’s wagon, legs dangling, her back to Glenaire who appropriated the rough bench up front. She added that to her list of grievances.
Chadbourn Park, they had been told, was not far “’f you take th’road that avoids th’village and up the back lane.” An hour had passed during which Lily had plenty of time to nurse those grievances.
I will not tie myself to that insufferable boor even if he begs.
A vision of Glenaire begging brightened her spirits considerably. It did not, however, change her views. While she blamed only herself for succumbing to his advances—to her own turbulent passions, if she were honest—his insulting offer stuck in her craw.
This episode may bring disaster down on my head, but he’s a fool if he thinks he can order my life. I will manage the thing myself no matter what he says.
The wagon bumped around a rutted turn and slowed. The outbuildings of Chadbourn Park emerged beyond the fields. People bustled about their business; a groom led a horse past. He looked at them with little curiosity.
We must look like the village beggars.
Glenaire jumped down and came round to help Lily. The farmer saluted them and went on his way with shouted greetings to acquaintances as he went.
“We’re too late to sneak in unnoticed,” she lamented.
“By servants perhaps, but I will not have the family see us in this state, nor my staff,” he said.
