Chapter 5 #2
He cleared his throat, suddenly feeling as though he’d swallowed a spoonful of sand. “I’m not trying to force you into something you find abhorrent. If we married … I wouldn’t wish for you to be unhappy.”
She made a little sound at that, her eyes becoming especially wide.
Especially sharp and blue. Until suddenly, the tension in her limbs seemed to melt away, and she slumped against the chair back.
“I wouldn’t wish you unhappiness, either.
” She let out a long sigh. “Did you not hope for a love match?”
His head spun anew, and though he remained planted firmly in his chair, he felt as if she’d pulled a rug out from beneath his feet. A love match. Like his mother had found with his father and later his stepfather, Jeremy. Like his uncle, the marquess, had found with the marchioness.
The type of match that made a person gad about all day as if walking on air and retire each evening with a smile on their face.
The type of match a person could seek if they knew where they belonged and had nothing holding them back.
Yet when a person’s future was uncertain, when one was tugged in two different directions and neither seemed right, such a thing stayed well out of reach.
In cases such as those, there was no alternative but to remain at university and concentrate on one’s studies because anything beyond that proved far too difficult.
“It’s not something I’ve given much consideration,” he said tightly, opting for the truth in its simplest form.
“Do you have a mistress, Mr. Prescott?”
The woman was nothing if not blunt. “No.”
Her cheeks colored, a rosy pink that spread toward her temples, but she didn’t look away or relax her gaze. “I realize I’m in no position to make demands, but even so, on this I must insist. I refuse to have another woman paraded before me. I will not tolerate that humiliation.”
He gritted his teeth, swallowing thickly before his face could mimic hers and redden. An image cropped up in his head: Violet’s name bound to his in the parish register but some faceless woman—not Violet—upon his arm. The thought caused his stomach to churn.
“You have my word, Miss Collingwood.” He tugged on his cravat, which had become tight about his throat. “I would never do such a thing.”
She gave him another moment of assessment before, at last, the light in her eyes softened, and her voice turned quieter than it had been previously.
“No, you wouldn’t, would you?” Her palm returned to the desktop, and he didn’t know what was happening beyond that her fingers were inching toward his, and he could detect the honeyed scent of flowers.
He stared at her glove, at the absent-minded movement, and he could already envision the moment their hands collided. Could almost feel what would surely be softness.
Except then, she retreated instead of moving forward, folding her hands tightly upon her lap.
“I suppose there’s nothing left, then,” she said, “but for me to give a sentimental discourse of my own. My sister desires, above all else, to marry Lord Frederick Denham, something the charming man will not abide while I continue to sully the family name. As our father’s scandal has made her other prospects bleak, and I don’t wish to be the cause of her heartbreak, I can see no way to remedy the situation but my own marriage.
And because George Metcalfe refuses to hear reason, it seems my marriage will need to be to you. ”
Ben appreciated plain speech and logic. Nonetheless, something about her declaration felt so … empty. Enough to create a pang in his gut.
But why was he getting caught up on such a thing now? He and Violet each had a problem, and they’d devised a solution. There was no need to involve sentimentality.
“Shall I write to your father?” he asked, carefully inhaling away from the woman across from him. “If he gives his consent, I can inform the local vicar of our intentions.”
“Write to my father if you want to ensure my dowry is to your liking, but the consent part is a mere formality. I turned one-and-twenty last month so do not require his permission, and he’s so zealously occupied in London that I doubt he cares either way.
Besides …” She peered at her skirt. Bit her lip.
Brought her eyes to him once more. “I wondered if we should forgo the banns and wed by license before the gossip surrounding our union has a chance to grow.”
A license. A document that would see them wed within a week.
He hadn’t considered anything quite so precipitous.
As a man of three-and-twenty, he didn’t require permission to wed, either, but what would his mother and stepfather say when they found out?
His younger brothers? And what would Uncle Rockliffe say?
To marry in such a timeframe would mean doing so without the knowledge or blessing of those Ben valued most. And yet …
Why did he need to trouble them with another scandal?
Why subject them to his fears and uncertainties, to his distinct sense that without Cambridge, he was inches from being caught in an ocean current that would tow him beneath the waves?
Wouldn’t it be better for him to approach them all with a solution instead of a problem?
“Quite sensible, Miss Collingwood,” he said before deliberations on the matter plagued him any further. First and foremost, it was sensible to quell slanderous talk before it got out of hand. “I’ll seek the bishop tomorrow.”
“Very good.” She shifted in her chair, pressing her palms against the carved wooden arms. “All is agreed upon, then, and I’ll not keep you any longer. Thank you, Mr. Prescott.”
He watched her push to her feet and hastily followed suit, stepping around Achilles’s prostrate body.
Should he join her on the other side of the desk?
A decision this momentous seemed to require a gesture of some sort.
A handshake? The type two business partners would share to solidify an agreement.
If this were the love match she’d alluded to, perhaps she would throw her arms around him, and he’d return her enthusiasm by sweeping her into a kiss. An action that would be rough and passionate, in contrast to her mouth, which he knew beyond a doubt would be soft.
As matters stood, he settled on a bow. The same stiff inclination of his head that he gave to the vicar on Sundays. She offered a curtsy in return, decorous enough to greet the queen.
There were no more words after that. She simply spun on her heel and exited the study as hastily as she’d entered it. Leaving behind only a faint floral scent and the memory of all that had just transpired.
He returned to his chair and perched his spectacles on his nose, but he didn’t attempt reading or correspondence. For instead of tiny black words on a white page, all he could see was color. Cerulean eyes. Golden curls. A yellow gown.
A stranger.
A spot of light.
His future wife.