A Gentleman Of Substance. Deborah HaleЧитать онлайн книгу.
moral obligations—one can never quite absolve one’s self.” He tried to smile, to show he was partly in jest and hopefully to ease some of the tension between them. The muscles of his face didn’t seem to understand what he was asking of them. They could only manage a lopsided grimace.
“If you wish to reconsider your decision to marry me, that is your right. In fact, I urge you to weigh your options carefully before choosing the course that will best serve you.and your child,” he added almost under his breath, in case anyone should be within earshot of their conversation.
“Options?” She gave a bitter little laugh. “I have no options, Lord Silverthorne, as you are well aware.”
“Of course, you do. You must. If you choose not to marry me, I’ll still provide for you.both. I’ll give you money to go away until the child is born. If you choose not to keep him, I’ll secure him a good home.”
“That is very generous of you.”
“It is my duty.”
“Ah yes, that irksome word again.”
Drake was tempted to launch into a lecture on the importance of ideals like duty and honor, but he restrained himself. “Bear in mind, if you choose to go your own way, I will never be able to acknowledge Jeremy’s son as my heir.”
“I understand.”
“However, it would leave you free to forget the past and, one day, make a marriage more to your liking.”
“I will never forget Jeremy.” She declared it as a fundamental truth. “And I will never love any other man. It would be wrong of me to marry a man I could not love.”
“What if the man knew you could not love him?” Drake asked quietly. “What if he did not want your love?”
“I suppose…” Lucy looked over at the spire of Saint Mawes, rising from behind the vicarage. “Won’t it be a sin to speak marriage vows we have no intention of keeping?”
“I doubt we will be the first couple to do so.” Drake scuffed the grass with the toe of his Hessians. “Or the last.”
Lucy made no reply. Assuming she must be weighing her options, Drake held himself still and silent. He’d had his say, whether or not she’d listened to him. In the end it all came down to her life and her child’s. She must be free to choose, without pressure from him. Yet, as the minutes passed with no sound but the occasional swish of the horse’s tail, Drake found himself earnestly hoping Lucy would not change her mind. Perhaps her doubts had tempered his resolve. Or perhaps he wanted a son of Jeremy’s to call his own.
Finally she spoke. “Very well, sir. I will marry you.”
Drake suddenly realized he had been holding his breath. “I must speak to your father.” He gasped out the words. “Then I must hunt up Squire Lewes and have him issue us a special license. Is tomorrow too soon?”
“For the wedding?” A faint blush mantled Lucy’s cheeks. “Considering our reason for marrying—the sooner, the better. First.” She laid a hand on his coat sleeve. “Can we make a private vow, truthfully, with only God as our witness?”
“What a clever idea.” Drake found himself smiling. “Like in business—a prior contract. What did you have in mind?”
Her hand slid slowly down his sleeve, and after a moment’s hesitation, clasped his hand. “I, Lucy Rushton, promise to raise my child, with you as his father. I vow to treat you with the respect due to a husband. I will never burden you with unwanted affection or be jealous of your interest in other women.”
That summed up the whole situation quite well. Drake cleared his throat. He liked the feel of her hand in his-too much so, perhaps. “I, Drake Strickland, promise to raise your child as my own and treat you with the respect due to a wife. I’ll never…”
“Burden,” Lucy prompted him.
“Oh, yes. Never burden you with unwanted affection or be jealous of your interest in other men.” For some reason, he had trouble saying that last sentence with conviction.
Lucy let go of his hand. “You needn’t have added that last part. I told you, I will never care for any man but Jeremy.”
“And I have no interest in any woman.” Though he stressed the words most emphatically, Drake could not forget the way she’d felt in his arms. “I believe that sets us even. Now, shall we go break the news to your father?”
All things considered, her father had taken the news quite well, Lucy reflected as she sat before her dressing table preparing for bed the following night. Though the best of men and the kindest of fathers, Vicar Rushton had a vague, preoccupied air, that had deepened over the years since the death of his cheerful, practical wife. Lucy often had the feeling he was only half listening when she spoke to him.
When Lord Silverthorne…Drake, had formally asked for her hand, her father only shook his head and chuckled, “Well, well, well. Bless my soul!” Perhaps he thought they’d been courting for ages under his nose, but couldn’t bring himself to admit he hadn’t noticed. He raised no objection when Drake requested a hasty wedding, without benefit of banns, blithely agreeing to conduct the ceremony himself.
The ceremony. If their union lasted fifty years, Lucy knew she would always cringe at the thought of her wedding—brief, awkward and decidedly unfestive. As she spoke her vows to love and honor her husband, forsaking all others, her thoughts resonated with earlier promises to do nothing of the kind.
“Will you be needing anything else, your ladyship?” asked the serving girl who had just finished unpacking her trunk.
The silver hairbrush slipped from Lucy’s fingers, but made scarcely a sound as it landed on the thick pile of the carpet. Glancing around her bedchamber in alarm, she wondered if Lady Phyllipa had managed to enter without her noticing. Then she realized the girl was addressing her.
“Excuse me…Mary, is it? I’m afraid it will take me some time to become accustomed to my new title. As a matter of fact, plain ‘ma’am’ is good enough for everyday use.”
She retrieved her brush from the floor and checked it over for dents. Such luxuries would take some getting used to.
“Let’s see?” She surveyed the spacious, elegantly appointed room. The very style of it emphasized that she was far out of her social depth. “The fire’s been lit. You’ve turned down the bed and given it a pass with the warming pan. You’ve unpacked my clothes. I doubt I’ll require anything further tonight.” Back home at the vicarage, she’d have tended to those chores herself. Would she ever get used to ordering a houseful of servants?
The girl curtsied. “Very good ma’am. I hope you rest well your first night at Silverthorne.”
Feeling a blush begin to prickle in her cheeks, Lucy turned back to her dressing table. If young Mary was privy to the gossip buzzing around Nicholthwait about Lord Silverthorne’s hasty marriage, she probably doubted her mistress would get any sleep at all on her wedding night.
“Thank you. I’m sure I shall.” Lucy tried to sound more certain than she felt.
She heard the door of her bedchamber open, and Mary let out a squeal of surprise.
“Excuse me, your lordship,” the girl gasped. “I was just on my way out.”
Lucy jumped from the stool in front of her dressing table. Her hairbrush tumbled to the floor for the second time. She heard her bridegroom reply heartily, “How convenient, Mary. I was just on my way in. By the way, tell Talbot I said not to be stingy with the champagne below stairs tonight.”
Drake’s long lean frame filled the doorway as he stood there bidding Mary good-night. His dark hair