him for a moment, then rang for the butler. “I need paper and a pen,” he said, and with clear reluctance sat down opposite his cousin. “I saw Greaves in Parliament yesterday,” he continued. “He gave me a look. If you’ve told anyone that you’re here at my behest, our agreement is going to change.”
“Are you attempting to tell me that Greaves has never looked at you before?”
“Well, n—”
“He knows we’re cousins, and he doesn’t like you,” Keating interrupted. “I’m prepared to wager that he glares at you quite frequently. I haven’t said a word to him. Or to anyone.” He leaned closer. “And our agreement is not going to change. You marry Camille Pryce, and I receive ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, yes.”
The butler returned with the writing implements and set them down, then left the room again. As soon as the door was closed, Keating pulled the paper over in front of him and dipped the pen in the accompanying inkwell.
“‘Number the first,’” he said, writing out the number as he spoke, “‘Send Camille flowers. Tomorrow.’”
“What? The chit abandoned and embarrassed me. I am not sending her posies. She needs to apologize to me. ”
“‘Number the second,’” he continued writing, ignoring the protest, “‘In two days, send a second bouquet of flowers, and a note. The note will read, “A much-delayed gift for your tenth birthday.” Nothing else. Not your name, or anything.’”
Fenton slammed his fist on the table. “No. I refuse. This is not what I agreed to.”
“‘Number the third, each subsequent day you will send Camille flowers, each with a note for the next-numbered birthday, until you reach the twenty-first birthday.’” Keating looked up. “You can count that high, yes?”
“Why are you putting this on me?” his cousin snapped, the red of his face deepening. “Stop insulting my intelligence and explain yourself.”
Taking a breath, Keating put the pen aside. As he’d noted on more than one occasion, Stephen had never been impulsive, warm, or … sensitive to the needs or emotions of anyone other than himself. Getting angry with him now for nonsense he’d begun—or rather, not begun—twelve or fifteen years earlier was pointless. In addition to that, it annoyed him that Camille’s story of yesterday had angered and troubled him.
“Very well,” he muttered after a moment. “In Camille Pryce’s eyes, this debacle is your fault.”
Fenton slammed to his feet. “W hat ? My fault? I offered her a home, a husband, stability, a family, th—”
“That’s the point,” Keating interrupted. “You didn’t offer her any of those things. You relied on a piece of paper she’s likely never set eyes on to offer things to her. She’s a young female, Stephen. She had expectations that you would at least send her a note introducing yourself. At the best, she wanted to be courted.”
“You mean she fled—she left our wedding because I didn’t woo her?”
That was likely as much as Fenton would ever understand about it. “Precisely,” Keating said aloud. “And in order for her to consider returning to marry you, you need to alter her perception of you.”
Fenton strode to the window and back. “No. I refuse. This arrangement was made by our parents. She benefits from a union even more than I do. I’m a marquis, after all. She would be a marchioness. No one wooed me, but I didn’t flee.”
“You aren’t a chit.”
Returning to rest both fists on the table, the marquis drew in a hard breath through his nose. “Let me make something clear, Keating. She embarrassed me. Her presence at The Tantalus Club continues to embarrass me. At least once a day one of my peers comments that they saw my almost-bride the evening before, putting bread on a table or dealing cards or seating them at breakfast. And then they laugh behind their hands, muttering to each other.”
For someone with Fenton’s strong sense of self-importance, that
“Are you attempting to tell me that Greaves has never looked at you before?”
“Well, n—”
“He knows we’re cousins, and he doesn’t like you,” Keating interrupted. “I’m prepared to wager that he glares at you quite frequently. I haven’t said a word to him. Or to anyone.” He leaned closer. “And our agreement is not going to change. You marry Camille Pryce, and I receive ten thousand pounds.”
“Yes, yes.”
The butler returned with the writing implements and set them down, then left the room again. As soon as the door was closed, Keating pulled the paper over in front of him and dipped the pen in the accompanying inkwell.
“‘Number the first,’” he said, writing out the number as he spoke, “‘Send Camille flowers. Tomorrow.’”
“What? The chit abandoned and embarrassed me. I am not sending her posies. She needs to apologize to me. ”
“‘Number the second,’” he continued writing, ignoring the protest, “‘In two days, send a second bouquet of flowers, and a note. The note will read, “A much-delayed gift for your tenth birthday.” Nothing else. Not your name, or anything.’”
Fenton slammed his fist on the table. “No. I refuse. This is not what I agreed to.”
“‘Number the third, each subsequent day you will send Camille flowers, each with a note for the next-numbered birthday, until you reach the twenty-first birthday.’” Keating looked up. “You can count that high, yes?”
“Why are you putting this on me?” his cousin snapped, the red of his face deepening. “Stop insulting my intelligence and explain yourself.”
Taking a breath, Keating put the pen aside. As he’d noted on more than one occasion, Stephen had never been impulsive, warm, or … sensitive to the needs or emotions of anyone other than himself. Getting angry with him now for nonsense he’d begun—or rather, not begun—twelve or fifteen years earlier was pointless. In addition to that, it annoyed him that Camille’s story of yesterday had angered and troubled him.
“Very well,” he muttered after a moment. “In Camille Pryce’s eyes, this debacle is your fault.”
Fenton slammed to his feet. “W hat ? My fault? I offered her a home, a husband, stability, a family, th—”
“That’s the point,” Keating interrupted. “You didn’t offer her any of those things. You relied on a piece of paper she’s likely never set eyes on to offer things to her. She’s a young female, Stephen. She had expectations that you would at least send her a note introducing yourself. At the best, she wanted to be courted.”
“You mean she fled—she left our wedding because I didn’t woo her?”
That was likely as much as Fenton would ever understand about it. “Precisely,” Keating said aloud. “And in order for her to consider returning to marry you, you need to alter her perception of you.”
Fenton strode to the window and back. “No. I refuse. This arrangement was made by our parents. She benefits from a union even more than I do. I’m a marquis, after all. She would be a marchioness. No one wooed me, but I didn’t flee.”
“You aren’t a chit.”
Returning to rest both fists on the table, the marquis drew in a hard breath through his nose. “Let me make something clear, Keating. She embarrassed me. Her presence at The Tantalus Club continues to embarrass me. At least once a day one of my peers comments that they saw my almost-bride the evening before, putting bread on a table or dealing cards or seating them at breakfast. And then they laugh behind their hands, muttering to each other.”
For someone with Fenton’s strong sense of self-importance, that
Similar Books
