“Ian, is it?” her father growled.
“Well—ack!” Dillie was shoved into the first Farthingale carriage with George, Gabriel, and her parents. She found herself squeezed between George and Gabriel, pinned between their annoyingly broad shoulders. “Have you all gone mad?”
“Be quiet, Dillie,” her father said in a voice that drew her up at once with its barely leashed anger. Her father had never used that tone with any of his daughters, not even with Daisy when she’d fallen in love with Gabriel, and his reputation had been as bad as Ian’s at the time. Perhaps worse.
She closed her eyes as a shudder ran through her. This wasn’t happening. It was only a bad dream. She’d wake up and all would be well. The sun would be out and birds would be chirping outside her window.
Please.
The carriage in which she rode—or more aptly, into which she had been pushed—was the first to turn onto Chipping Way and make its way through the gate at Number 3. The tree in front of the house was still standing, though short a couple of branches that had been blown to pieces by the elephant shot last November. The tree had not been cut down and there was no trellis outside her window.
All these were discrepancies that ought to have cast doubt on the ugly rumor. Only no one was paying attention. No one wished to be confused by the facts. They’d rather believe the unsubstantiated rumors.
She glowered at her parents, still furiously angry with them.
Her father ordered her into the parlor. “Wait there until I call you into the library.”
“I will not! Where’s Ian?”
He repeated the command.
She refused again, so he threw his hands into the air and muttered something about his “five plagues” that probably referred to her and her sisters, none of whom had managed a traditional courtship.
The entire Farthingale clan piled into the library. Honestly, they’d all suffocate if one more person attempted to enter the room. Perhaps an exaggeration, but the library was crowded. There was a small commotion as Julian and Graelem strode in, their giant, brutish paws on Ian as they hauled him in. Yes, she was definitely suffocating. Perhaps the cause was dread and not the throng of Farthingales gathered around her.
She was trying not to be theatrical, but this was a dramatic moment. Perhaps the most dramatic of her life. Her future happiness depended upon the outcome of this evening. She turned and wound up face to face with Ian, who was still in the determined clutches of his captors. Did they think he’d run away? Dillie knew he wouldn’t. It wasn’t in his nature. He was a rakehell, not a coward.
She noticed that Ian’s jacket was missing. One of his brutish captors (also known as her ape-like brothers-in-law) must have ripped it off him at some point between the Cummerfield residence and here. Perhaps he’d taken it off himself, preparing for a fight.
She’d seen him wearing it earlier. He’d looked quite splendid in his formal black attire and white tie. Now, he looked as though he’d been kicked, punched, and thoroughly pummeled during the short ride.
His shirt and tie were in disarray. His right eye was swollen and so was his lip, which appeared to be cut and lightly bleeding at the corner. Julian and Graelem looked worse. She didn’t care. They deserved the pounding obviously received courtesy of Ian.
She reached out to touch Ian, and then thought better of it and instead began to wring her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
He stood proud and unbending. “Don’t be. Not your fault, Dillie.”
He had every reason to be furious with her, but he’d merely responded with patience and understanding. Not your fault. He spoke the words softly, each word falling upon her like a protective caress. She inhaled lightly. He wasn’t going to do something stupid, such as agree to marry her, was he?
She stepped closer to study his eyes. Oh, crumpets! “Don’t do it, Ian. You don’t have to marry me. I don’t want you to.”
He let out a mirthless laugh and shook his head. “I don’t think the choice is ours to make.”
Her mouth dropped open. “It is. Farthingales marry for love. I refuse to be the exception. You can’t give in to this rabble.”
His smile faded. It wasn’t a joyful one in the first place. More like a gallows smile, the sort that quickly fades when the noose is put around one’s neck. “Do you think you can ever love me, Dillie?”
Her tongue once again began to thicken and her cheeks grew hot. Flaming hot. Choking-on-a-sardine hot. “How is that relevant? You don’t love me. You’ll never love me.” She turned to face her sisters, hoping they would understand and come to her rescue. “How can you stand there and let this happen to me? Were any of you saints before your wedding day? I hardly think so. Why, your husbands couldn’t keep their hands off you before—”