Chapter Seven
“Hell and damnation!” muttered Angus Westland as he prowled into Southerby’s rooms not long after Sylvie had fled the study.
“Did it not go well?” murmured Southerby, adjusting his cuffs and smoothing his coat as Westland slumped into a chair. “Should have waited… for her sake as much as mine… to see if it might blow over.”
Turning from the full-length looking glass, Southerby studied Westland for a moment.
“However innocent, however untrue, letters will already have been dashed off to every corner of the kingdom. Missives, filled with exaggerated details about the compromising discovery of Miss Mason in a state of dishabille. The stain is already cast, my friend.”
“Hmm.”
“Ironic, is it not? The reputation you have so carefully nurtured to avoid this very predicament has now placed you, and more to the point, Miss Mason, at the centre of the biggest scandal in years. And, truth be told, you always said you must marry eventually… to carry on the Westland name.”
“Once I had reached a certain age and… and all was well, is what I said.”
“Indeed, tis just a little earlier than you expected.”
“A mutually beneficial agreement between two sensible, mature parties,” retorted Westland sternly. “A carefully considered business contract.”
“Yet, here we are. And Miss Mason has agreed to your terms, has she not? A happy outcome, most would agree.”
“Happy?” muttered Westland, shaking his head in derision. “Lady Mason agreed. Miss Mason looked at me as though I had just kicked a puppy.”
“Oh?” murmured Southerby, turning back to the mirror, holding up two pins, one after the other, to compare against his perfectly folded cravat. “And that bothers you?”
“Hm,” grunted Westland with a non-committal shrug.
“Humber informs me she is a lively creature, with a happy temperament and a smile capable of capturing most men’s attention.”
Westland’s eyes narrowed, “Did he now?”
“Do you not agree with his assessment?”
“Agree or deny, it is of no consequence. My views on my marriage and the role of my Marchioness are unchanged.”
“Yet your Marchioness-to-be is the belle of the season. A beautiful, lively filly instead of a plain, overlooked brood mare whom you planned to put out to pasture once her duty was done.”
“Valentine!”
“She may surprise you, tis all I’m saying. And really… would that be so very terrible?”
“She already surprised me by dropping into my lap like a sack of potatoes and near winded us both! Oh Gods, Valentine,” sighed Westland, pressing thumb and forefinger to his forehead, “what a confounding bloody mess! And pray tell, what does one talk of with young ladies barely out of the schoolroom?”
“Oh? You intend on conversing?” remarked Southerby as he finished his appraisal in the mirror and turned to receive the scathing look Westland shot him. He bowed his head with mock gravity, though his smile betrayed him.
“I can hardly whisk her off to Gretna Green if we are to convince society she has not been compromised, can I? I must be seen escorting her to one or two tedious soirees or dinners in the coming weeks.”
“Indeed — the coming weeks.” Southerby raised a brow. “Then, my old friend, I think you ought to seek the counsel of Humber, as when it comes to wooing society, and the fairer sex, there is no better master.”
“I have no wish to woo anyone… least of all Miss Mason.”
“Mm. Yes, the silent treatment, interspersed with the occasional grunt here and there, will be utterly convincing and put her perfectly at ease when in company. After all, you are the Morose Marquess.”
All Westland could manage was indeed grunt. “Huh.” Pushing to his feet, he stalked from the room and, although determined not to, found his steps leading to Humber’s chambers.
Sebastian Humber, delighted and barely able to contain his amusement at his friend’s obvious discomfort, spent the next forty minutes flamboyantly offering an astounding assortment of charming greetings and enticing conversation starters.
“I’m not saying that!” snapped Westland at the latest offering.
“My dear chap,” sighed Humber in exasperation, “I understand you are not a man comfortable with delivering elegant prose or delicate compliments, but for the love of Zeus, surely there must be one or two amongst them you can recite without choking.”
“Ugh,” Westland hmphed. “This is a disaster.”
“If you were averse to female company, like dear Desmond, then yes, I would agree. But you are not. You enjoy women’s company, do you not?”
“Women, yes! Women who don’t blush or giggle or burst into tears at the slightest thing.”
“Ah,” mused Humber, his eyes alight with amusement, “so it’s the company of the young, beautiful, innocent variety that has you unsettled.”
“Unsettled?” he uncharacteristically blurted, then half laughed, shaking his head in resignation. “Bloody terrified. Ye ken I’ll say the wrong thing and deeply offend… or worse, frighten her! Tears, my friend! The thought of weeks of tears and tantrums is truly terrifying.”
“Truly terrifying,” laughed Humber. “Best you recall all I have taught you, then.”
* * *
“Devil it!” Westland muttered to himself later as he paced back and forth at the bottom of the grand staircase, his fists clenching and unclenching.
Just a few weeks of disruption, then all would be well.
Though try as he might, he could not shake off the feeling of impending doom.
And deep down, he knew his doom had pale blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile, well, according to Humber, enchanting enough to capture the attention of any man.
God help them both.