Chapter Three
E very word spouting from Verda’s mouth was another shovel of dirt burying her in a grave of her own making. She appreciated Mr. Oshea’s attempt in shielding her from the Earl of Pender. She recognized the earl, of course. The bounder. His reputation was nearly as renowned as Rathbourne’s. He’d made one advance on her years ago and she’d avoided him since.
First, and foremost, it was widely known Lord Pender was married, had his heir and his spare, with another child on the way. The man had no interest in her for the marriage Papa was pushing her toward.
Sadly, the duke’s description of her as a woman who’d one day be an adequate mother seemed apt enough. She would make an apt wife. An apt mother. An apt anything, truth be told. Apt. She’d certainly been an apt caretaker for her mother until her death. If Papa ended up in gaol, somehow she’d have to find a way to survive.
Ha, she might make an apt whore. A burst of short laughter erupted from her, effectively startling her back to her present situation.
The unknown calculation in this quandary was her “supposed husband.” They’d never met, as far as she could recall. He was tall, and broad. From the corner of her eye, she considered his etched, harsh features. But for the full lower lip that took her by surprise and left her fingers tingling for wont of smoothing away grooves that bracketed his mouth.
The sun-kissed face despite England’s wintry January weather showed a man who spent a great deal of time in the outdoors. Perhaps he traveled by sea. Or farmed land.
With an internal shake of her head, she tamped back her curiosity. A second son? No, Mr. Lysander Oshea was not for the likes of her. With a coveted glance, she considered the throng about them as the hum of conversation picked up its normal whirr.
“Er, what shall we do now?” she muttered under her breath. Mostly to herself.
He leaned in, setting a more widespread prickle over her entire body. “Might I propose a run to Gretna Green?”
Verda’s head snapped up, smacking his chin, or nose, or something, jarring hair from her sophisticated coiffure, which her maid had painstakingly affected. She shoved the unruly strands from her face. “What?” she said, keeping her voice low. A whisper, really, as the word was stuck in her throat. “You cannot be serious.”
He rubbed his chin. “Why not?” His frown deepened the brackets. “You aren’t truly married already, are you?”
Why not? Verda pulled up and dropped his arm she hadn’t realized she was still holding. “Um, er, Mr. Oshea, I do appreciate your assistance with Rathbourne.” She couldn’t suppress the shudder. “I believe it’s time I took my leave.” She spun about and hurried away, feeling the ping of every eye in the place stabbing her between the shoulders.
*
A sense of excitement pumped Sander’s veins. The exquisite woman rushed from the large hall. He hadn’t felt this alive since before his father’s untimely demise. She was lovely in a way he wouldn’t mind waking next to every morning. A small smile touched him. He started to turn away but caught sight of Damien striding in her direction. Sander reacted immediately. He could save her one headache at least.
With fists clenched and jaw firmed, he went after his brother. Damien could not evade him forever. Sander snatched his greatcoat from the same efficient butler and met his brother at the carriage.
The redhaired lady was nowhere in sight. Rain soaked his hat, sluiced past his greatcoat, and down his back in icy rivulets.
“You again?” Damien turned away and climbed in the rig.
Sander followed. “We entered the hell together. Remember? Or has your brain degenerated to the point of ashes?”
“Why are you in London, anyway? Don’t I have properties that need tending to?”
“You know very well how prosperous your lands are doing under my management.” He settled across from his brother. “What is wrong, Damien?” he asked gently, earnestly. “I remember a time not so many years ago when we had one another’s back. Is that all gone now?”
Damien fell against the velvet swab. His eyes closed and he ran a palm over his face. “My wife is dying, Sander, if she hasn’t already succumbed. She’ll not make it through the birth of this child.” He spoke on a resigned sigh that slithered through Sander.
“I’m sorry.” He hadn’t known, having spent the last few months touring the other properties, minding the books, the tenants and all. “Then what are you doing in London? The boys need you.”
“Only Noah is home. Lucius is away at school, if you’ll recall. I’ll head back to Stonemare after handling a small matter before departing.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
A short smile flashed across his face. “Find another governess. Noah’s impatience to leave for Eton had him chasing the last one away. I suppose he thinks as long as there is no governess, he won’t be forced to wait the full three years until he turns thirteen. And something must be done.”
Damien’s second son was an avid learner. A voracious reader who took more after Sander than his own sire.
“Perhaps that beautiful harlot you were attempting to rescue is available. She would be quite pleasing to have about.” The harsh cynicism had returned to Damien’s tone, and Sander’s jaw tightened to nearly breaking.
“Don’t call her that,” he bit out. Then started to refute the idea. “It’s an intriguing notion. Unfortunately, I don’t know her name.”
“Ah.” Damien shot him a grin that resembled the devil he was named for.
“Don’t sound so smug. I doubt you even remember your own wife’s name, if the rumblings about London are to be presumed.” Sander’s light tone had the desired outcome.
The tension eased slack in Damien’s shoulder and his devil smile returned. “I believe Miss Verda Fairclough’s dear papa has hopes of snagging Rathbourne for her. She didn’t seem too keen, did she?”
“No. She didn’t,” he agreed softly, assuming she’d even be interested in such a position. If she was indeed on the hunt for a titled husband, then—no, he was almost certain independence was what she most valued. Miss Fairclough at Stonemare? He liked the idea. He liked the idea very much. With Sander there to supervise, of course. “Miss Verda Fairclough, you say?”
Damien nodded.
“I’ll see what I can do.”