Chapter 9 #2
Taking a deep breath, she relayed everything Wellesby had said to her that night, particularly how he had compared her and her fellow heiresses to prostitutes and told her she would never be good enough to join their ranks.
She tried to convey all this without a hint of emotion or embarrassment, but a blush still crept into her cheeks, and her throat grew scratchy as she spoke the words that continued to haunt her, no matter how strongly she’d tried to push them away or how ardently she told herself Lord Wellesby’s opinion of her did not matter in the slightest.
The earl’s jaw tightened as he listened, harder and harder until a vein throbbed in his neck.
“I’ll kill him,” he murmured, moving forward as if he intended to seek Wellesby out that instant.
“Don’t,” Calliope replied, her hand shooting out and grasping the earl’s arm before she realized what she was doing.
He glanced back at her, his gaze drifting down to her gloved fingers wrapped around his forearm. A breathless moment passed in which neither of them spoke.
Calliope pulled her hand away, her blush deepening. “I do not need you to fight my battles, Lord Hayward, although I am thankful you are willing to do so. I only share this because you and Wellesby spoke the same words to me that night.”
His jaw dropped. “I never—”
“‘We both know why you’re here. Why any American heiress of a marriageable age comes here,’” she reminded him. “Wellesby said the same thing not twenty minutes before you did. It made me think you had planned your speeches together with an eye to putting me in my place.”
“I swear to you, Wellesby and I had no interaction that night. The fact that we both shared the same horrid sentiments is a coincidence that I will regret the rest of my days. Please, if I have not been clear on this subject, know that my apology to you yesterday was genuine. I was a boor, but my intentions were honorable.”
Calliope tilted her head, examining him. Every line of his body was shaped in innocence and remorse, his gaze pleading with her, begging her to believe him. And even though she barely knew Lord Hayward, she could not imagine anyone could pretend to be as miserable and dejected as he looked now.
“I believe you,” she said softly before turning on her heel and continuing down the path.
She heard rather than saw the relieved sigh that escaped the earl’s lips before he reappeared next to her.
“We both want the same thing, Miss Hart,” he said, his hands knotted behind his back as they walked. “Or, at least, our parents do.”
“Your Lordship—”
“You see, although I am sorry for the manner in which I spoke to you at the ball,” he told her, “I meant what I said. I see no reason for either of us to enter into a marriage where we are promised falsehoods, where someone makes us think they love us in order to use us for their own gain. Rather, I want to enter into a marriage in which my wife and I are transparent about what we are getting out of the endeavor. That is the only way to prevent painful offenses or wounded pride. I would also prefer to marry someone I greatly admire and respect, as you so eloquently put it, so that even if there is no romantic love between us, there can, at the very least, be the potential for warm friendship in due time.”
He stopped walking and turned to her, his gaze meeting hers.
“So, my proposal is this: You are looking for an English husband with a title. I am looking for an American heiress with the proper funds to save Whitefawn. I believe we could make a good match in this regard.”
Calliope swallowed. He was proposing again.
“My lord,” she started, “while I find both your speech and your intentions admirable, I must remind you that my only aim is to return to New York.”
“And I bear that in mind, Miss Hart, but before you reject my proposition, I would like for you to visit Whitefawn and see it—really see it. Not under the glow of chandelier light, but every square, dilapidated inch of it under the sun’s harshest rays.
I want you to see the leaks in the roof when it rains and the farmers who work our fields and the cottages in which their families have dwelled for generations.
I want you to see the beauty in it, yes, but also the disfigurement.
I want to show you how this land could make you happy—how tending to it could become your life’s work, as it has become mine.
How I could make you . . . well, if not happy, at least content, for we will share this responsibility together, and we will enter into a marriage knowing each other’s motives, never needing to question how the other feels. ”
He took a step forward, so close she could not help but breathe in his scent, an inviting mixture of bergamot and pine and the soft summer rain she’d been so desperately craving.
“One week,” he finished. “I am asking that you give me one week of your time to show you all of these things, and if at the end of that week you remain unconvinced, I will not bother you again.”
She couldn’t speak. Could hardly breathe.
The night she’d met him, he’d been so undeniably rude that she felt certain there was nothing deeper beneath the cold, mocking veneer of the Earl of Hayward.
And yet, here he was, opening himself up to her, laying himself bare, giving her every opportunity to mock or ridicule him.
She was shocked at the passion lacing his words as he spoke of his home, at the certainty in his tone as he explained his proposal.
But most of all, she was taken aback by how much sense it made.
She would not marry him, of course, for even the formidable Mercy Bissette Hart could not force her daughter down the aisle if Calliope’s feet refused to carry her there, but if she truly had no other option than to marry for a title, she would have to concede that the earl’s way of going about it would be the most practical.
She started walking once more toward the Serpentine, twirling her parasol above her as she considered his words. Up ahead, the sunlight glittered atop the water like fallen stars.
“I don’t know if I have a week to spare,” she said. “My schedule is rather full at the moment.”
The earl walked slightly behind her. “I will make it worth your while.”
She made a hmm noise in the back of her throat. He was persistent, she’d give him that.
“I believe my mother has several engagements lined up for me already over this next week alone, including a night at the opera on Saturday. Plenty of potential husbands to be found there. She might be disappointed if I suggest we leave such an opportunity behind.”
“Or she might be thrilled,” he rebutted, “considering you have come here to find a husband, and I am proposing.”
“You are proposing that I spend a week in your company with the promise to never bother me again should things not work out,” she replied, taking a seat on a bench across from the water as the heat continued to rise. “It is not quite the same.”
He placed one foot on the bench, his arms crossed over his knee. The sun refracted in his ocean eyes, turning them from deep Atlantic waters to the lighter blue of an early morning sky. He narrowed his gaze, thinking. “How long did you say you’ve been in London?”
“We arrived in March.”
“And how much of the city have you seen in that time?”
“Not as much as I would like, unless of course you count spending my days drinking tea in sitting rooms and my nights trying to remember how to properly address each titled gentleman I meet in various ballrooms and assemblies.”
He thought for a moment. “All right.”
“What do you mean, ‘All right’ ?”
“You have prior appointments you must keep. That is understandable. A man cannot simply whisk a lady off to the country without proper planning. So for the rest of this week, until your engagements have been satisfied, I will act as your guide. I will show you at least one famous London sight a day in return for one week at Whitefawn. One week, I might add, in which I beg you to keep an open mind and truly consider my offer.”
Her lips parted as her mind scurried for something to say—some considerate yet firm way to refuse him—but it was a difficult task to undertake when he was offering something she very much desired.
“You said you liked history,” he prodded.
“I did,” she conceded.
“And London is nothing if not full of history.”
She gazed into his hope-filled eyes and knew her own reflected the interest she could not keep at bay.
“You’ll show me Big Ben?” she asked. “And Parliament?”
“Of course.”
“The Tower of London? Westminster?”
“All of those places and more, assuming we can fit them into our schedule. All you need to do, Miss Hart, is say yes.”
He offered her his hand.
She stared at it.
This was silly. Why her? Why should he be so keen on choosing her, after she’d rebuked him several times, when he could have any heiress in the city?
She was certain after spending one week together, let alone two, the earl would realize they had no business being married to one another, so really, what was the point?
Then again, what easier way could there be to prove they weren’t right for each other? And see a bit of London besides?
She smiled, seeing some sense in the plan.
She stood and took his hand. “Yes, my lord. We have a deal.”
He brushed his lips across her glove. “Please, if we are going to spend the next few weeks together, I insist you call me Edward.”
“All right,” she replied, looping her arm through his as they continued walking. “Edward.”
They took another turn through the trees before starting for home, where Calliope knew she would find her mother standing in the parlor, opera glasses in hand, waiting for her daughter and—if she had anything to say about it—her future son-in-law, to return.