Chapter Five #2
She looked round at the beautiful parlor.
At the family portraits on the walls, the rich silk wallpaper, the exquisite Chinese rugs on the polished floor, the ornate furniture, the candelabra and chandeliers, all of it proclaiming the wealth of the family Papa had run away from.
Of course, she’d seen houses like this before, but never in her wildest dreams had she envisaged staying in one.
Nor that such a house could be a part of her life.
And Lord Dunster’s town house had been much the same: lavish, opulent, rich.
A house that was to become her home. And really, he was, she supposed with reluctance, more than passably handsome with that wild dark hair, black as a raven’s wing, those intense eyes, those broad shoulders, and long, muscular legs.
A girl could do much worse, especially one in her position.
Although…as Grandmama had been wont to say, beauty was only skin deep, and so far she did not much care for what lay beneath Lord Dunster’s skin.
That made up her mind. If she could offer herself up to pay a debt then she could offer herself up in legal marriage to attain the security she’d so long craved for. Tomorrow afternoon she would walk round and call upon Papa. She needed his advice, for what it was worth.
The object of her dislike was at that precise moment in time reclining in the desk chair in his study, his long, booted legs stretched out in front of him and wondering how he had got himself into such a pickle.
After all, what was a game of cards for if not for winning or losing money?
Hadn’t he lost plenty of it himself in the past?
Although he could afford to. No one should enter into a card game, especially not a game of Faro in an establishment renowned for its clientele having deep pockets and making large and ostentatious bets, if they didn’t have the money to pay their debts if they lost. And that fellow, that Anthony Farrington, that old drunk, had done just that.
This was all his fault. Damn him to hell and back.
Now he’d had time to recover a little, a few wisps of memory had returned to him concerning the previous, fateful night.
He’d allowed Walter, yes, Walter, who should not be considered blameless in this, to persuade him to join him at the Lyon’s Den, a gambling house of repute, not always good.
He’d been there before, of course, and much enjoyed both the gambling tables and the company of the upstairs ladies. But last night had been different.
One of the ladies of the house had been with him, leaning over his shoulder, her scent, thick in his nostrils, a hint of promise.
He couldn’t have recalled her name if he’d tried, but he could remember the heady smell of her.
The temptress. She’d encouraged him to drink more than usual, no doubt on the instructions of the house, and in a state of extreme inebriation, a lot worse than foxed, he’d accepted that old reprobate’s daughter in payment of his substantial debt.
He’d never have done it if he hadn’t been so Ape-drunk.
He aimed a kick at the desk but this only served to hurt his foot.
And now he was engaged to be married to someone who might, if he were unlucky, have a very insalubrious past. Never mind might, she almost certainly did have an insalubrious past. After all, she possessed a father who had, without a qualm, as far as he could remember, calmly offered up his daughter and her virtue to pay a debt.
What sort of father did that, and, was he not, therefore, the sort of father who had done that sort of thing before?
Did his now affianced bride actually have any virtue to offer up?
Might she be a veteran of such bargains?
Even though he himself was the sort of man for whom morals were optional, and who had bedded most of the available and some of the apparently unavailable women of the ton, the thought that the woman he was now to marry might not be virtuous and untouched rankled.
He pushed aside his initial assessment of her as being pure with determination.
He clenched his fists. Was there no way he could extricate himself from this?
The idea that her father might have sent her to his house with the express aim of tricking him into marriage now arose.
Had he been snared by a man less drunk than he’d appeared to be?
Or was this all horrible chance? He, like Verity had he but known it, was going to have to make the best of the situation.
Although, unlike Verity, he was not used to having to do so.
Years of being the spoilt only son, first as the heir and later as the earl, with everyone obeying him and pandering to his every wish, had not prepared him for putting up and shutting up.
He slowly unclenched his fists and put his hands on his thighs, fingers spread.
However, she was very pretty… Imagine if she’d had a face like a horse and still been Walter’s cousin.
He’d have had to marry her, come what may, or Walter would have called him out.
And she’d probably have produced a string of horse-faced daughters.
Horrible thought. If he had to marry someone, he was glad it was to be someone pretty, because he couldn’t bear the thought of having ugly children.
To someone as spoiled and handsome as he was, physical beauty meant everything.
Even his servants had been vetted for their looks, much as his father had done in his time.
So that was a good thing.
Was there anything else good about this? He racked his brains.
At least he didn’t have to do any preparations for the marriage himself.
He could leave that to Walter. This thought led him to wonder how he might be faring in introducing Verity to his mother.
As it had been Walter’s own idea to do so, he had no feelings of sympathy for his friend.
And it neatly took care of what to do with the young lady until the wedding could be organized.
How long did it take to do that sort of thing?
How much freedom did he have left? He had no idea.
Most of his friends were as single as he was, with the same lifestyle as his, and a healthy abhorrence of matrimony.
They were going to be surprised to find him leg-shackled before any of them.
Although, he had no intention of letting marriage and a wife get in the way of his pleasures.
No. None whatsoever. His father, damn him to hell, had managed it, so why shouldn’t he?
He smiled to himself a little grimly and his hands formed back into fists.
He usually liked the idea of shocking his friends, but not in this way.
Teesdale, of whom he was not in the least bit fond, in fact whom he had hated since Eton, was going to be cock-a-hoop to find he’d had to marry the girl he’d accepted, mostly as a joke, in payment for a debt.
Now he’d recalled it, the memory of that man’s leering face as he witnessed the signing of the promissory note would not leave his head.
But with it came the very odd sensation that at least old Anthony Farrington hadn’t been forced to hand his daughter over to the impecunious and unpleasant Teesdale.
Ugly, too. What a terrible punishment that would have been for any girl. Even one with a face like a horse.
What was he thinking of? He couldn’t deny that he had the same inclinations towards women as Teesdale.
He would have seduced Verity without a second thought, made her want him, and taken her up to bed that very morning if Walter had not arrived so opportunely and put a stop to that.
He would have deflowered her without compunction, always supposing she hadn’t already been deflowered in the past. He would have kept her for a while for his own amusement and then most likely cast her aside with a sizeable pay off.
Was Teesdale any worse than that? The only differences were that Teesdale was older by four years, possibly poxed, and certainly ugly.
This latter, alongside Teesdale having bullied him in his first year at school, being another good reason Jonathan, with his love of all things beautiful, didn’t like the man. Hated the man.
Surely one shouldn’t hold his ugliness against him? The bullying, yes, but possibly not his heavy-jowled and heavy-browed face, his thick lips, and uneven, tobacco-stained teeth, all of which, bar the teeth, he must have inherited from his parents.
Well, yes he could. The man offended every sensibility and should keep himself like a hermit instead of frightening society with his looks and turning up when not wanted at respectable gaming houses and clubs.
It wasn’t as though the fellow had money to burn, because he didn’t.
Now Jonathan thought about it, Teesdale seemed set on the same road to ruin Anthony Farrington had long ago taken, and would one day end up as drunk and impoverished as that sad old man.
Good. He deserved it.
This was a very confusing day. He’d be glad when it was over.