Chapter Three
Christiana arrived at the Lyon’s Den wearing a veil that concealed her face and glasses. Her plan had been to reacquaint herself with the club, but the moment she entered the opulent doors, a footman detached himself and bowed.
“Miss Nightingale,” he said. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you now.”
Ah, so the notorious Black Widow of Whitehall had eyes and ears everywhere. For them to have recognized her upon entry, they must have been following her progress to the club. No doubt Mrs. Dove-Lyon also knew where Christiana was staying—and probably even the name of the maid who attended her.
Really, she ought to have predicted this.
“Very well,” she said, lifting her chin. “Lead the way.”
With another bow, the footman led her through a door guarded by several burly men.
Behind it was a pleasantly appointed library, two full bookcases lining the walls and a desk in the far corner.
Twin sofas sat in the center of the room, a tray containing tea and scones placed carefully on a table between.
“She will be with you shortly,” the footman said, and he left, closing the door behind him.
Christiana sat, not allowing her growing panic to manifest into anything unhelpful.
Now that she was here, all she could do was present her case to Mrs. Dove-Lyon.
The lady was a fellow woman, after all, and yes, she had been married, but she surely understood the unfairness that came from being forced into a marriage not of one’s choosing.
Christiana would rather remain in London and gamble back her father’s debts than marry a gentleman she disliked.
And, in all her four and twenty years, she had yet to discover a gentleman she liked.
Even her dancing master, over whom all the girls at St. Mary’s had swooned, Christiana had found mildly distasteful.
Perhaps the problem lay with her. No gentleman had ever found her attractive. Even the dancing master, a notorious flirt, had never attempted flirting with her.
The lack of attraction went both ways, it seemed. And while she could hardly expect to fall in love with a husband, she would rather like not to be an object of disgust, where possible.
The door opened, and a lady encased in scarves and a veil entered the room. Unlike Christiana’s veil, which swamped her, this lady’s revealed her thin mouth.
Christiana rose. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon, I presume?”
“And you must be Miss Nightingale.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon made no attempt to shake Christiana’s hand and instead poured two small cups of tea.
Christiana produced her father’s letter and proffered it.
Last night, she had lifted the seal from the paper and read the contents, which had not been illuminating.
As requested, here is my daughter. My debts are paid.
“My father thinks to sell me off,” Christiana said coolly. “However, I am here to inform you I cannot countenance that.”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into the small wastepaper bin in the corner. “No doubt,” she said. “And yet as the holder of your father’s debts, I must insist on seeing them paid.”
Once again, Christiana was compelled to try to keep her temper. “I understand that. But you are proposing to sell me in marriage.”
“I have a client in search of a wife, and I believe you are the ideal candidate.”
“Because I have no choice?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon looked at her for a long, weightless moment. “If that were all it took, I could have married him to countless other desperate young ladies. I chose you because I knew you would have what it took to endure the burden of this particular match.”
“Pardon me?”
“Do you think me ignorant of your dealings?” she continued. “You have been to my establishment plenty of times in the past, and I have seen you in a variety of environments. You are perfectly suited to the gentleman in question.”
“And my preferences?”
“Your preferences, I presume, are to escape a home life in which you have been given little freedom or choice for the past five years.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon sipped her tea, looking entirely at home in this library, discussing Christiana’s future as though it were a game of cards.
“I could pay—”
“You can pay nothing,” Mrs. Dove-Lyon said sharply. “Your father has spent years amassing his debts, and they are not something to be taken lightly. However, in light of the current situation, I am prepared to exchange them for your hand in marriage to a gentleman of my choosing.”
Christiana’s stays felt too tight, although she wore them habitually loose. “And this suits your honor as a woman?”
Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s lips curled. “This, my dear, is business.” She turned and waved a hand to the servant by the door. “Bring in the duke.”
Christiana’s mind blanked. A duke? The gentleman to whom she was being served on a platter was a duke?
She had assumed it would be someone on the very edge of society. A disgraced son. A rich merchant unable to get a bride the traditional way.
But a duke? Surely, he could have any lady he chose?
Before she could give that thought too much space in her mind, the door opened and a gentleman strode through.
He moved the way she had always imagined a duke might, as though the world itself might shift around him.
Long, confident, almost impatient strides.
His clothes were stern, perhaps even austere, his cravat tied in a simple fashion very different from some of the more elaborate styles Christiana had seen inside the club alone.
Yet for all that, he had an air of fashion.
Perhaps it was merely confidence. Unlike her, he had been born to believe he belonged anywhere and everywhere.
Yet his face was covered, a white, wooden mask concealing the right side of his face. The other, she noted with some detachment, was handsome in that aristocratic way some gentlemen had. A strong nose and hard jaw.
“Mrs. Dove-Lyon,” he rumbled, bowing. He then turned to Christiana. “I presume this is she.”
Christiana’s chest heaved in outrage, but before she could say anything, Mrs. Dove-Lyon said, “This is Miss Christiana Nightingale. Her father is the Viscount Barnsley. She attended St. Mary’s finishing school and is in possession of a kind mind.
She has also not been aspiring toward a titled husband. ”
The duke’s gaze passed across her veiled face several times. “Her temperament?”
“Strong.”
Her blood pounding in her ears, Christiana rose, tossing back her veil so she might get a better look at him.
The gesture revealed little; although she could now see the deep brown of his eyes, she learned nothing else.
“You should know I am here against my will,” she hissed.
“And I will not consent to marrying you.”
“Oh?” The duke glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. “You did not tell me she was unwilling.”
“She’ll be willing enough once she knows the options that await her.
” Mrs. Dove-Lyon remained utterly unmoved.
“Her father has made it plain that if she rejects the match, she will not have a home to go back to. Nor,” she added, “will there be a home for much longer. If she refuses to pay the debt, I will have her father’s seat repossessed.
It is within my power.” She gave a thin smile.
“Now, my dear. Would you like to reconsider?”
Christiana would have liked to do a great many things. First and foremost, she would have liked to throw something at Mrs. Dove-Lyon. That achieved, she would like to return to her father so she might throw something at him.
The fury in her chest threatened to make its way to her eyes.
But she would not cry over him or this. He didn’t deserve her tears—though there were plenty of things he did deserve.
The duke leaned against the desk, arms folded. “I have no desire to marry an unwilling bride.”
Christiana turned on him. “Then why undergo this farce at all? Surely, you must know that any bought lady must be unwilling.”
He raised his brows. “I assumed you were here because you also had a need to marry and were reluctant to do so the ordinary way.”
“I’m here because of my father’s debt, but I would like to repay it in another way.” She matched his folded arms, looking him over. Handsome, despite the mask, and broad. A duke. “Why are you here?”
“Because I, too, am reluctant to find a wife in the ordinary way.” He glanced at Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was watching with the appearance of interest, though her eyes could not be seen from behind her veil. “I will not drag anyone to the altar, Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
She clucked her tongue. “I understand your reticence, Your Grace, but I found you the best candidate.” Mrs. Dove-Lyon gestured at his mask, and to Christiana’s surprise, he untied the leather cord holding the mask in place, slowly drawing it down.
Candlelight danced across the mottled, sagging skin of the right side of his face. Christiana didn’t gasp, but it was a near thing. The burns made his skin look as though it had melted, the disfigurement stopping mid-forehead.
How painful must such a thing have been?
His eyes were hard, as though he had already anticipated her reaction and had guarded against it. “This is why I’m here,” he said. “I am the Duke of Somerset. You may have heard of me.”
She bit back her surprise. Every woman in London had heard of the Beast of Somerset.
Since the fire that had destroyed his family home, rumors had abounded, growing in magnitude over the years until he had become a figure of near-myth, prowling the night in search of young women whose blood he could drink to sustain his deformity.
“I see,” she said eventually, once she had regained her self-control. “I had thought you were older.”
His large hands landed on either side of his hips, closing around the lip of the desk he leaned against. The only sign of his surprise was the way they flexed. “Am I to be flattered?”
“Well,” she returned, “I don’t recommend being offended.”
The corner of his mouth quirked at that. “I will endeavor not to be.”
“What is your age, sir?”
“Two and thirty. And you?”
“Four and twenty.”
“Were you ever presented?”
She held his gaze, waiting for the inevitable judgment. “I was not.”
“Why?”
“My mother died when I was young, and my father decided against taking me to London. As I understand it, the expense would have been too great.” Before she could help herself, she added, “He preferred to lose his fortune on less-worthy pursuits.”
“I see. How do you feel about the prospect of a Season or two in London?”
“Rather pointless if I am either married or penniless.”
Another of those almost-smiles touched his mouth, but it fell almost immediately.
“Let me be plain. My primary reason for seeking a wife is for the sake of my sister.” The mask dangled loosely in his fingers.
Now that he had taken it off, he seemed to have no desire to put it back on, and the longer Christiana gazed at his scars, the less terrible they seemed.
“Next year, she will need to be launched into Society, and for rather obvious reasons, I am not the best person for the task. That will be my wife’s primary duty, other than overseeing my household. I hold no social engagements.”
Well, that sounded… unexpectedly ideal. “Oh,” she said.
His one good brow descended over his face. “There is one other thing. I have no expectations of intimacy, but I require my wife to be able to look at me without disgust.”
Unwilling pity tugged at Christiana’s heart. She had been an outcast enough to know how unpleasant it felt to be judged by everyone around her. If it had not been for Laura, school would have been an utterly miserable place.
“If I were to agree,” she said, looking over his ruined face with quiet contemplation, “what would you offer in exchange?”
“In what manner?”
“I have been living in isolation for a long time. What is your fortune?”
“Considerable.”
“My father is likely to amass more debts before his death,” she said, deciding bluntness would be preferable to prevarication. “And he is equally likely to lose my childhood home in the process.”
“What do you wish from me?”
“To buy the property.” She folded her arms. “I have a particular fondness for that part of the world, and I think it’s a shame that my father could ruin it with his poor management.”
The duke studied her face for a long moment. “That is your only requirement?”
“It is.” She could hardly believe she was considering going ahead with this. But what were her options? Mrs. Dove-Lyon seemed unwilling to allow her to gamble back the debts—and knowing the illustrious matchmaker, she could ensure that Christiana found it impossible to win, no matter her skill.
Her father would turn her out the instant she returned home husbandless.
And the duke seemed reasonable. Kind, even. First impressions could be deceiving, but she had imagined far worse.
“Once I have upheld my duty to your sister, I would like to retire there,” she said. “That is my reason for wanting my father’s estate for my own.”
The duke took a long moment to nod, and she feared her terms might provoke him to change his mind. But after that pause, he dipped his chin. “So be it. But you must reside with me, or in London, until my sister finds a husband.”
“Of course.”
“Then do we have a deal?” he asked, coming closer and extending a gloved hand. After the barest hesitation, she took it.
“We have a deal.”