Chapter Nineteen
“To the future Countess!”
The cry rang out across White’s exclusive smoking room, echoing off wood-panelled walls as gentlemen nodded and hands were raised in Drake’s direction. He forced a smile that felt brittle on his face, lifting his own hand in acknowledgment of the enthusiastic congratulations.
“Lady Eleanor Thornhill will make a fine Countess of Greythorne,” someone called from the back of the room.
“Earl of Fairfield’s daughter,” another voice clarified for those who might not be familiar with his betrothed. “Excellent family. Substantial dowry. A most advantageous match.”
Drake sipped his brandy, letting the expensive spirit burn a path down his throat.
He had been accepting similar toasts and comments for the past hour, each one feeling more hollow than the last. After three days of hearing how fortunate he was to have secured such an appropriate bride, the words had lost whatever meaning they might have initially held.
Drake knew he was betraying everything his mother had taught him, everything he’d fled to America to escape.
But what choice did he have? The entail’s deadline loomed, and with Katherine seemingly choosing Lord Clifton, he faced an impossible decision: lose Greythorne entirely to Captain Halston—abandoning all the tenants and workers who depended on him—or sacrifice his principles for a practical marriage that would at least preserve the estate.
He told himself it was different from his parents’ marriage.
He wasn’t seeking social advancement or family connections—he was protecting Greythorne’s people.
Lady Eleanor seemed content with the arrangement; she wasn’t being forced into anything.
And perhaps, in time, they might develop some form of companionship, if not love.
Even as he made these justifications, he knew he was lying to himself. But the alternative—watching Greythorne fall into Captain Halston’s careless hands while he nursed his broken heart over Katherine—seemed even worse.
“You’ve done well for yourself, Greythorne,” Lord Carrington commented, settling into the chair opposite Drake’s. “The Thornhill connection is valuable, and I understand the young lady is both accomplished and of pleasant disposition.”
“So I’m continually informed,” Drake replied, unable to keep a hint of dryness from his tone.
Carrington raised an eyebrow. “Not feeling the triumphant bridegroom, I see.”
“Merely tired of discussing the matter,” Drake countered, signalling to a footman for another brandy. “One would think London society had never witnessed a betrothal before.”
“Not one secured with such remarkable speed,” Carrington observed shrewdly. “Barely a month since you arrived in Town, and already the announcement is in the papers. Some might call it impressive efficiency.”
Drake’s jaw tightened. “The entail’s conditions leave little room for extended courtship.”
“Ah, yes. The notorious Greythorne marriage clause.” Carrington nodded sagely. “Though I must admit, Lady Eleanor was not the bride most had anticipated you selecting.”
Drake looked up sharply. “Meaning?”
“Lady Westmore seemed the more likely choice, given your conversations at Lady Fairchild’s reception. Something of a surprise when you announced your engagement to Lady Eleanor instead.”
Drake stared into his fresh glass of brandy, watching the amber liquid catch the light. He could hardly explain that he had chosen Lady Eleanor precisely because she was nothing like Lady Westmore—or Katherine.
Where Lady Westmore had been forthright about the practical nature of their potential union, Lady Eleanor had been properly demure. Where Katherine had challenged his every decision with fierce intelligence, Lady Eleanor had agreed pleasantly with every opinion he expressed.
She was, in short, exactly the sort of bride Society expected for a newly titled earl—young, properly educated, from an excellent family, with no troublesome opinions of her own. The perfect countess to grace his arm at social functions and eventually provide the heir the entail demanded.
The perfect countess for a man who wanted nothing more than to satisfy inheritance requirements with minimal emotional complication.
“Lady Westmore and I determined we were not ideally suited,” Drake said finally, the diplomatic phrasing masking the truth: after seeing Katherine with Lord Clifton, he had been unable to stomach the thought of a marriage based solely on practical considerations.
If he could not have a union of genuine affection and respect, at least he could fulfil his obligation to Greythorne with a bride who harboured romantic notions rather than mercenary ones.
The irony that his chosen bride was from another prominent family had not escaped him.
When the Earl of Fairfield had approached him with the proposal, Drake had initially been inclined to refuse outright.
But something about Lady Eleanor’s lively demeanour and eagerness to please had seemed exactly what he needed—someone who would never remind him of Katherine.
Unlike the coincidence of timing that had led him to witness Katherine apparently accepting another man’s suit.
“Well, however it came about, the match seems advantageous for both parties,” Carrington said, breaking into Drake’s increasingly dark thoughts.
“And Captain Halston must be sorely disappointed. I understand he’d begun making inquiries about estate management, anticipating your failure to meet the entail’s conditions. ”
Drake’s mood darkened further at the mention of his naval cousin. “Captain Halston will have to content himself with his distinguished military career. Greythorne remains in my hands.”
“As it should be,” Harrison Marwood interjected, joining their conversation with a fresh glass of port.
“Though I confess, Halston, your announcement took many of us by surprise. Lady Eleanor was not among the ladies whose company you seemed to particularly enjoy during your brief foray into Society.”
Because there had been only one woman whose company he had genuinely enjoyed, and she had made it abundantly clear that remarriage held no appeal for her. Or at least, no appeal when it came to another Earl of Greythorne.
“Lady Eleanor possesses all the qualities one could desire in a countess,” Drake replied, the words practiced from numerous repetitions over the past three days.
Harrison studied him with disconcerting perception. “Indeed. Though one might have thought you would prioritize other qualities, given your previously mentioned unconventional views on marriage.”
Drake shot his friend a warning glance, which Harrison blithely ignored.
“Pity about Lady Katherine,” Harrison continued, his tone deliberately casual. “I thought you’d suit.”
Drake felt a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“Lady Katherine has no interest in remarriage, at least not to a Halston,” he said flatly. “She’s made that abundantly clear from our first meeting.”
“Has she?” Harrison mused. “I suppose that explains then why she declined Lord Clifton’s suit at Thornfield Park. One might almost think she had specific objections rather than general ones.”
Drake’s glass halted halfway to his lips. “What did you say?”
“Lord Clifton’s suit,” Harrison repeated, watching Drake’s face closely. “She refused him quite definitively, from what I understand. The duke was most disappointed—he’d arranged the introduction hoping to see his sister settled again.”
Drake set his glass down carefully, his mind racing.
Katherine had refused Lord Clifton? But he had seen them together, walking through the rose garden, her face upturned to his as she smiled that rare, transformative smile.
“When did this occur?” he asked, striving to keep his voice neutral.
“Three days ago, I believe. The day before your engagement to Lady Eleanor was announced.” Harrison’s gaze remained fixed on Drake’s face, reading every flicker of expression. “Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Three days ago. The very day Drake had followed Katherine to Thornfield Park.
He had witnessed her apparent interest in Lord Clifton, and then had returned to Greythorne in dejection.
When Lord Fairfield’s letter arrived proposing an advantageous match with Lady Eleanor, he had agreed in a surge of wounded pride and determination to secure his inheritance regardless of personal cost.
Had he misunderstood what he saw? Had Katherine truly rejected Lord Clifton’s suit, even as Drake was arranging his own loveless engagement out of the mistaken belief that she had chosen another?
The possibility sent a jolt of something like hope through him, immediately followed by the cold realization that it no longer mattered.
He was betrothed to Lady Eleanor. The announcement had been published in the papers. The wedding date had been set for six weeks hence, well before the entail’s deadline. There was no honourable way to withdraw without causing a scandal that would damage both families.
“It’s of no consequence,” Drake said finally, taking a larger swallow of brandy than was strictly proper. “Lady Katherine’s decisions regarding matrimony are her own affair.”
“Of course,” Harrison agreed smoothly, though his eyes reflected scepticism. “Just as yours are. I merely found the coincidence noteworthy.”
Before Drake could formulate a suitably cutting response, they were interrupted by the arrival of several more gentlemen eager to congratulate the newly engaged earl.
Drake endured their well-wishes with as much grace as he could muster, accepting handshakes and backslaps with a fixed smile that never reached his eyes.
“You’ll be returning to Greythorne Manor soon, I imagine?” one of the gentlemen asked once the initial flurry of congratulations had subsided. “Or will Lady Eleanor prefer to remain in London until the wedding?”
“We haven’t discussed it in detail,” Drake replied, though in truth, he had been avoiding his betrothed as much as propriety allowed.