Dare it all for Love (Daring Daughters Book 5) Page 12

  “The comte?”

  She tsked and gave him an impatient glower that made him want to smile. “Mr Oak!”

  “Sterling’s a good fellow. He’s just a bit brusque, that’s all. He’s not used to the company of ladies. Spends most of his time with cattle or crops.”

  “Hmph.”

  “You look very beautiful, Florence.”

  Her cross expression melted at his words and a tinge of colour touched her cheeks.

  “I’m surprised you noticed,” she said, diffident now.

  He made an incredulous sound, wondering how she could be so foolish. “You must be fishing for compliments, Miss Knight, for I do not believe you are unaware of the effect you have on me.”

  A smile tugged at her mouth, but she struggled to meet his eyes.

  “The feeling is mutual,” she said quietly, glancing up at him.

  Henry’s mouth was suddenly dry, the desire to kiss her so strong that he ached with the need to reach for her. The way she was staring up at him now was a clear invitation to do so. Henry glanced across the galleried landing to the comte and Evie and muttered a curse. Oh, to the devil with it. He grabbed Florence’s hand and dragged her with him, around the corner and along a corridor, snatching at the first door he came to and flinging it open. Henry pulled her inside and closed the door.

  She stood staring at him, breathing as though she’d run for a mile.

  “Well,” she said, impatience ringing out in her words. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

  Henry gave a huff of laughter. “God, you’re bossy.”

  Florence nodded. “I have opinions, too. Lots of them.”

  She held his gaze, defiance burning in the green of her eyes.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he said, excitement thrumming beneath his skin. “What is your opinion about the fate of young women who enter bedrooms with unmarried men?”

  She looked around, her eyes widening as she noticed the large four poster bed.

  “I did not realise it was a bedroom,” she retorted.

  “Would it have made a difference?”

  There was a brief pause.

  “No,” she said, and reached up, sliding her arms about his neck and pressing closer.

  “Are you certain this is what you want?” Henry asked, wishing that hadn’t sounded so damned hopeful.

  There was something hurt and vulnerable twitching anxiously inside his heart that wanted him to turn away from this, from her, before she had the chance to answer, to damage him all over again.

  “Henry,” she whispered, a thread of helpless laughter in her voice.

  He lowered his mouth, so close their breath mingled. “Are you certain?”

  “Yes,” she murmured, brushing her mouth against his, unaware of how that brief touch made need and desire hit him with such force he almost staggered under the impact. “Yes, Henry. Yes, please. I’m very certain this is what I want.”

  Thank Christ for that.

  He kissed her, trying his utmost to keep things under control. Just a kiss, he promised himself. He wasn’t at the mercy of his passions, no longer a green boy. He could keep himself in check. God, but it was difficult. She was so sweet, so eager, holding nothing back, giving him everything, giving him ideas. He pulled back, hauling in a breath.

  “Stop,” he said, though he had to be firmer when she lifted her mouth to his once more. “No.”

  “Henry,” she pleaded, tugging at his neck.

  It would have been so easy to give in, too easy. She was worth more than that. He pulled her close, stroking her hair. “I must speak to your father and ask for permission to court you.”

  Her eyes widened in surprise.

  Henry grunted, shaking his head. “You thought we’d continue to sneak about, stealing kisses? I’m not some spotty youth, Florence. The sooner you rid yourself of those kinds of ideas, the better.”

  She looked indignant, as well she might, and he cursed himself for sounding such a stuffy old prig. He was the one who’d dragged her into the bedroom, after all.

  “I’m only surprised that you’re admitting you wish to court me,” she said, temper flashing in her eyes.

  He reached out, the urge to touch her irresistible. His fingers caressed the elegant line of her jaw, her throat, her skin like silk beneath his touch. He longed to lean down and kiss his way along the path his fingers had taken, but he did not dare. The temptation to go too far would be unbearable. Hell, it already was.

  “I can hardly deny it, but I won’t rush things. Your father will likely tell me to go to the devil as it is, but assuming I can bring him around I don’t doubt it will be a condition. He’ll think you’ve just formed a tendre for me that will wane in time.”

  “That’s what you think too, isn’t it?” she said.

  Henry shrugged, unwilling to say it aloud, as if acknowledging his fears would bring them to life.

  “It isn’t true.”

  There was such certainty in her eyes he wanted to believe her with no reservations, but he was not a fool, and he would not hand his heart to another young woman, only to see it trampled into the dirt once again.

  “Someone once told me I was her great love and that there would never be another, that she would love me until the day she died. I believed her.”

  Disgust flashed in her eyes, such anger on his behalf that he was rather stunned by it.

  “She was the biggest fool that ever lived for jilting you, and I’d put money on her having regretted it ever since.”

  Henry snorted, toying idly with a thick lock of her black hair. It was so soft. He raised it to his mouth, enjoying the feel against his lips. “Riches and a title were what the lady wanted, and what she got. I imagine she’s well pleased by the bargain.”

  “I don’t. I imagine she’s discovered jewels and a title are cold and unloving when she looks at her life and considers everything she might have had.”

  “Are you certain of that? Your father is one of the richest men in the country, Florence. I am not. Oh, I’m hardly a pauper. The estate is productive, and I invested in several schemes during my time abroad, which will provide a steady income for years to come. You’ll lack for nothing and always be able to hold your head up in society, but I cannot compete with the likes of Gabriel Knight, and I have no intention of trying to. I cannot provide you with a private railway carriage, or a grand house in every county.”

  “And you think those things are important to me?” One imperious black eyebrow rose, her expression one of disdain.

  Henry smiled, though he could not pretend it was not something that weighed on his mind. “I think you’ve been indulged by a doting father, who would give you the moon if you asked for it.”

  She pushed away from him, which was a relief, even though he missed the feel of her body against his and longed for her to return to him. “You think me spoiled and foolish.”

  “I do not think you foolish,” he said, amused by the furious glare she shot him. He walked away from her, leaning against the wall, folding his arms as she stalked to the window and looked out. “What was your last birthday present?”

  Her shoulders stiffened. “I shan’t tell you,” she retorted.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She stared out at the landscape, at the sun gilding the surrounding countryside, burnishing it to a crisp, brittle gold as the usually green and pleasant land shimmered in the extraordinary heat.

  “Do you know what I want, Henry?”

  She turned then, meeting his eyes, and Henry’s breath caught at the sight. The light hit her profile just so, her beauty so exquisite in that moment it was like an arrow shaft straight to the heart. How would he bear it if he allowed himself to love her, and could not hold her?

  “What do you want?”

  His voice was rough, a little angry as he berated himself for always wanting more than he could have. He’d known Lily could do better than him, she’d been the season’s diamond, and no one had been more surpri
sed than he when she’d accepted him. Except she’d come to her senses and taken a far better offer in the end. He was doing it again, wanting something that ought not be his. Florence’s father might be a self-made man, but he was too wealthy to be ignored, and her mother was sister to a duke. Florence was also a beauty, intelligent and kind, and so much more. A woman like her could have any man she wished with a snap of her fingers. So what was it she wanted from him?

  “I want what I see when my parents look at each other. I want a man who will stand by me, no matter what, who will never let me down. A man who keeps his promises and honours his wife and family, a man who is proud of me for having opinions, even if he doesn’t always agree with them and never tries to silence me. I want a man who will discuss instead of arguing, who will seek my counsel before deciding on things that affect our family, who will allow me to make decisions for myself instead of telling me what I must do. Someone who will love me for who I am, the good and the bad, not just the pretty face I must present to society and the fat purse marrying me will give him. That is what I want.”

  Florence faced him with defiance and Henry let out a breath. Well, then.

  “I can do that.”

  He held out his arms to her and she ran into them, clutching him about his waist and holding on tight.

  “I know,” she said, her voice muffled as she buried her face against his chest. “And that is why I want you.”

  Chapter 11

  Dear Miss Smith,

  Are you having an enjoyable stay at Holbrook House? I wish we had been able to visit too, but Father has responsibilities which take us away for August and he does not like to be absent from Mama. Mama won’t be parted from the rest of us for long, so we’ve all been hauled off to the estate in Hampshire. Not that I’m complaining, it is a marvellous place, the fishing is excellent and there’s lots to do. Only I do miss everyone. I hope you will come and visit us here one day, I’m sure you’d like it, and Cat too, of course.

  ―Excerpt of a letter from Lord Frederick Adolphus (younger son of Robert and Prunella Adolphus, their Graces, The Duke and Duchess of Bedwin) to Miss Agatha Smith.

  16th August 1839, Holbrook House, Sussex.

  Grace accepted the glass of water from Mr Oak with a polite nod. Though she was glad she’d diffused the awkward atmosphere, she rather wished she’d not been such a martyr. For now she was alone with Mr Oak, and she had not the faintest idea what to say to him. Why Florence had been so antagonistic to him she did not know, but she well understood he was not an easy man to be around. Partly it was the way he looked at one. The way he was looking at her now, as if… as if he knew….

  “How far gone are you?”

  Grace choked, her shock so profound she almost dropped the glass. Mr Oak lunged for it, taking it from her slack grasp before it hit the floor. He knelt beside her and gave her a couple of firm pats on the back.

  “Breathe,” he said. If Grace had been able to, she’d have demanded what on earth he thought she was trying to do, but she could do nothing but gasp. “Try to relax. No, don’t fight it. In… and out. That’s it. Steady, now.”

  His large hand rubbed slow circles on her back and the warmth of his palm burned through her gown, somehow even through her corset, yet it was a reassuring touch, if outrageously inappropriate.

  She met his eyes, determined to deny everything and rail at him for voicing such a dreadful, ruinous, damaging accusation to an innocent young lady. But she looked into his eyes and got lost somehow, the angry words snagging in her throat. His eyes were so dark, a deep rich brown, thickly lashed and watchful. They watched her now, without condemnation or sympathy. Perhaps that was why she burst into tears.

  Mr Oak got to his feet, and for a moment Grace believed he meant to walk off in disgust and was gripped by such overwhelming panic her chest grew tight. Then she saw he had only gone to close the door that he’d left open for propriety’s sake. Well, that horse had bolted right enough.

  He returned to her and handed her a clean handkerchief. She took it and wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and tried to get herself back under control.

  “What must you think of me?” she wondered aloud, not expecting an answer, which was just as well, for she did not get one.

  “How many monthlies have you missed?”

  Grace felt a blush scald her cheeks and glared up at him, scandalised. “You cannot ask me such… personal…. Really, it’s too—”

  “How many?” he demanded.

  “Two.”

  What was the point? Now he knew he’d probably tell everyone. Why in the name of everything holy had she answered him? Why had she tried to stop the argument between him and Florence? Why had she been such a stupid, reckless ninny and given herself to a man who didn’t give a snap of his fingers for her?

  “Reckoned as much,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets, his gaze unwavering.

  “Who told you?” she asked, angry now.

  Only Florence and Arabella knew, and she knew they would never have told. She’d thought perhaps her maid suspected. Had she tattled to someone? Surely not.

  “No one told me,” he said, his voice sure and calm. “I know what a breeding female looks like.”

  “I’m not a cow!” she objected, hot with indignation.

  His lips, always set in a rather grim line, twitched slightly.

  “No,” he agreed.

  Grace put up her chin. She may as well know the worst of it. If he thought to blackmail her, he was to be disappointed. She did not wish to tell her parents yet, but she would if she must.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I rather think that’s the question I need to pose, Miss Weston. Who is the father?”

  “None of your business!”

  “Will he marry you?”

  Grace clenched her teeth together, willing herself not to cry. She would not cry. This was her doing. Her mistake. She had no one else to blame. It appeared her silence was all the answer he required.

  “Damned bastard.”

  There had been ire enough in the words to make her look up, let alone the fact no man had ever deliberately sworn in her presence before. It was rather shocking. Mr Oak was scowling at the empty grate. Goodness, but he was a forbidding man. With that look on his face, he appeared ready to do murder.

  “How old are you?”

  “I’ll be eighteen in two weeks,” Grace said, too surprised to wonder at his question.

  He made a low, angry sound and shook his head.

  “Blackguard,” he muttered under his breath. He shook his head, still scowling furiously. “You’re younger than I would have liked, but I suppose it’s of no matter.”

  “What isn’t?” She frowned at him.

  “We’ll be married after your birthday then. Best not to leave it any longer, there’s bound to be talk as it is.”

  “M-Married?” Grace repeated, stunned.

  “Do you have any better ideas?”

  Grace was too startled to understand what was going on, let alone think of better ideas. Had he… had he just proposed? No. No, he hadn’t. He’d told her they were getting married.

  “Mr Oak,” Grace began, trying her best to sound like she wasn’t about to have a hysterical fit, for she thought it all too possible. “I appreciate the offer, but—”

  “Listen to me, child,” he said, the words brooking no argument. “You’re ruined. If you don’t marry, you’ll never be able to see your friends again. You’ll shame your family. If they love you, they’ll support you, but at what price? If they don’t, you’ll likely be thrown out. Either way, you have no option. That child needs a name, and I’m prepared to give it one.”

  Grace stared at him, fighting for breath, wishing she did not have to acknowledge the truth of his words. Her family would never disown her, but they would bear the shame of her mistake, and she could not bear that. Her child, too, would always bear the burden of illegitimacy when they had done nothing to deserve it. He was right. T
here was very little choice.

  “Why?” she demanded, too choked with emotion to say more.

  “My reasons are my own,” he said gruffly. He seemed to stand taller as he carried on. “I know you likely expected to marry someone far above my station, but beggars can’t be choosers. I’ll not bring you shame. I’ve a fine house. I’m not as rich as your father, but you’ll be well dressed, you’ll have your own carriage, I’ll see you and the child want for nothing.”

  Grace blinked up at him. “The child….”

  Her throat closed up, and she swallowed hard, unable to express what she needed to ask him.

  His dark eyes met hers, never wavering. “The child, girl or boy, will be treated as my own. No one will ever know otherwise. I’ll never condemn it or treat it as anything but my own blood by word or deed. I give you my word.”

  She stared at him, stared into that strong, fierce face that made her want to shrink back in her chair and… and she believed him. Good Lord. What choice did she have? He was offering her a lifeline, her and her child. She had no other option. Somehow, she could not speak the words aloud, but gave him a sharp nod.

  He let out a breath, something flickering in his eyes that she could not read.

  “Good. That’s good,” he said. “I’ll write to your father and ask to see him at his earliest convenience.”

  “No!”

  He stiffened and Grace held out a hand as if to quiet his temper.

  “It’s only… not yet,” she pleaded. “I had hoped to have these last weeks with my friends and—”

  “One week.” His voice was sharp, his expression daunting enough that she did not argue. “No longer. Then I will speak to your father. We must be married as soon as possible to avoid too much speculation.”

  Grace nodded.

  “Very well,” she said faintly, for she was hardly in a position to complain. “One week.”

  “Grace, are you quite well?” Florence asked. They were back at Holbrook, settled comfortably in the yellow parlour with books neither of them had read two words of. “I’d hoped luncheon might make you feel better. Should I ring for tea?”