Chapter Eight #2
“Is this your revenge for the letters?” she said. She tried to keep her voice steady, but a little quiver betrayed her. “Did you do this deliberately to ruin me?”
For a moment he looked taken aback and then his mouth twisted wryly. “Even I,” he said, “am not so much of a villain as to do that.” He looked down at her. She could not read his expression, and that troubled her all the more. She felt lost, all of a sudden, uncertain.
“Since it requires clarification,” Methven said, “I acknowledge that I have compromised your reputation by my scandalous behavior tonight. I therefore deem it a very great honor to offer you my hand in marriage.”
Lucy had never previously been naked when receiving one of her fifteen marriage proposals.
She had never imagined that she would be.
It simply was not possible. She was too proper, too perfect.
Yet here she was, clad only in her blanket and her drawers, trapped into marriage by the Marquis of Methven.
She could not marry him. It was out of the question. She could marry no one. She certainly could never give any man an heir.
The idea terrified her.
Nor could she ever explain her reasons, not if she was to keep Alice’s secrets, keep the past locked away.
She tried to concentrate, to still her tumbling thoughts.
“I think,” she said, “that you may be something of a scoundrel to take such advantage of me.”
He bowed. “I think,” he said, “that you may be correct.”
“A man without honor,” Lucy opined hotly.
He looked pained. “That’s a little harsh.”
“You may be accustomed to marrying people you barely know,” Lucy said hotly, “but it is not a habit of mine.”
This time he had the audacity to laugh. “Touché,” he said. “I did not know Miss Brodrie very well, but you and I...” He gestured to the couch and her partially clothed form. “I thought we were doing rather well in getting to know each other.”
The conversation was not going at all as Lucy had intended it. She felt hot and flustered and completely out of her depth.
“I cannot concentrate when I have so few clothes on!” she burst out. She struggled to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her for decency, almost losing her grip on it as her hands shook.
“If you would withdraw,” she said, “whilst I dress, then we may talk.”
“Of course,” Methven said. “You look delightful and I have no complaints, but if you insist. The blanket is slipping,” he added helpfully.
With an infuriated squeak Lucy tucked the ends in more securely and scurried off to the dressing room, where Sheena was waiting for her.
She half expected the maid to start berating her, to tell her that she had warned her that massage was a dangerous business and that Lucy should have had no truck with it.
She was not sure she could bear that Sheena had been proved right.
“I told you—” the maid began.
“I know!” Lucy said, cutting her off.
Sheena’s lips set in a firm line. Without another word she held out Lucy’s underclothes, first the chemise, then her stays.
Lucy shivered as they brushed against her bare skin.
She felt cold. Her hands shook slightly as she tried to help Sheena with the buttons on the bodice of her blue gown.
She found she needed to dress quickly, to feel more in control.
It was odd that having previously worn nothing but her drawers she now felt underdressed in an irreproachably respectable gown.
“I can vouch that nothing untoward occurred, madam,” Sheena said.
“I don’t think you can,” Lucy said bleakly. She knew perfectly well that her maid’s testimony would count for nothing in the face of scandal. She was utterly compromised, and the only way to save her reputation would be to marry Robert Methven.
Marriage.
She felt trapped and cold and afraid. The Marquis of Methven had lost one bride and now he wanted another. He had chosen her. He had compromised her.
Lucy shivered. When Alice had died she had locked away all thoughts of love and marriage.
Her future had changed with Alice’s death.
The regret, the shame and bitterness of her sister’s loss weighed on her every day.
She could never imagine a life with a husband and a family.
She did not want it; she was too afraid.
She could never lie with a man, never give him an heir, and it would be unfair to wed any man under those circumstances.
There was nothing within her but cold, hollow darkness.
Sheena was fastening her hair with a simple ribbon. “You cannot marry him, ma’am,” she said. “It’s impossible—”
“I know,” Lucy snapped.
There seemed little more to say and nothing that could put off any longer her confrontation with Robert Methven.
Already the clock had ticked around a half hour and she suspected that if she did not emerge from the dressing room soon, Methven would come in to make sure that she had not climbed out of the window and run away.
Sheena secured the ribbon. Lucy checked her reflection. She looked the same as she always did, perfectly poised and elegant. There was no indication from her serene image that her stomach churned and she felt chilled and sick.
Methven was standing where she had left him, hands in the pockets of his jacket, staring out of the wide bow window to the stretch of the bay beyond.
There was a frown between his eyebrows. He looked intimidating.
Cold fear nibbled at Lucy’s heart. He was so wrong for her in every way, forceful, physical, determined.
The Marquis of Methven, she was certain, would never settle for a platonic marriage of convenience.
He would want an heir for those estates he was bent on saving.
She had to find a way out of this, though she did not know how she could without leaving her reputation in tatters.
When he saw her he came across and took both her hands in his.
“You look lovely,” he said. “Though I had a small preference for the blanket.”
Lucy freed herself and moved away from him.
His touch was already confusing her, distracting her from her attempts to order her thoughts logically.
His proximity made her feel light-headed and heated.
Until Robert Methven had stepped back into her life, she had imagined that she would never feel passion, never experience desire.
He could make her feel both, but the fear in her was far stronger.
“Marriage is a business arrangement, Lord Methven,” she said, struggling to regain her composure, smoothing her skirts as she sat down. “Let us then discuss business.”
His lips twitched. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes. “How very practical you are, Lady Lucy,” he said. “By all means let us do so.” He took the chair opposite her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing them at the ankle. He waited politely for her to continue.
“Did you come to Durness specifically with the intention of compromising me?” Lucy demanded.
He inclined his head. “I came to make you an offer of marriage.”
“Then why not do so in an honorable manner?” Lucy asked. She took a deep breath and tried to steady herself. It was not easy, not under that perceptive blue gaze that seemed to see right into her soul.
He did not hesitate. “You would have refused me,” he said.
He was right; she would have done so. She could not in truth deny it.
When she did not immediately speak, he spread his hands wide in a gesture of appeal. “Forgive me,” he said, “but I had no other option than to force your hand.”
“I do not forgive you.” Lucy’s voice cracked. She was shocked at the depth of her disappointment in him. “It’s blackmail. You are completely without honor.”
He corrected her, his jaw rigid. “My allegiance, my honor, is to my clan. That has to be my first loyalty.”
There was a silence. He made no excuse, no further attempt to justify his actions.
Lucy pressed her fingers to her temples.
Her head was aching. She wanted to refuse him here and now, to tell him she would never marry him, that it was out of the question.
The problem was that she doubted he would accept a blunt rejection.
He would want to know why she was prepared to sacrifice her reputation rather than marry him.
She was trapped. Somehow she had to persuade him to release her instead. She had no idea how she was going to do it, but it was her only hope.
She raised her eyes to his face. He looked so unyielding that she almost lost her nerve there and then, but she dug her nails into her palms and forced herself to calm.
“I understood that your choice of bride was severely limited by the terms of your inheritance, my lord,” she said. “In what way has that changed?”
“It has changed only in that you are an eligible bride,” Methven said. He smiled, that sudden warm smile that always took her by surprise. “You are familiar with your family tree?”
“Not in any detail,” Lucy said. “Do you have a copy of it with you?”
“I’m afraid not,” Methven said. “You will just have to take my word for it. I have had the best lawyers in Edinburgh working on the matter.”
Of course he had. He would hardly make so fundamental a mistake over something so important. Lucy bit her lip. This, evidently, was not the way out.
“I had no notion that I was on your list of potential wives,” she said coldly.
Somewhere near the bottom, if Dulcibella Brodrie was higher up.
The thought popped into her head and irritated her all the more. It was irrelevant. Worse than that, it was foolish. She was not sure why she should care, but for some reason she did. She was too proud to stand in line behind Dulcibella.
Methven’s smile broadened as though he had recognized the contrariness of her feelings. “I had no idea either,” he said, “or you may be sure that I would have approached you before I offered for Miss Brodrie.”