Chapter Four
T onight, Verda wore a brilliant, emerald gown with embroidered leaves in gold sewn at the edges of the sleeves, bodice, and hemline. It was the second of her three newest gowns Papa had insisted on last season. Typically, she steered clear of ton events. Yet here she sat in a box that belonged to Viscount Harlowe and his viscountess, who’d yet to appear.
“So, you had to make a scene. Rathbourne had you in his sights, in his grasp , and you flouted him outright. In front of everyone.” The baron’s chin jiggled with the fury of his shaking body. “I could not believe my ears.”
“I have news for you, Papa,” she said in a low hiss. “I have no intention of selling out myself to save you from your foibles. Even if, by some miracle, I find a way to dig you out of debt, you’ll just do it again and again.” She plopped back against her seat.
“You’ll do as I say, Verda.”
She shot to her feet, forgetting the crowds below, across, in front of, and behind their box. “If I marry, it shall be on my terms. Not yours. If I wish to marry a pig farmer, I’ll marry one. Surely, that couldn’t be worse than being installed at one of Rathbourne’s many holdings with his spoiled daughter he likely hasn’t seen since the moment she was born.” With a swish of her skirts, she was outside the box in a hall devoid of people to catch her breath. Her heart pounded with an anger only matched by Rathbourne’s referring to her as a “piece.”
But the anger was overlaid by a thick layer of anxiety. She edged out of the hall to an alcove, clutching the red curtain to allow the air in as she fought to stay on her feet rather than collapsing in a dead faint. Could she really leave her father to collectors and debtors’ prison? The thought terrified her. Not just terrified her… suffocated her.
The curtain jerked from her fingers. Her gaze flew up. Right into Rathbourne’s sneering leer, blocking her exit, the oxygen. Dear heavens, was she to swoon right there?
Verda brought her palms to his chest and shoved, but he proved immovable. She was trapped. She cowered into a corner, black teasing her vision.
Trapped. The trunk blocked the door from the inside. Why couldn’t she move it? She was the one who’d shoved it into place. It was too heavy. “Mama!”
But Mama didn’t answer and her hands were really cold. The housekeeper wasn’t due back until tomorrow.
Tears streamed down her face and she banged on the door and screamed. “Papa, Papa, Papa—”
“Where’s your husband now— Mrs. Oshea?”
The vileness in his tone rippled over her. She blinked and recoiled, but there was nowhere to go.
A large hand landed on Rathbourne’s shoulder and yanked him back. “Right here, Your Grace.”
Verda started and her gaze shot to Mr. Oshea’s sudden appearance.
The fingers of his large hand dug into the duke’s padded shoulder hard enough that the man’s grip fell away from her and forced him away from her. “Perhaps my brother was onto something.” He let go and dusted his hands together.
The calmness of his tone brought Verda to her senses. She skirted the duke to move behind Mr. Oshea, still trembling, but steadier.
But Mr. Oshea was not finished. “You may be yet dead before the year is out. And, here I thought my brother was jesting. Name your seconds, Rathbourne.”
What? “A duel?” Verda found her voice, though she’d have equated it more to the squeal of a frightened mouse. She latched on to Mr. Oshea’s arm. “No. I will not be responsible for any injury to your person, sir.”
His eyes flashed to hers, his hand flattening on his chest. “Ah, you slay me with your doubt, my dear.” His tone had taken on that of Edmund Kean’s.
“I fear the wrong person is taking the stage,” she muttered.
Rathbourne let out a huff of strained laughter. “Married, Miss Fairclough? You? I think not. Well played, Mr. Oshea. She is not worth a bullet in the gullet.”
*
Sander glanced at the lady and winced. One did not have to employ clairvoyance to read Miss Fairclough’s mind. The blood-red sunset of her hair vibrated the waves of her ire. The sight spellbound him momentarily.
Her sharp hiss snapped his attention back to the duke.
Rathbourne’s gaze skimmed and stopped at her low-cut bodice. “Your father is in financial trouble, is he not?”
The gall of the man left Sander speechless. He glanced at Miss Fairclough.
Her cheeks burned. “My father may be a reckless fool,” she bit out. “But he is more honorable than a scoundrel like you.”
“I am not a man to be trifled with, Miss Fairclough. I require a mother for my daughter and you have an exemplary reputation. All that I require in a wife.” His ducal disdain moved over Sander and he sniffed. “Oshea is a second son with no viable prospects of his own. He cannot save your father from his creditors. I can.” He straightened away from the wall. “I’ll await your answer until nine P.M. tomorrow. Now”—he smoothed his hands over his coat then straightened his neckcloth—“I shall take my leave.” Rathbourne backed away before turning and striding away.
Sander had no notion of what to say in the awkward silence that grew, yet he waited.
Her shoulders slumped. “He’s right,” she said through a stiffened jaw. “My father has gambled himself into dung territory. He’ll never stop and I-I won’t have you or anyone rescuing him.”
Sander turned and stared after Rathbourne as he disappeared down the wide staircase before turning back to Miss Fairclough, whose gaze remained on the now-empty corridor.
“Well, I suppose I would let Rathbourne take it on if I’m forced into such a horrid fate as to marry him ,” she revised on a huff of pure disgust.
Sander considered her for a long minute. Maybe two. “I have an offer for you.”