Chapter 3
Giselle stared at him, trying not to show how he had wounded her pride. Of course, he would only want her as a “pretend” fiancée. He was far above her in rank, and an Englishman who could not be kindly disposed toward the French, no matter what he claimed.
Besides, why would he even prefer— “I do not understand. Why seek only a betrothal, and a false one at that?”
He shrugged. “I’m not looking for a wife at present. But my legal counsel has suggested that even having a fiancée could help me gain custody faster.”
Oh, so having a wife was the “trial all men must bear”? Merde. It was all she could do not to roll her eyes at him. Men were such children.
She edged closer. “I cannot blame you for balking at marriage to a Frenchwoman who was once a mere servant in a Verdun lodging house. I would not be the ideal wife for any English lord. But surely you could find an appropriate English lady of rank to be your wife, which would, if you are to be believed, solve your problems gaining custody of your brothers.”
“If an ‘English lady of rank’ became my betrothed,” he said impatiently, “she would expect to marry me sooner rather than later, which I’m not eager to do. I’m asking you to be my fiancée because you probably don’t wish to marry me at all.”
She did not. He was right. Or anyway, she wanted him to be right. “That is truly why you would choose me for such a role? Because you think I would not marry you?”
His face closed up. “You know me well enough to know I wouldn’t make the best of husbands.”
“You certainly would not,” she said, as much to remind herself as him.
That brought a frown to his perfect brow. “And frankly, since you happen to be here asking a favor of me, I figured I’d ask one of you. We can help each other.”
“How could it possibly help you to be affianced to a French-woman, considering how the English presently view my people?”
“I doubt that the Court of Chancery cares what nationality my betrothed is. They merely want to know if, given my reputation, I’m capable of acquiring a respectable wife sometime in the future.”
“And they would consider me a respectable wife?”
“Why not?” He approached her. “After all, a prominent duke and his family already embrace you as one of their own. Which you are, of course, but the court doesn’t know that.”
“And cannot know that,” she said emphatically.
“Certainly not. Jon and Tory are my friends, too. I would never want to damage their standing in society.”
She noticed he said nothing about damaging her standing in society, but then that was to be expected.
“Still, your closeness to them counts for something,” he went on. “Besides, it makes sense I would end up engaged to a woman I met in Verdun, doesn’t it?”
“I-I suppose.”
He took her hands in his. “A pretend engagement will help your situation as well. Who would deny a passport to the betrothed of an English earl? Especially if it allows her to stay in England with her fiancé. We can say you wish to be here because of me. It would all make sense.” He squeezed her hands, sending a little frisson of sensation down her spine.
A very unwelcome sensation. Or so she told herself as she slipped her hands from his grasp. “Still, is there no one else you would prefer to engage yourself to? Someone you might actually wish to marry when you are ready? Chloe perhaps?”
“Lady Chloe!” He snorted. “Jon’s sister has no interest in me. She certainly doesn’t wish to marry me.”
“Are you sure? Because she seems to enjoy your company.” And Giselle would not for the world hurt her. Chloe might be nine years younger than Giselle, but Giselle considered the woman a friend, and she had few enough of those in England.
“Lady Chloe merely sees me as safe,” he pointed out. “With me, she can flirt, joke, and converse without worrying I will think it means anything. Have you not heard her say she isn’t interested in marrying?”
Giselle gave a dismissive wave of her hand.
“Many young ladies think such things.” And sometimes older ladies, too.
Giselle certainly was not interested in marriage to someone like Lord Heathbrook, who, aside from being an unrepentant rogue around women, would have rigid expectations for his countess, which she doubted she could meet.
“And if you are correct about Chloe not wishing to marry, that is all the more reason to choose her as your pretend fiancée.”
“Ah, but she’s not in town, is she?” he countered. “She’s up north with the rest of the family. Besides, Scovell has his eye on her, and I don’t wish to step in the way of that.”
Captain Scovell certainly had his eye on her. That had been obvious to everyone, even if Chloe denied it. “Yes, but she has no interest in the captain. She wants a more malleable fellow for a husband, a man she can bend to her will.”
“Like me, you mean,” he said sarcastically.
She snorted. “I have never found you malleable.”
“Good. I hate to be predictable.” He leaned against the wall. “Besides, Jon would disapprove of his sister being my fiancée, pretend or otherwise. He considers me a rakehell.”
“Are you not?” Giselle crossed her arms over her stomach. “You flirt with Chloe, with Tory, with me. If that is not a rakehell, what is?”
He lifted his eyes heavenward. “Only taking you, Chloe, or Tory to bed would make me a rakehell.”
“Assuming you could get any of us there,” she said tartly.
He pushed away from the wall, his gaze riveting her, full of seductive intensity. “Oh, trust me, ma chérie, I could get you there if I wished.”
A shiver of awareness shot down her spine. She suspected he was right. He had long possessed the ability to make her blood run hot. But she was not about to let him know that. She did not want to find herself with child and alone when this was over.
When she stared him down in a vain effort to show she would not be so easy a conquest, he flashed her a rueful smile. “Fortunately for both of us, I don’t wish it. It wouldn’t suit my aims. Nor yours.”
“Quite true,” she forced herself to say.
“Men flirt. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“I shall keep that in mind the next time you flirt with me,” she shot back.
“I haven’t flirted with you since you arrived in England. Not really.” He crossed his arms over his very impressive chest. “I wouldn’t dare. Jon would have my hide.”
She cocked her head. “And will he not have your hide if he thinks you are seeking to marry me?”
“That’s different. He’ll be happy to see you seemingly settled for life. Especially since he knows that unlike Lady Chloe, you’re . . .” He glanced away. “Well . . . um—”
“Illegitimate,” she said icily. “You and Jon would consider me fortunate to have an earl like you for a husband.”
“No, indeed.” He met her gaze again. “The circumstances of your birth never mattered to Jon. Not since he discovered that your father was his beloved mentor.”
“So, it is only you who think I would be fortunate to have an earl marry me.”
“Bloody hell, not that, either,” he growled, clearly frustrated.
She stiffened. “You are making my point for me, my lord. Did you not just say that a gentleman does not use such language around a lady? Clearly, you do not consider me a lady.”
“At the moment,” he muttered under his breath, “I consider you a termagant.”
“What is this word ‘termagant’?”
“Harridan, harpy, shrew. Pick one.”
She knew the first two words. “I am no harpy, sir!”
“Not generally, no. But you seem determined to take insult from what I’m offering.”
“Are you saying you would not consider me, the bastard daughter of an Englishman, fortunate to marry you?”
“I would not,” he said firmly. “For one thing, you aren’t truly illegitimate—only your close friends know that your French father didn’t sire you.”
“Hmm,” she said skeptically.
“But I would consider you fortunate to have me betroth myself to you.” He held up a gloved hand, ticking things off one finger at a time.
“First, our betrothal would shield you if anyone came after you for your forged passports. Second, I could accomplish much more in finding out why this Nash fellow is threatening you if I told the authorities I’m trying to protect my fiancée from harm.
Third, and perhaps most importantly, if you were engaged to me, it would raise your consequence in society enough that you could find a far better husband than I. ”
“Not once you ended the betrothal.” She thrust out her chin. “That would ruin me. Even I know that much about English society.”
He sighed. “True. That’s why you would have to be the one to end it.
Indeed, everyone would probably consider you very wise to do so, given my undeserved reputation.
” When she started to speak, he held up a hand.
“But I’d prefer that you not end the engagement until I get what I want—to become guardian of nurture to my brothers. ”
“You said that before. What is this ‘guardian of nurture’ you seek to be?”
He dragged in a heavy breath. “When Father died, his will designated my cousin as my brothers’ guardian.”
“How did your family even know he died? There was no correspondence allowed between France and England by then.” Giselle remembered it well—it had happened in 1806.
Afterward, a pall had fallen over Verdun.
No mail had meant no news of family, no way to hear of deaths and births and marriages. It had been awful for the détenus.
“Believe it or not, news of Father’s death appeared in the French newspaper because of our Normandy connection. And because he was an English earl, of course. Then someone smuggled the newspaper out and it made its way to London where the authorities got hold of it and notified Yates.”
“That’s your cousin.”
“Yes. Wait, how did you know?”
She could hardly say she’d eavesdropped on his conversation with his attorney. “I guessed.”