Chapter Fifteen
Drake exhaled slowly, staring at the unfinished letter before him. A marriage of convenience. No emotions, no risks...
The fire crackling in the grate of his study at Greythorne House was the only sound breaking the silence of the late evening. He had retired here immediately upon returning from Lady Fairchild’s reception, determined to settle the matter once and for all.
Lady Westmore’s proposal demanded a prompt response—courtesy required it, and practicality favoured it.
He reached for the crystal decanter at his elbow, pouring himself a measure of the fine liquid before returning to the blank page that had defied his efforts for the past hour. The words should have been simple enough to compose.
A formal acceptance of Lady Westmore’s proposition. An acknowledgment of the mutual benefits their union would provide. A suggestion of next steps to formalize their arrangement.
Yet his pen remained stubbornly poised above the paper, refusing to commit the necessary phrases.
On his desk lay several sheets covered with calculations—the cold arithmetic of what Lady Westmore’s fortune would mean for Greythorne’s restoration.
The figures were compelling. Her wealth, combined with his own resources, would ensure the estate’s complete revival within five years rather than the decade he had initially projected.
The tenants would benefit from improved housing and agricultural innovations.
The manor itself could be restored to its former glory without compromise or delay.
And the western fields—the lands that had first brought him into conflict with Katherine—could be resolved precisely as she had always wanted. Lady Westmore had been remarkably accommodating on that point, recognizing that the dispute consumed time and energy better directed elsewhere.
“Consider it a wedding gift to the dowager countess,” she had said with a slight smile. “A gesture of goodwill that costs us little but would mean much to her.”
Drake grimaced at the memory, draining his glass in a single swallow as the bitter irony struck him anew.
Everything he had fought against since inheriting Greythorne, he was now prepared to concede.
Not because Katherine had convinced him, but because Lady Westmore made it seem like the sensible course of action.
And it was sensible. The entire proposition was eminently, undeniably sensible.
Lady Westmore herself had laid it out with refreshing directness during their conversation at Lady Fairchild’s reception:
“We find ourselves with compatible needs, Lord Greythorne,” she had said, her dark eyes assessing him with calm intelligence.
“You require a wife to satisfy the entail’s conditions.
I desire the social position and security your title provides.
Dare I say, neither of us harbours romantic illusions about marriage?
We could forge an alliance based on mutual respect and practical advantage, without the complications of excessive sentiment. ”
When he had asked about children—the entail’s ultimate requirement—she had addressed the matter with the same pragmatic clarity.
“I am still of childbearing age, and have no objection to providing an heir,” she had stated. “Once that duty is fulfilled, we might establish a comfortable arrangement allowing each other appropriate freedoms within the bounds of discretion.”
It was exactly the sort of straightforward transaction that had characterized Drake’s business dealings in America. Clear terms, mutual benefit, no false pretences. He had built his fortune on such arrangements.
So why did this one fill him with such profound reluctance?
Drake rose from his desk, moving to the window that overlooked the darkened gardens of Greythorne House.
The London Season continued in full swing beyond these walls, a whirl of balls and dinners and carefully orchestrated matrimonial campaigns.
He had sampled enough of it these past weeks to know that Lady Westmore’s proposition represented a rare opportunity—a chance to fulfil the entail’s requirements without subjecting himself to the tedious courtship rituals that left him increasingly cold.
Yet each time he returned to his desk, prepared to draft his acceptance, something held him back. Something that had nothing to do with practical considerations and everything to do with a pair of blue eyes that had haunted him since their first contentious meeting.
“This is absurd,” he muttered to the empty room, turning back to the unfinished letter. “Katherine has made her position perfectly clear. She has no interest in remarriage, to me or anyone else.”
Indeed, she had stated her intention to remain independent with unwavering consistency since their first encounter. Her experience with Edmund had left scars too deep for easy healing—a fact Drake understood and respected. He had no right to hope she might reconsider her stance for his sake.
Which made his reluctance to accept Lady Westmore’s thoroughly reasonable proposal all the more irrational.
With renewed determination, Drake seated himself at the desk once more. The sooner this matter was settled, the sooner he could return to Greythorne Manor and focus on the estate improvements that had been delayed by this matrimonial charade.
Lady Westmore, he wrote, his pen finally committing ink to paper.
I have given careful consideration to your proposal and find much to recommend it. The practical advantages to both parties are evident, and your approach to the arrangement is refreshingly direct.
It would be my honour to accept—
Drake paused, the word “accept” hovering incomplete on the page as an unbidden memory surfaced with startling clarity: Katherine kneeling beside old Mrs. Parsons after the cottage roof collapsed, concern etched on her features as she checked the elderly woman for injuries.
Katherine arguing passionately with him in the village market, her cheeks flushed with indignation as she defended fair prices for quality materials.
Katherine’s rare, unguarded laugh when he’d rescued her from Lord Barrington’s tedious military anecdotes at the duke’s dinner party.
These were not the calculated gestures of a woman playing a social role, but authentic moments that revealed her true character—her compassion, her principles, her unexpected humour.
They spoke to something in Drake that Lady Westmore’s practical proposition could never touch, however sensible it might be.
With a muttered curse, he pushed back from the desk, the letter once again abandoned. This would not do. He needed to approach the matter with clearer thinking, unclouded by these persistent images of Katherine that seemed determined to intrude upon his rational consideration.
A knock at the study door provided a welcome interruption.
“Enter,” Drake called, grateful for the distraction.
Harrison appeared, eyebrows rising at the sight of the scattered papers and half-empty brandy decanter. “Working late, I see. Your butler said you’d locked yourself away the moment you returned from Lady Fairchild’s gathering.”
“I’m attempting to compose a response to Lady Westmore,” Drake explained, gesturing toward the unfinished letter.
“Ah.” Harrison settled into a chair opposite the desk, helping himself to brandy without waiting for an invitation. “The wealthy widow who offered you a marriage of convenience. News travels quickly in London.”
Drake grimaced. “Apparently so.”
“And have you decided to accept her proposition?” Harrison asked, studying Drake over the rim of his glass.
“It would be the sensible course,” Drake replied, avoiding a direct answer.
“Lady Westmore offers a practical solution to my predicament. No romantic complications, no unrealistic expectations—merely a straightforward arrangement that satisfies the entail while allowing us both to maintain our essential independence.”
“Sounds perfectly reasonable,” Harrison agreed, his tone suggesting he found it anything but. “Practically identical to the business partnerships you’ve established in the past. Except, of course, for the small matter of sharing your life, your home, and potentially producing children together.”
Drake shot him an irritated glance. “Those aspects would be negotiated with the same practical approach as any other element of the arrangement.”
“I see.” Harrison swirled his brandy thoughtfully. “And Lady Katherine? How does she feature in this eminently practical plan?”
Drake stiffened. “She doesn’t. Lady Katherine has made her desire for independence abundantly clear from our first meeting. She has no interest in remarriage.”
“To anyone?” Harrison asked. “Or specifically to another Earl of Greythorne, after her experience with the last one?”
The question struck uncomfortably close to thoughts Drake had been avoiding. “The distinction is irrelevant. Lady Katherine views our association solely in terms of Greythorne’s management and the welfare of its tenants.”
“Does she indeed?” Harrison’s scepticism was evident. “That’s not what I observed at the duke’s dinner party. Nor what Lady Beauford reported from Lady Fairchild’s reception today.”
Drake frowned. “Lady Beauford? What has she to do with anything?”
“Only that she happened to be seated beside Lady Katherine throughout the reception, observing her reaction to your tête-à-tête with Lady Westmore,” Harrison replied with exaggerated casualness. “She found it most illuminating.”
Despite himself, Drake leaned forward. “What reaction?”
Harrison smiled slightly. “I believe ‘stricken’ was the word Lady Beauford employed. Followed by a hasty retreat to the terrace when Lady Westmore placed her hand on your arm.”
Drake recalled Katherine’s departure, her unusual pallor as she excused herself.