Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“Well, that tears it! She’s ruined,” Lord Pevensey pronounced. “Trevor, you have to marry her now.”
Every head in the room swung in Trevor’s direction.
There were more people in the Pevensey parlor than it could comfortably hold.
Lady Pevensey sat in an upholstered chair with her skirts arranged around her, face as pale as milk.
Miss Pevensey and the Gorgons sat in a cluster around Lucasta, whom they had torn from Jem’s arms to fuss and fret over the moment the door blew open.
He wished he could have kept her by his side, with her strong, quiet warmth.
Trevor lounged against the broad mantel of the fireplace, the boredom on his face a deceptive mask.
Frotheringale stood in the doorway, wearing an expression that was angry and ruffled and, now that he was facing the older and far more worldly Pevensey, held dawning realization of the consequences of his acts.
The Viscount had seen Jem’s siblings and Mrs. Cadogan safely deposited at Arendale House, though Jem wrestled with the urge to run there himself to shield Judith and his younger siblings from Aunt Payne.
But he must leave that battle to Mrs. Cadogan for the moment.
He couldn’t shift from this spot until he knew Lucasta was safe.
From his position near the window facing the street, he kept trying to catch her eye where she sat on the settee surrounded by her cousin and friends, but she seemed determined not to look at him.
How could she kiss him as she’d done and then ignore him like this?
Jem wanted to squeeze her to him until the answers fell out of her.
And he wanted to kiss every inch of her weary face.
She insisted that the fall from the horse had only left her with a few aches and bruises, and that her cousin, other than restricting her movements and monitoring her letters, had otherwise not been cruel.
But to a woman as proud as Lucasta, he knew the enforced helplessness had grated.
And now that she was home, she had gone from the frying pan into the fire, as the saying went.
“Ruined?” Lady Pevensey cried. Her eyes looked wild. “Lucasta?”
His wonderful Lucasta lifted her chin. “I am not ruined in any sense of the term. The only way my cousin inconvenienced me was to keep me from rehearsals for the benefit concert. I scarcely know I’ll pull it off now, even with all the work the Gor—my friends have done to move things forward.”
The Baron fixed his son with a commanding glare. “Special license, I suppose,” he growled. “I’ll have to stand the expense, before word gets about.”
“Oh, indeed?” Trevor looked as bored as if they were discussing the weather. “And where shall my bride and I live, and on what income?”
“I have not consented,” Lucasta said. Lady Pevensey gave a low cry.
“Ask her Aunt Cornelia how, why don’t you?” the Baron replied to his son as if there were no one else in the room.
A babble of voices followed this remark, Lucasta’s clearest among them, but Jem broke over the noise with a carrying tone.
“Lucasta is contracted to marry me.”
Every neck in the room swiveled toward him. Among them, Lucasta looked most surprised, Trevor interested, Frotheringale outraged, and the Baron furious.
The Gorgons exchanged a fleeting look that Jem could only describe as knowing, while Cecilia Pevensey’s mouth fell open with astonished delight.
“You?” Lady Pevensey gasped.
“She cannot marry without the approval of her family,” the Baron said coldly.
“On the contrary, I am past the age of consent and therefore at liberty to give my hand where I wish.” Lucasta met the Baron’s glare with one of her own.
“You’ll marry Trevor!” the Baron roared.
“Why else would I bring you here for the Season and spend money on your food and entertainment? You’ll show some gratitude, you insolent chit, and you’ll bring your fortune to my son, or by God I’ll see you cast out onto the street!
And you’ll do it, you coxcomb, or find yourself without a roof over your head,” he addressed his son and heir.
Trevor appeared unmoved by his father’s blustering, though the Gorgons watched the Baron’s tantrum with great interest.
“And what about me, Father?” Cecilia asked, her voice small and plaintive. “Must I marry as well to retain a roof over my head?”
Frotheringale broke in before the Baron could formulate a reply. “Lucasta will marry me. She spent a week at my house with no chaperone. You yourself said she is ruined.”
“I am not ruined,” Lucasta exclaimed. Jem watched her annoyance turn to alarm as she realized no one was listening to her.
He reached into the pocket of his beautifully tailored coat and withdrew a piece of parchment. “Lucasta and I are precontracted,” he said. “I have the settlement papers here. They require only her signature.”
Utter silence followed this revelation.
“Papers?” Lucasta said blankly.
He nodded, holding her eyes. “The afternoon we—that I proposed. The same afternoon my grandfather—” His throat tightened. The haste would betray how badly he wanted her. “The solicitors were already there, you remember. So before they left, I, er, asked them to draw up a marriage settlement.”
The tightening around her eyes was not an indication of transports of joy. “How curious you did not discuss this with me,” she said.
Because he’d been terrified she might refuse him. He’d spent days racking his brains for arguments as to what he could offer, and before he had gathered the courage to approach her, she was gone.
“Give me that.” Frotheringale snatched the paper from Jem’s hand and, before anyone could stop him, tore the parchment in half. “There.” He tossed the pieces to the floor. “You are freed from your contract, Lucasta, and can now marry me.”
“My solicitor of course retained a copy for his own records,” Jem said. “With the date attached, so there will be evidence for the magistrate, if anyone wishes to inquire, that our contract precedes your abduction, Frotheringale.”
“Trevor,” the baron ordered, “stop him. Lucasta is contracted to marry you. Your agreement was far earlier—”
“Lucasta cannot marry Trevor.” Lady Pevensey’s voice shook with strong emotion. “Her birth is not—” She faltered, then clenched her hands in her lap as if giving herself strength. “Her birth is not equal to his.”
“I don’t care what sort of low immigrant her father was,” the Baron exclaimed. “As your sister’s daughter, she stands to inherit your Aunt Cornelia’s estate. That one—” He flung a hand in Frotheringale’s direction— “already has an estate of his own. No reason he needs to get the whole pudding.”
“Lucasta can inherit nothing! She is illegitimate.”
Every neck in the room swiveled toward Lady Pevensey, who covered her face with her hands.
Jem watched the color bleed from Lucasta’s face.
“What?” She struggled to breathe. “Laurence Lithwick was—not my father?”
Her ladyship pressed her hands over her eyes. “He was your father,” she said with a moan. “But I gave birth to you.”
The stark, awful look on Lucasta’s face made Jem want to pull her into his arms. He wanted her to never have reason to wear that look of betrayal and horror again.
Her friends, ringed around her, grasped her hands, forming a wall of support before he could step forward. Even Cecilia reached out and clung to her cousin.
If he wanted to win Lucasta Lithwick, Jem realized, he would have to prove to her that his love was as steadfast, deep, and true as that of her loyal friends. And that he, too, would do whatever he could to protect her.
Was his love true? In the stunned silence that pervaded the room, and the weight of what this revelation meant for Lucasta, Jem finally saw his own heart clearly. He could be forgiven his slowness, he thought, as he’d never been in love before.
His siblings brought him joy, and his obligations to them were no burden.
His mother had provided him shelter, protection, and affection, and he’d loved her as only a son could.
But his relationships with women had always been passing, fraught with caution and to some extent a masquerade on both parts.
He’d never been willing to open himself heart and soul to a woman.
Lucasta Lithwick deserved nothing less. She herself would love whole-heartedly, an authentic, lasting, selfless love. She would be the companion he had never dreamed he might find. And she had his devotion for his whole life, whether she wanted it or not. He would never find another woman like her.
But could he, heir to a marquessate, marry a woman of illegitimate birth? He had an obligation to his family. Could he still claim the woman he loved?
The Baron groped for a chair, and finding none, sat down on a dainty stool meant for a much smaller person. “Lucasta is yours?” he said, horrified. “But that means…” His scowl deepened as he thought. “Trevor isn’t related by blood. They can legally marry.”
“It isn’t as you think, Peter,” his lady whispered. “Aunt Cornelia knows. A bastard cannot inherit, and she’ll never leave her estate to a natural child. You may be sure of that.”
“What possessed you?” The Baron stared at his wife as if he had never seen her before. His lip curled in contempt. “Patience! That ragtail vicar? Your sister’s husband?”
His wife gave him a pleading look. “Must we discuss it here?”
“If you can make such a declaration before this lot, you can damned well explain yourself!”
Lucasta stared at the woman she had thought her aunt. Jem studied her as well, but aside from their height and perhaps a certain natural aloofness, he could see no blood resemblance.