Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Joan sat rigidly in her carriage, staring out the window at the Duke’s vehicle growing smaller in the distance. Her hands trembled in her lap, and she clasped them tightly together to still them.
A single tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. She wiped it away furiously.
It’s for the best, she told herself firmly. This is what’s right. This protects Victoria. This protects Damian. This keeps the family safe.
But the memory of Laurence’s face, the desperate concern in his eyes, the way he’d pulled her into his arms as though she were something precious, threatened to break her resolve entirely.
No, she thought, squaring her shoulders. I cannot waver. I cannot hope. Hope is dangerous.
She turned her face away from the window and did not look back again.
Night had fallen by the time Joan’s carriage pulled up to Damian’s London townhouse. The windows glowed with warm light, but Joan felt only cold as she stepped down onto the cobblestones.
Damian was waiting on the front steps, his face drawn and weary. He descended to meet her, offering his arm.
“How are the wedding preparations progressing?” Joan asked, keeping her voice light and conversational.
“Beautifully,” Damian said with heavy sarcasm. “Everyone thinks we must be absolutely desperate, marrying you off to a man like Julian Hawthorne. The whispers follow me everywhere I go.”
Joan allowed him to escort her inside. “The rumors will pass. People always find new topics to occupy their attention.”
“And what if they don’t?” Damian demanded as they entered the drawing room. “What if your reputation is permanently ruined by this association?”
Joan settled into a chair with practiced grace. “Then it is ruined. I can bear it.”
Damian waved to a hovering maid, who brought forward a tea service. The woman poured a cup and handed it to Joan with a curtsy.
“I cannot let you marry Julian Hawthorne,” Damian said.
Joan looked at her brother with something like pity. “And what about Victoria? If I don’t marry him, he’ll pursue her instead.”
“I’ll make arrangements for Victoria to be taken somewhere safe, ”
“Don’t be absurd,” Joan interrupted. “You’re taking this too far. I want to marry Julian. I fancy him. I desire the status and security his title provides.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t require your belief. Only your cooperation.” Joan’s voice was cold now.
Damian stared at her, and Joan stared back unflinchingly. After a long moment, his shoulders slumped.
“Joan, please.” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “Trust me. I can fix this. There has to be another way.”
He could fix it, Joan thought. I know he could. Damian is clever and resourceful and has connections throughout the Court. But it would cost him. His position, his reputation, possibly his freedom if Julian’s family retaliated. Better me than him. Always better me than them.
“I will marry Julian Hawthorne tomorrow, and that is final. Now call off your men,” Joan said aloud, her voice firm.
Damian looked at her for a long moment, searching her face for any crack in her armor. He found none.
Joan said, standing. “No more quibble. I have a terrible headache, and I need to rest before tomorrow.”
She walked past her brother without looking at him, her head held high and her spine straight.
But as she climbed the stairs to her chamber, her hands clenched into fists so tight her nails drew blood from her palms.
Just one more day, she told herself. Just survive one more day, and then it will be done.
She entered her room and closed the door behind her, leaning against it as her carefully maintained composure finally cracked.
But still, despite everything, Joan did not cry.
A thin man with a disapproving expression that suggested he found his employer as distasteful as Joan did, stood on the other side of Julian's front door. He took in her appearance with one sweeping glance, and his lips thinned further.
“Miss Joan Sinclair to see the Earl of Aldridge,” Joan said, her voice crisp.
The butler’s expression suggested he knew exactly why she was here and pitied her for it. “Please follow me, Miss.”
Julian’s townhouse was undeniably impressive, four stories of gleaming white stone, with columns flanking the entrance and intricate ironwork on the balconies.
But there was something excessive about it, something that tried too hard.
The columns were too ornate. The ironwork was too elaborate.
Even the topiary in the front garden was shaped into pretentious spirals and spheres that screamed of expense without taste.
The butler led her through a grand entrance hall that was almost comically overdone.
As they approached what appeared to be Julian’s private study, a door further down the corridor suddenly opened.
A woman emerged, and Joan felt her stomach turn.
The woman was perhaps five-and-twenty, with blonde hair that had clearly been elaborately arranged but was now falling in disheveled waves around her shoulders.
Her dress, cheap satin in a garish shade of pink, was hastily fastened, the laces uneven.
Her face was flushed, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly glazed.
The woman caught sight of Joan and froze for half a heartbeat. Then she ducked her head and hurried past, her cheap perfume lingering in the air like an accusation.
The door she’d emerged from opened wider, and Julian Hawthorne appeared.
He was in a state of partial undress, his shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest, his cravat missing entirely, his dark hair tousled. He looked like a man who had just rolled out of bed after vigorous activity. Which, Joan realized with cold disgust, was exactly what he’d been doing.
A satisfied smirk curved his lips as he leaned against the doorframe, utterly unashamed.
“Joan! What perfect timing.” His voice was warm, almost friendly, as though they were old acquaintances meeting for tea. “I just had a visitor, as you can see. Business concluded, however.”
He gestured for her to enter his study. “Do come in. We have much to discuss, I’m sure.”
Joan forced herself to move forward, to step past him into the room as he buttoned up his shirt. She kept her expression perfectly neutral, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her disgust.
The study was smaller than the public rooms but no less ostentatious.
A massive mahogany desk dominated the space, its surface cluttered with papers and ledgers.
Bookshelves lined two walls, filled with leather-bound volumes that looked expensive but unread.
A portrait of Julian himself hung over the fireplace, painted to make him look noble and distinguished, with his flaws carefully minimized and his better features exaggerated.
Julian closed the door behind them with a soft click that made Joan’s skin crawl. He moved to lean against his desk, crossing his arms over his partially bare chest, studying her with obvious amusement.
“I must confess,” he said conversationally, “I’ve missed you these past days. Your absence made me wonder if you’d changed your mind about our arrangement. I was about to send someone to verify that you’d actually returned to London as promised.”
He paused, his smirk widening. “But here you are, a woman of your word. I’m pleased. Reliability is such an attractive quality in a wife.”
The way he said “wife” made Joan’s stomach roil. She inhaled slowly through her nose, forcing herself to remain calm and focused.
“I came to discuss the terms of our marriage,” she said, her voice steady and businesslike.
Julian’s eyebrow arched. “Terms?” He spoke the word as though it was a curiosity, something unexpected and faintly amusing. “My dear Joan, I wasn’t aware our marriage required negotiation. I thought the matter was settled.”
“Nothing is settled until we agree on certain conditions,” Joan replied. She moved to stand before his desk, positioning herself so that the massive piece of furniture was between them, a barrier, however symbolic.
Julian watched her with growing interest, like a cat watching a mouse that had done something unexpectedly clever.
Joan met his gaze directly. “I know precisely why you’re so insistent on marrying into the Sinclair family. And it has nothing to do with affection for either myself or Victoria.”
“Doesn’t it?” Julian’s tone was mocking. “Perhaps I simply fell desperately in love with Victoria’s beauty and charm. Or perhaps, upon reflection, I’ve transferred those feelings to you.”
“You’re marrying a Sinclair because we’re positioned exactly where you need us to be for your ambitions,” Joan continued, ignoring his sarcasm. “Let me enumerate the reasons, so we both understand that I’m not a naive fool you can manipulate.”
She began counting off on her gloved fingers, her voice taking on the clinical precision of someone presenting evidence.
“First: we’re not so powerful that we would overshadow you.
A union with a duke’s family or an earl with significant landholdings would leave you perpetually in your wife’s shadow.
You’d become ‘the Duchess’s husband’ rather than standing on your own merit.
But the Sinclairs have position without overwhelming power. We enhance you without eclipsing you.”
Julian’s smirk had faded slightly. He was listening now with genuine attention.
“Second: we’re prominent enough that association with us elevates your standing considerably. My brother holds a respected position at Court. Our family has been received in the best houses. An alliance with us opens doors that would otherwise remain closed to someone of your… background.”
The slight pause before “background” was deliberate. A reminder that for all his wealth and power, Julian’s grandfather had been a merchant, a fact that would always mark him as a little less than noble in the eyes of old aristocracy.