Chapter 2 #2
“They were,” Henslowe replied, “until they were not. Several tenants have fallen into arrears. The north wing requires urgent repair, and the western boundary wall has partially collapsed. The funds are insufficient to address all of this.”
Alastair had closed his eyes briefly. “What do you propose?” he had asked.
Henslowe’s voice had not wavered. “You must marry.”
Alastair had opened his eyes, his gaze sharpening. “I beg your pardon?”
“You must marry,” Henslowe had repeated. “The estate requires an infusion of capital. A suitable match would provide the necessary funds.”
“I will not marry for money,” Alastair had stated firmly.
“You will marry to save Ravenshaugh,” Henslowe had replied, steel in his tone. “The estate is not merely a property, Your Grace. It is a responsibility. It is your legacy, the livelihood of hundreds.”
“I will not barter my life!” Alastair had argued.
“You might benefit from marriage as well,” Henslowe had countered. “And you do stand responsible for your tenants and villagers, your grace.”
Alastair had risen from his chair and crossed to the window, looking out over the grounds, over the land he had inherited, over the fields that had sustained generations before him.
“I will find another way,” he had murmured after a moment’s silence.
“There is no other way that will not take years,” Henslowe had countered. “Years the estate does not have.”
Alastair had turned back toward him. “I will not deceive a woman.”
“You will not deceive her. You will offer her a title, a household, a future. In return, she will offer you her fortune. It will be a mutually beneficial arrangement.”
“I will offer her a life without affection,” Alastair had corrected.
“You will offer her security.”
“And she will offer me her youth, her hopes and her expectations.”
Henslowe had held his gaze. “This is necessary.”
“Necessary,” Alastair had repeated flatly.
“It is. Without it, the estate will decline beyond recovery. Without it, you will fail those who depend upon you.”
Alastair had turned away, saying nothing more.
The memory dissolved in the air as he walked slowly, his boots crunching softly on gravel.
He was here to find a bride—not because he wished to marry—but because he was compelled.
He felt the guilt settle upon him like a dull weight. He did not wish to bind a woman to a life in which she would not be cherished. He did not wish to offer her a marriage devoid of warmth, of passion, of the tenderness she might expect. He did not wish to deceive her, nor himself.
He paused along the path, his gaze lifting to the dark canopy of trees, the stars faint beyond the glow of lanterns. He had sworn, once, that he would never enter into marriage lightly, and yet there he was… searching for salvation.
He felt a familiar tightening in his chest, a sensation he had come to recognize as the prelude to regret—he felt ashamed.
He had not taken more than a few steps when a figure emerged from the curve of the path with such speed that he had no time to avoid her. She crashed into his chest, her hand brushing his sleeve, her breath catching audibly as she recoiled.
“I beg your pardon,” she breathed at once, stepping back.
Alistair’s shoulders stiffened, his body reacting before his mind had time to temper it. All evening, he had been subjected to carefully orchestrated encounters, each more transparent than the last.
Mothers had stationed daughters along his path. Young women had approached with rehearsed smiles and trembling curtsies—and now this.
He looked down at her, his expression cool, his voice edged with irritation. “You are remarkably bold,” he said. “Is this your idea of an introduction?”
She blinked. “An introduction? Sir, I was walking.”
“So you say.”
She straightened, her posture immediate, her chin lifting. “And what reason would I have to lie?”
“Your presence here, at this hour, in this location,” he snarked. “It is not precisely accidental.”
She stared at him. “Do you believe the gardens to be reserved for your private use?”
“I believe that young ladies do not typically wander alone into dark corners of estates without purpose.”
“Then you believe wrongly,” she snapped.
He regarded her more closely then, noting the fine cut of her gown, pale blue silk, the careful arrangement of her hair, though now a few curls had escaped their design. Her eyes were bright, their color indistinct in the shadows.
“You have the air of someone who expects to be believed,” he said.
“I have the air of someone who tells the truth,” she replied.
“Convenient,” he muttered.
She folded her arms. “You appear to have mistaken me for someone else.”
“I doubt it,” he said. “Just because I happen to be a duke doesn’t mean—”
“Preposterous!,” she exclaimed. “If you must know, I sought solitude, not a duke.”
Alastair felt an unexpected flicker of irritation. “You speak as though my presence is a nuisance.”
“Only insofar as your suspicion is.”
“I have reason for caution,” he said.
“And I have reason to object to being treated as though I were a schemer,” she argued.
He watched her, his gaze steady, his patience thinning. “You do not deny that you know who I am.”
“I do not deny it,” she said. “One cannot spend ten minutes in that ballroom without learning your name.”
“And yet you approach me in the garden,” he said.
“I did not approach you,” she sighed irately. “I nearly collided with you. There is a difference.”
He exhaled sharply. “A convenient distinction.”
“Sir,” she said, her tone sharpening, “you are not so irresistible that I would contrive to meet you beneath the trees.”
His eyes narrowed. “You presume a great deal.”
“I am merely stating a fact,” she replied.
“You presume,” he said, “that I am inclined to believe you.”
“And I know,” she replied, “that I do not require your belief.”
There was a pause.
He found himself, unexpectedly, studying her more intently. Neither did she avert her gaze, nor did she blush, nor did her voice tremble. She stood her ground with the assurance of someone accustomed to being heard.
“You are either remarkably confident,” he observed, “or remarkably foolish.”
“Or,” she said, “you are just unaccustomed to being contradicted.”
“I am unaccustomed,” he said, “to being pursued so brazenly.”
“I am not pursuing you.”
“All evening, I have been pursued. I am weary of it.”
“And you believe I am part of this pursuit.”
“I believe,” he said, “that I have no reason to think otherwise.”
“Then you lack imagination,” she replied.
“Well, you lack the sense of being mindful while you walk,” he said.
“What I lack right now is patience,” she replied, “for men who believe themselves the center of the universe.”
His jaw tightened. “You are impertinent.”
“I am honest,” she replied. “You are a skeptic.”
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“You claim disinterest,” he said, “yet here you stand.”
“Because you have chosen not to move,” she replied.
He frowned faintly. “Do you always engage in such spirited disputes with strangers?”
“Only when they accuse me of entrapment,” she replied.
“You still haven’t proved it,” he said.
“I have denied it explicitly and repeatedly,” she replied.
Another pause.
He found himself, to his surprise, not entirely displeased. It had been a long evening of polite deference, and rehearsed courtesy. He had grown weary of soft voices and soft smiles and soft expectations. This young woman offered none of it.
“You are unlike the others,” he said.
“Others?” she replied.
“The young ladies of the evening,” he said.
She smiled faintly. “Then I shall consider that a compliment.”
“You are not afraid of me,” he said.
“I see no reason to be,” she replied.
“You have heard the stories.”
“I have heard gossips,” she replied. “They are rarely reliable.”
“You do not find my reputation alarming?”
“I find most reputations exaggerated,” she replied. “Men, in particular, seem to benefit from them.”
“Benefit?” he repeated.
“Fear can be a form of currency, so can mystique.”
“You speak as though you have studied the matter,” he said.
“I have observed it,” she replied.
“And what have you observed of me?” he asked.
She considered him for a moment. “That you are weary. That you are defensive. That you are not as cruel as they say, you’re just… tired.”
His brows drew together. “You presume again.”
“I observe,” she corrected.
“You are forthright,” he said at last. “To say the least.”
“I have been accused of worse,” she replied.
“I imagine you have,” he said.
“And you?” she asked. “Have you always been so quick to assume the worst?”
“I have learned to,” he said.
She regarded him quietly. “That sounds like a lonely education.”
He did not answer.
“I will leave you to your solitude,” she said then, stepping back. “It is clear I am not welcome in it.”
“You are welcome to walk where you please,” he said.
“Not by your permission,” she replied.
She turned away, her skirts rustling softly, her posture straight, her movements assured. She did not glance back, but his gaze remained on her.
She reached a small wooden bridge that arched over the narrow lake at the heart of the garden, its surface dark with age, its railings worn smooth by years of use. The water below reflected the lantern light in wavering bands, the surface calm, the air still.
He remained where he was, uncertain whether to leave or stay, uncertain whether he wished to continue the exchange or to escape it.
He heard the faint rustle of her gown. Then, suddenly, a sharp sound—a gasp, a slip, and a splash.
The sound cut through the quiet like a blade. Alastair’s head snapped up, his gaze darting toward the railing. The lantern light shimmered on the water’s surface.
There was no sign of her.