She sat back and spoke dispassionately. “I see. How wonderful that we have something in common then, for money is my motivation as well.”
They sat in chilly, censoring silence. Good Lord. Talking to him was like wringing blood from a stone.
“You asked me when I was born and what I like to do,” she said, forcing herself to continue, for she wanted that damned house in Oxford and was not about to let him spoil those plans by intimidating her. “I am four-and-twenty. My birthday is March 28th. I like dogs and horses. I enjoy riding. It has been my favorite pastime all my life. I also like to read. I play the piano and can sing reasonably well, and I am very independent. I crave freedom.”
“For purposes of this charade,” he said without enthusiasm, “who are your parents, and have I met them?”
“My father was Viscount Stanley. You haven’t met my parents because they are both dead, which is why I have been living with my uncle, Baron Penrose.”
He contemplated that for a moment. “With whom shall we say you traveled to Florence? That same uncle?”
“My uncle would never take me abroad,” she replied with a scoff, “but since we are telling lies, and to satisfy your father, let me say yes. It was he.”
Another chilly silence ensued while they each pondered the fictional scenario that was finally taking form.
He glanced down at her hand and stared at it for a moment. “I see you are wearing a ring. Is that...?”
“Yes, it’s my engagement ring,” she replied, lifting her hand to give him a closer look at the oval-shaped ruby surrounded by diamonds. “Your brothers gave it to me when I signed the contract. They said it belonged to your grandmother.”
He stared at it for a few second more, but made no further comment. A short while later he said, “I suspect we will have to make things up as we go along. Who knows what questions Father might ask.”
“I will do my best to be convincing and will share what I tell him.”
“As will I,” he replied. “When did your parents die? How old were you?”
She regarded him without flinching. “My mother died when I was nine years old, and my father passed away four years ago. I was twenty. That’s when I went to live with my uncle. And all that is the truth—not invention.”
He paused. “I am sorry about your parents.”
She was surprised by his kind words. “Thank you.” She lowered her gaze to her lap. “Now you know the most relevant details about me. What should I know about you? For purposes of the charade, of course.”
He shrugged, as if there were nothing to tell, before painting a few broad strokes to satisfy her. “I spent the past seven years living in Italy and Greece,” he said. “Sailing my boat around the Mediterranean. I also write poetry.”
“Have you had anything published?”
“No.”
When he offered no further information, she said, “I thought writers were supposed to be articulate, yet you seem to be a master of one word answers.”
“I apologize, Lady Anne,” he replied, looking her square in the eye. “I don’t enjoy talking about myself.”
She stared at him for a long moment and frowned at his reticence. What in the world had caused it? He was a strikingly handsome nobleman who lived a life of leisure, sailing around the Mediterranean. Shouldn’t he be full of reckless charm and good-natured appeal?
“I wonder why I fell in love with you, then,” she said. “For the purposes of the charade, of course.”
He gave her a dark look. “Because I am the son of a duke with a large financial settlement forthcoming to me. Is that not enough for a viscount’s daughter?”
A throat cleared in the doorway just then, and they both turned.
Lord Hawthorne approached. “I apologize for the interruption,” he said. “Father has surprised us all by joining us in the drawing room. He seems in good spirits. He wishes to see you, Garrett, and to meet your Lady Anne.”
They both stood up while Anne wrestled with a sudden rush of anxiety, for other than a few sweeping superficial details, she still knew very little about Lord Garrett. She did not feel ready to meet the duke.
“Shall we?” Lord Garrett coolly offered his arm.
She had no choice but to accompany him. As they walked together she sensed a similar anxiety in him, for he was about to reunite with a father he hadn’t seen in seven years. A father who—according to family—was well on his way to madness.
Chapter Four
“My son. Good heavens, look how you have grown.”
Garrett was taken aback by the significant aging of his father since they parted seven years ago. The duke was shockingly thin. His hair was pure white and gone wild about his face—and those were just the physical differences.