Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“I need assurances it will be annulled,” I said, trying to drive out the last bit of doubt. “Among others.”
A quick marriage and swifter annulment would only add to my notoriety, but it was difficult to see how my reputation could
possibly become worse than accused murderess. If it was a scandal the Quality desired, I would ensure it was a story they would never forget. And I would scent it with
roses and malice.
“Assurances,” Foxcourt echoed slowly. “Like a marital settlement?”
I nodded. They were common enough among the Patricians that I knew he wouldn’t recoil at the suggestion. When a woman was
bound by the laws of coverture, she and her husband merged into a single entity in the eyes of the law. Her husband controlled
all her property, as well as her body and children.
Such settlements allowed for some financial protection for women, stating what wealth each party would bring to the marriage
and how that wealth would be distributed within it upon one spouse’s death.
Foxcourt shot to his feet, knocking his chair over. Flustered, he paused to right it before making his way to the door. The shadows there scattered as he pushed it open and disappeared into the hall. When the earl returned a moment later, it was with an inkwell, a piece of foolscap, and a quill.
Sweeping the broadsheet to the floor in a flutter of paper, he laid each item in front of me. When I couldn’t immediately
compel my hand to reach for the quill, he dipped it into the ink for me, then slid it between my fingers.
And waited.
A droplet of ink dripped onto the parchment, bloating on the smooth surface like a tear.
“It won’t be legal,” I whispered.
“But it will be honored,” he said. “All that matters is that it’s the law between us.”
I breathed in deeply and set the quill’s point to the foolscap.
Marriage shall be annulled upon completion of the Immortal Rose perfume, I wrote. When Viola Lockwood requests the annulment, it will be sought without delay.
“Of course,” he murmured.
The acquiescence startled me. In all my inner torment, I’d forgotten he didn’t want this marriage any more than I did.
As with other peers of the realm, Foxcourt had been able to request a special wedding license from the archbishop to allow
for a wedding to occur at any time or place, and without the traditional banns needing to be read in church. He would be able
to solicit an annulment with equal ease, hopefully.
The marriage shall never be consummated, nor will I, the Earl of Foxcourt, exert my marital rights— I heard the small noise of offense he made as I added, by force or otherwise.
In all my other negotiations, I’d been able to read my opponent’s feelings, to tell when they were on the verge of giving
in or walking away. I looked up, expecting him to say something typically sardonic, but he only nodded, leaning against the
table and crossing his arms. His expression became guarded, as if bracing himself.
“What else?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the paper.
I will make no claims on the inheritance and property of Viola Lockwood, now or in the future, nor will I involve myself in
matters of her potential business holdings.
“Unless invited to,” he added, with the makings of a smile as I reluctantly added it.
There would be no need to outline a trust for the House of Rosebourne to be placed into, not if I was to inherit it after
the annulment. Besides, a trust would be controlled by a trustee, not myself, and Foxcourt would still have a right to interest
earned on it.
During our marriage, I wrote, I will permit Viola to associate with whomever she pleases and go wherever she likes.
“So long as it does not endanger her,” he said, tapping the parchment. “That is nonnegotiable.”
It was fair, I supposed, though it annoyed me that he still had a rather dim view of my being able to take care of myself.
I could concede that much to him, though.
I paused, dipping the quill back in the ink as I debated the final point. More than offending him again, it would bare something
to him I could not take back.
“Go on,” he murmured.
I will never, I wrote slowly, under any circumstance, or for any reason, raise a hand or weapon against Viola Lockwood.
There. It was done.
Foxcourt was still beside me, as if caught between one realization and another. “Is that all?” he asked, his voice hushed.
I passed the quill to him wordlessly, my heart in my throat. That calm assurance I’d been able to grasp in the last few moments
extinguished like a candle flame as he dipped the quill back into the ink—not to sign his name, but to add a term of his own.
Of course. I squeezed my eyes shut. It’s only fair.
“Is that agreeable to you?” he asked, his voice like cool silk.
I forced my eyes open and onto the foolscap once more.
In his ruthlessly spare penmanship, he had written, I will settle a sum of twenty thousand gold marks upon Viola Lockwood at the dissolution of the marriage.
My head snapped back in shock. “But—why?”
“In the event it takes some time before your ownership over the House of Rosebourne is settled.” He cleaned the tip of the
quill with his shirt, a sardonic smile slanting his lips. “And for your trouble in this matter.”
My brows drew tight together. “If you were counting on me strenuously protesting, I regret to inform you that neither am I too proud nor do I possess the moral scruples to pretend that I won’t accept your gold.”
It would be a divorce settlement, not payment for services rendered, I decided. A true lady might accuse him of treating her
like a mistress or a prostitute, but propriety was the swiftest path to poverty, and it had been terrorizing good women for
centuries. Integrity and virtue were well and good, but they weren’t two marks to rub together to buy a loaf of bread. It
was only right for me to take what I could from him before walking away.
Wasn’t it?
“Do you have any other terms you wish to add?” he asked.
I shook my head and, with a shuddering breath, signed my name to the agreement.
After I blew on the ink to dry it, Foxcourt pulled the foolscap toward him. He bent at the waist, and a silver blade flashed
as he slid it from his boot. Before I could think to ask what it was for, before I could so much as gasp, he slid it across
his palm.
I watched, stunned, as he dipped the quill into the blood pooling in his hand and signed the document in the ancient manner
of a sacred blood oath.
Hugh Regulus Thornton, Earl of Foxcourt.
My mind, cast into a sea of chaos, tentatively dressed my name with his surname, Viola Thornton, before I banished the thought entirely.
“God, you’ll bleed all over yourself.” Reaching into my apron pocket, I pressed a handkerchief into his palm, pressing it
tight to the wound. “Rather dramatic of you, Hugh Regulus Thornton.”
He looked between the handkerchief and my face with that same intensity he’d had as he cut himself. “Rather wifely of you,
Viola Elizabeth Lockwood.”
Of course he had remembered my middle name. Silence stretched like a ribbon of silk between us, wrapping around my hand as
it pressed against his, binding. For a small eternity, we did nothing but study each other, as if a new slant of light had
stolen through the windows and burned away the last of our masks.
And rather than terrified, I felt . . . calm. The decision had been made, and if I lived to regret it, then I would ensure
that so would he.
“Till Immortal Rose do we part,” I said lightly.
I looked down at my simple white day dress and apron, both splattered with oils that still flowered as they warmed against my skin. And as I released his hand, I knew it would be the scent I associated with marriage for the rest of my life. Eau de matrimony.
Orange blossom, rose, jasmine, ink, and blood.
Felicity, through a show of a hitherto unseen forbearance, managed to wait until we were in my bedchamber before letting her
composure shatter. She fell back against the door, her jade-green eyes glittering as she clutched her hands together against
her heart.
“Oh, Viola!” Her voice was as delighted as spun sugar. “A wedding! What a blessing!”
It came on so suddenly, it took even me by surprise. One moment I was standing there, facing Mama’s portrait, and the next,
I was sobbing. Deep, shuddering, gasping sobs. I staggered, blinded by the veil of burning tears. Felicity was by my side
at once, wrapping her arms around me.
“Oh dear,” she said mildly. “Oh goodness. Have it all out, then. You’ll feel better for it—at least that’s what they say in
the stories.”
Felicity guided me toward the bed, easing us both down onto it. Sweeping the loose curls back from my wet cheeks, she dabbed
at my tears with her apron. “Is it really as bad as all that?”
I shook my head. It wasn’t. I was alive. I wouldn’t be arrested. There was still a chance of claiming the Rosebourne inheritance.
But that calm I’d felt in the kitchen had been nothing but a temporary dam, and seeing Mama’s face, knowing how disappointed
she would be, had shattered it.
“I’ll—I’ll be all right,” I said. “It’s not . . . He’s . . .”
Felicity nodded, as if perfectly understanding the nonsense I’d just uttered. Maybe she had. She leaned toward me conspiratorially.
“We can slip out of the house quick and quiet as mice and commandeer a mail coach and go out into the countryside. I know
a rather ill-tempered goose that would be glad to defend us.”
I couldn’t bring myself to laugh; I’d never ask her to betray the others that way, nor would I ask her to return to the home
that had so cruelly rejected her. “No. I appreciate it and am a friend to all geese, but I signed my name. I agreed to this.”
Felicity nodded, floating a soft “And it won’t be forever, will it?”
“It won’t,” I said with a steadying breath, and wiped the last of the tears from my face.
Felicity’s smile was strained, but she nodded. “There was a delivery from the modiste this morning, including the replacement for the blue dress. She’d perfumed them with so much of that lavender of hers, I’ve been airing them outside so as not to smother you.”