Chapter 14 The Engagement Trap
In my defense, I have been awake for less than ten minutes when I become accidentally betrothed.
Not technically accidentally. That implies no one saw the rake in the grass before stepping on it. Lord Weston saw the rake, polished it, monogrammed the handle, and then placed my foot directly on it while smiling.
“He cannot have done that,” Beatrice says.
Molly looks miserable. “He did, my lady. Mr. Parsons heard it from Lord Markham’s coachman, who heard it at Brooks’s from a footman in the Weston household. They say Lord Weston spoke of it plain. Said he had offered for Miss Hartford and been accepted.”
Accepted.
I sit very still because sudden movement makes my ribs object and because if I move too quickly I may commit a felony no one has invented yet.
Beatrice dismisses Molly, then turns back to me. “Perhaps it is rumor.”
“In London, rumor is just news without a hat.”
Mrs. Finch arrives with tea, sees our faces, and sets the tray down as if placing supplies before a siege. “Shall I send for His Grace?”
James.
Wait for me.
The words bruise worse than my ribs.
“No,” I say.
Beatrice gives me a look.
“Not yet,” I amend. “First I want Weston.”
Mrs. Finch’s brows rise.
“Summoned,” I add. “Not murdered. Although I am reserving judgment.”
* * *
Lord Weston arrives within the hour, which is either guilt or excellent scheduling.
He enters Ashbourne House looking exactly like a man who has done something outrageous for noble reasons and expects applause once everyone understands the composition.
Dark coat immaculate. Hair artfully disordered.
Gloves in one hand. Expression earnest enough to make me want to throw a pillow at him, which is tragic because the pillows here are embroidered and probably expensive.
Beatrice refuses to leave. Mrs. Finch stations herself near the door under the transparent fiction of adjusting the curtains. I am tucked into a chair with bruises on my face and a shawl over my shoulders, giving the whole tableau a pleasing “invalid about to prosecute” atmosphere.
Weston bows. “Miss Hartford.”
“My lord.”
His gaze flickers over the bruise on my cheek. Regret softens him. “I am sorry.”
“For the assault or the engagement?”
He draws a breath. “Both, perhaps, though only one was my doing.”
“Excellent. We have established jurisdiction.”
Beatrice mutters, “Emma.”
I ignore her. “Did you announce that I accepted your proposal?”
Weston’s jaw tightens. “I allowed it to be understood.”
“That is aristocrat for yes.”
“It was necessary.”
There it is. The phrase men use when they have finished deciding a woman’s life and would like her gratitude served warm.
“Explain it to me slowly,” I say. “My head was recently introduced to a wall.”
He flinches, which is satisfying in a petty way I am not proud of and absolutely not sorry for.
“You were attacked leaving Carlton House,” he says. “Ashbourne carried you home. By nightfall, half the town had embroidered the incident into something indecent. By morning, the story had become that you were found alone with him, in torn clothing, after a private assignation.”
My stomach drops.
I knew scandal was coming. Scandal is London’s favorite indoor sport. But there is a difference between knowing weather exists and being hit by lightning.
“So you lied.”
“I protected you.”
“You lied.”
His expression hardens. “I gave society a reason to see you as a future countess instead of a ruined woman.”
“Without asking me.”
“There was no time.”
“There was enough time to tell half of London.”
Beatrice looks down at her hands.
Weston comes closer, then stops when my expression makes it clear proximity is not his friend.
“Emma, listen to me. Had I waited, the damage would have settled. By announcing our understanding, I gave the gossip a shape that protects you. A fiancée attacked while returning from a royal summons is pitiable. A woman of uncertain birth carried home by an engaged duke is destroyable.”
The worst part is that he is not entirely wrong.
I hate when infuriating people bring logic to their own prosecution.
“You do understand,” I say, “that protection you force on someone is just a prettier cage.”
Pain crosses his face. Real pain. “I know you are angry.”
“Good. I was worried my subtlety was failing.”
“But I would do it again.”
The room goes sharp.
Beatrice inhales.
Weston holds my gaze. “I would rather have you hate me safely than admire me ruined.”
For one second, I see the man beneath the charm. Not a villain. That would be easier. A man who cares, who is used to power, who has mistaken rescue for consent because the world has rewarded him for doing so his entire life.
“That,” I say quietly, “is exactly the problem.”
He bows his head.
“You cannot deny it now,” he says.
“Watch me.”
“If you deny it, you confirm every uglier rumor. You make Ashbourne’s involvement the center of the story. You imperil his sister as well as yourself.”
Beatrice closes her eyes.
My anger does not vanish. It curdles into something heavier.
I am trapped again.
Not in a watch-house this time. Not in a duke’s spare room. In a sentence someone else said about me.
Weston’s voice softens. “Let the engagement stand for now. Publicly. Privately, we will discuss terms. I will not force you to the altar.”
“You already forced me to the church steps.”
He accepts that without flinching. “Yes.”
I hate that he says it plainly.
I hate that part of me is tired enough to see the offer for what it is: shelter with locks.
* * *
James hears by noon.
He does not storm into the room. That would be too easy, too theatrical.
Instead, he appears in the doorway with his face carved into courtesy, which is far worse.
I am alone, Beatrice having gone to retrieve the note from Victoria’s lover from its hiding place and Mrs. Finch having decided my recovery requires something called beef tea, a substance I intend to report to the Geneva Convention once time travel permits.
“Is it true?” James asks.
No greeting. No inquiry after my ribs. No softness.
My heart sinks.
“No,” I say.
His expression barely moves.
“Yes,” I correct, because this century has made truth unnecessarily complicated. “Weston announced it. I did not agree to it.”
“But you will not deny it.”
There is hurt in his voice, hidden under ice.
“If I deny it today, the gossip turns back to you carrying me home with my gown torn.”
“Let it.”
“You do not mean that.”
His eyes flash. “Do not tell me what I mean.”
I stand too quickly. Pain spears along my side, and I grip the chair back until it passes.
James moves toward me before he can stop himself, then stops because we are both suddenly aware of what last night taught us: touch is not neutral anymore.
“You asked me to wait,” I say.
“And by morning you are promised to another man.”
“That is unfair.”
“Yes.”
The honesty steals some of my anger.
He looks away first. “I know it is. I also know Weston did what I could not do quickly enough. He gave you a shield.”
“A shield I did not ask to carry.”
“No.”
Silence presses between us.
We are absurd, really. Two people in love, each trapped by someone else’s engagement, arguing in a room where I am not supposed to be alone with him because society is basically a haunted dollhouse with paperwork.
“The note,” he says at last.
“Beatrice is fetching it.”
“Good. I have men confirming Harrow’s movements.”
“And Thornbury?”
His face darkens. “The men from Carlton House vanished before they could be taken to a magistrate.”
Of course they did.
“Let me guess,” I say. “No one knows how.”
“A servant sent the footmen to the wrong entrance. By the time they returned, the men were gone.”
Surveillance. Bribes. Doors opening at exactly the wrong moment.
The cold thread from Carlton House tightens again.
James sees my expression. “What is it?”
“I think this is bigger than Thornbury’s temper.”
“Hartwick.”
“And whoever Hartwick can buy.”
James steps closer, then stops again. “I will get you out of this.”
“Which this?”
His mouth tightens.
Exactly.
* * *
By evening, I have received three notes of congratulation, two invitations to engagement breakfasts, and one engraved card from Lady Pemberton’s cousin offering to advise me on trousseau linens.
There are apparently entire categories of linens I have failed to fear.
“How many sheets does one marriage require?” I ask.
Beatrice, seated at my writing desk with Victoria’s note spread before her, does not look up. “More than one expects.”
“That is ominous.”
“So is marriage.”
I point at her. “That is the most sensible thing anyone has said today.”
The absurdity should be funny. It almost is. Mrs. Finch enters with a list of callers who must be acknowledged, including three women who would not have crossed a street to greet me yesterday and now apparently wish to inspect the future Lady Weston like livestock in gloves.
I draft polite replies while Beatrice copies Harrow’s note in case the original disappears. My ribs throb. My cheek aches. Every carriage that slows outside the house makes my skin prickle.
By the fifth note, I discover that unwanted engagement correspondence has its own ecosystem.
Lady Markham sends congratulations and a recommendation for a mantua-maker who “understands haste without suggesting impropriety,” which is the most Regency sentence ever constructed.
Lady Pemberton offers the use of her drawing room for a small celebratory breakfast. Lord Weston sends flowers, white roses and myrtle, with a card that says only: Forgive the method. Trust the intention.
I stare at the card until the words blur.
The worst part is that trust is not entirely absent.
Weston would give me a name. A house. Legal protection.
A way to keep practicing without every rumor becoming a loaded pistol pointed at my chest. He would be kind, in the way men are kind when they believe kindness gives them permission to steer.
James gives me love and danger.
Weston gives me safety with locks on the doors.