Marriage Made in Hope(21)

‘Elizabeth...’ her husband began, but she did not let him finish.

‘The man standing before us is the architect of all our problems, Jonathon, the sole reason we are in this conundrum and Sephora can no longer partake in anything at all in society—’

‘St Cartmail has come to ask for our daughter’s hand in marriage.’

That stopped her as nothing else would have and she looked at her offspring intently. Sephora was so much smaller than her mother and deathly pale. All Francis could see was worry stamped across her brow.

‘What of Richard? What of him, Sephora? What of an understanding that should at least be given some weight due to its longevity?’

‘I think Winbury may have cooked his goose, Elizabeth, given his lack of any true concern for our daughter’s plight. He has certainly been vocal in his criticisms of her.’ Her father gave this damning summation of Winbury’s character without as much emotion as before.

‘He is grieving...’

‘He is weak willed.’

‘So you are saying...?’ Sephora’s mother’s face had lost its flush and was now a ghostly white.

‘Our duty, Elizabeth, is to see that our daughter is not ruined by gossip, and the earl, whilst the subject of much discussion, is also titled and wealthy in his own right. Believe me, it could have been far worse.’

A different silence settled now and Francis used the moment to push his own cause further.

‘Might I have a moment alone with Lady Sephora?’

He thought her mother might refuse outright, but before she could speak, Sephora’s father had taken his wife’s hand and led her from the room. ‘I will allow you two moments, Lord Douglas. Sephora, we will be right outside. If you need us, you only have to call.’

Then they were gone, with the seconds counting themselves down in the room.

Sephora spoke first. ‘Thank you for asking for my hand in marriage, Lord Douglas, but of course there can be no question as to what my answer must be.’ Her words were quietly said and she blushed again even as he looked at her and gave his own answer.

‘I realise we barely know each other and there are things you do not understand about me, but society can be cruel in its dismissal of a reputation and yours has definitely suffered. If I am to have any hope of protecting you successfully, we would need to be married immediately, as soon as the banns are read. On a special licence.’

He was rushing her, but the sudden and shocking thought came that if he did not she would be persuaded to refuse him, so he kept going. He did not wish to be responsible for her demise. ‘I would never hurt you, Sephora. At least believe that.’

She looked at him then, directly, the shock in her face obvious. ‘A marriage of convenience would hurt us both, my lord. Usually they are not happy union  s.’

Her solemnly given words were stated with the sort of honesty normally only employed by the minions of the church and he liked it. Liked her. Liked the soft truth and the gentle honour and her smile that was both shy and bold at the same time.

Everything she said was true and the thought that he could not possibly be serious in such a proposal came to the fore. He barely recognised himself as he stood there, for he was being beguiled by an innocent and one who would hold no knowledge at all of the sort of man he was. Sephora Connaught was a woman oblivious of the underbelly of society with its broken lives and empty promises; a place that was by far his most known milieu.

What the hell was he doing? Why the hell was she not turning tail and running as fast as she possibly could, her near miss with Winbury a potent warning to the agony she might well suffer with him? Why wasn’t he? But she was speaking again in her soft voice, trying to understand who he was, what he was.

‘I do have another question, my lord. Those people at Kew Gardens, the ones you were fighting, did they hurt you in some way to make you retaliate in that manner?’

‘No.’ He had to be honest. ‘But I thought that they might.’

‘I see.’ The words were almost breathed out.

‘I am not perfect, Sephora.’

‘Perfection is a hard thing to live up to, I have found, my lord.’

‘And there are many rumours about my past that are not all false...’

‘I think I have heard most of them.’

At that he laughed. My God, he couldn’t remember enjoying a conversation with a woman as much as he did with her.

‘Your parents are not happy with my proposal. It is also something to consider. Your cousin, Anne Marie, fancied herself in love with me, but I hardly knew her and I certainly did not encourage her feelings or return them. I didn’t attend the funeral because I was drunk. Not from unrequited love either, but from the sadness of it all. The futility of a young life suddenly gone.’

‘Are you trying to put me off accepting you?’

‘No.’ The word came without thought. ‘I’m not.’

‘Then yes. Yes, I will marry you, Lord Douglas.’

Her parents were back in the next second, gliding through the door and taking up the space again between them and the strange dislocation that Francis felt was multiplied.

‘Your daughter has agreed to become my wife so I’ll have my lawyers call upon you tomorrow, Lord Aldford.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Her father’s word was barely audible.

‘I will procure a special licence in order to be married before the week’s end. My lawyers will look at an agreement tomorrow afternoon and I would like your daughter present at the discussions.’

‘An unseemly haste...’ her mother began, but without further conversation Francis simply tipped his head to them all and took his leave, walking out into the daylight and down the steps to his waiting carriage, the sun today warming the skin at his neck.

* * *

The Earl of Douglas had looked furious and distant in all the time he stood there asking her to be his bride. Even when she had assented in private his expression had not changed, the scar on his damaged cheek underlining all that was unknown about him.

She did not understand him and he did not know her, yet she had agreed to marry him and with none of her usual timidity.

She should have refused and that would have been the end to it. He would have gone away with the knowledge that he had done the honourable and decent thing and she would have been left to get on with her own life.

But what sort of life would it be without him? That thought had her placing her hands across her mouth in terror. Could she accept a proposal of marriage that he couldn’t possibly be happy with, a union   based only on propriety and public expectation? It would never work, not in a million years, and they could both only be made bitter because of it. He’d said nothing of feelings, nothing of regard, nothing of anything save for his duty to see her reputation safe.

Sitting in her bedroom watching the moon through the glass, all Sephora could think of was the wedding night. She was almost twenty-three years old and the only man who had ever kissed her had been Richard, embraces that had been few and far between and hardly satisfactory. Besides which he had called her cold.

Whereas Francis St Cartmail...

She stopped and pulled her mind away from all she had heard of the earl’s sexual prowess. He would hardly be happy when he realised the true state of her knowledge of the sensual arts. Oh, granted, there were men in society who relished the chance of instructing a virgin in the matrimonial bed, but the earl did not seem to fit into that category at all. He was too raw and too carnal.

‘Carnal.’ She rolled the word on her tongue.

He had asked her to marry him and she had said yes and if they did not know each at all she only had to think of Richard Allerly to understand the futility of years of congress. They had been friends forever and yet it was such a familiarity that had torn them apart and left them strangers.

Francis St Cartmail was unfamiliar, but he was also kind and every time she had been with him she felt safe and protected.

Could it be enough? Closing her eyes, Sephora put her fingers to her temples to massage the ache that was building there, a heavy, dull pain of confusion and anxiety.

* * *

Anna had locked herself in a cupboard when Francis returned home and Mrs Billinghurst was standing waiting for him so that she could relay the sorry saga of another day’s chaos.

‘She is impossible, my lord. We had just got out of the carriage and suddenly she simply turned for home and when I got here she was in the wardrobe of her room and I have not been able to coax her out since.’ Her young son was next to her and trying his hardest to give the distraught woman some comfort.

This was the first time Francis had seen the lad up close and as a worried visage gazed up at him he realised just how young he really was. Had he been schooled, he wondered, since his father’s death? ‘What is your name?’ he asked the boy.

‘Timothy.’

‘How old are you?’

‘I will be twelve next year, sir.’

A different worry now formed across Celia Billinghurst’s face.

‘He is a good boy, my lord, and is no trouble at all to anyone.’

‘Does he read?’

‘He began once...’ Her voice petered out as she tried to deduce the reasons behind the question, but the lad stepped forward and answered.

‘I do, Lord Douglas. I taught myself and I read whenever I can.’