The gentleman on the left cleared his throat and gave her a look of apology as he bowed courteously. “Lady Anne, it is an honor to make your acquaintance.” He fired an irate glance at her uncle, who blinked at him in the muted gray light fighting its way in through the frosty window.
“What’s wrong?” her uncle Archibald asked. “Oh. I have not made the proper introductions, have I? Lord Hawthorne, allow me to present my niece, Lady Anne. Anne, this is Devon Sinclair, Marquess of Hawthorne, and his brother, Lord Blake, both of Pembroke Palace.”
A shiver of apprehension rippled up her spine. These were very auspicious guests indeed. Their father was the Duke of Pembroke, one of the highest-ranking peers in the realm. His palace, filled with priceless art and antiquities, was considered one of England’s greatest treasures. Some said their Italian Gardens were so beautiful they brought even the most cynical, hard-hearted men to tears.
Hadn’t she recently heard the gardens were damaged?
But what were these illustrious gentlemen doing here at her uncle’s manor house, three weeks before Christmas, so far from their home in the middle of a raging snowstorm?
She lowered her gaze and dipped into a curtsy. “Good afternoon.”
When she met the marquess’s cool blue eyes again, he inclined his head at her, as if studying her temperament.
“Your uncle speaks highly of you,” he said.
I doubt that.
She had the good sense, however, not to speak her mind.
Lord Hawthorne gestured toward the sofa. “Will you please join us?”
Her gaze darted back and forth between the two guests and her uncle. They were all staring at her as if she were some sort of odd novelty in a glass case.
“Please, Lady Anne,” the other one said, as if he recognized her reluctance and wished to set her at ease.
She studied Lord Blake for a moment, experienced an inexplicable whisper of calm, and took a seat.
“We understand you spent the past four years caring for your ailing grandmother,” Lord Hawthorne said. “A dutiful and selfless pursuit,” he added.
“It wasn’t duty,” she explained. “It was love.” Her late grandmother—God rest her dear, sweet soul—had been the one person who never judged Anne or mistreated her after her terrible fall from grace.
“We are sorry for your loss,” Lord Blake said.
“Thank you.”
“Lady Anne was an excellent nursemaid and companion,” her uncle added. “As I said before, she may not be pure, but she is loyal.”
Anne regarded the marquess steadily. “Do you wish me to be a companion to someone?”
A hush fell over the room. “No,” he replied. Then he turned his eyes to the baron. “May I request a moment alone with Lady Anne,” he asked, “so that we may discuss this proposition in detail?”
“There’s no need for any further discussion,” Archibald replied. “I have already accepted on her behalf. We need only make the arrangements, though I would like to have my solicitor involved.”
Anne frowned. “Your solicitor, Uncle? What sort of proposition did you agree to? If it concerns me, am I not to be consulted?”
Another tension-filled silence descended upon the room, this time heavy as lead.
Lord Hawthorne stood. “I must insist that you excuse us, sir. It is imperative that your niece understands the particulars. We will speak with her in private.”
At long last, her uncle rose from his chair. “If you insist, Lord Hawthorne, I must defer to your wishes. But rest assured that your proposal will not be refused. It will happen, whether she likes it or not.”
As soon as he left the room, Anne challenged the two men. “What, exactly, will happen?”
“Nothing, if you do not wish it,” Blake replied. “I assure you, Lady Anne, we are not tyrants, and we have other prospects if you refuse—which is your right—but we wish you to know that you are at the top of our list.”
“What list?” she asked, nearly horror-struck by the possibilities.
There was a quiet pause until, at last, Hawthorne answered the question. “We require a practical young woman to marry our brother before Christmas,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
He took a moment to explain. “Our brother needs a wife, but he does not desire a love match, nor does he wish to enter the marriage mart and begin a complicated courtship. He simply wants a contractual arrangement with a woman who understands the situation and desires the same sort of freedom.”
“What sort of freedom are you referring to?” she asked. “I do not understand.”
“No, of course you do not,” Hawthorne replied. “I fear we have not explained ourselves adequately. Please allow me to tell you everything. This time I shall start at the beginning.”