The duke grinned. "I pretended to be a gentleman, which I am not, duke or no. You'll have to do the same."
"I don't have a black coat."
"Pretend to be a gentleman," his father advised. "Tell her that she resembles a rose; make a formal proposal. But first go to Rundell & Bridge to buy a diamond, and tell them I sent you. She has returned to London, so you can (so to speak) kill two birds with one stone."
"I don't know if India is interested in diamonds."
"What gemstone would she prefer?"
Thorn thought of India's mother's jewels, lost in the Thames. "Nothing I could buy for her. More to the point, like Eleanor, she can marry the highest in the land. You are the highest, which means your proposal and mine are hardly parallel."
"She just turned down a duke's heir," Villiers observed. His eyes turned fierce and he said, "You are the highest in the land, Tobias. You have more brains and balls than any man in the peerage, and that woman knows it."
Thorn smiled faintly. "You forgot to add that I'm your son."
"All of which were inherited from me, naturally," his father said with satisfaction.
Chapter Thirty-six
129 Maddox Street
London residence of Lady Adelaide Swift
and Lady Xenobia India St. Clair
By late afternoon India had her tears more or less under control. She would find a husband who didn't constantly remind her about the "perfect" woman he planned to marry, but made it clear that she was that woman.
The only time she'd seen that sort of look in Thorn's eyes was after Vander joined them in the country. Then she caught him watching her with a possessiveness that had thrilled her. But it hadn't really had anything to do with her. It was about his rivalry with Vander.
Before she met Thorn, she had decided to find a man who would permit her to take charge of the household accounts. The idea of Thorn allowing her to run their life was enough to push a hollow laugh from her throat. She needed to marry a reasonable, measured man.
Thorn had identified the perfect trait for his spouse, and he hadn't wavered from his opinion. He had chosen Lala because she was sweet and always would be.
Just because life hadn't made her sweet didn't mean that a man couldn't love her. She would find a man who would love her just as she was. Neither of her most ardent suitors-Fitzroy and Nugent-would suit; they would be horrified if she lost her temper. Perhaps she should travel to the Continent. Weren't Spanish women famous for having fiery tempers?
India was thinking about black-eyed Spanish men when the door opened and the butler ushered Thorn into her drawing room. She jumped to her feet as her heart threw itself into double time.
He bowed. "Good afternoon, Lady Xenobia."
India took one look at his tousled dark hair and bruised eye and-absurdly-longing ignited in her very blood. There was no other man like him, one whose strength and intelligence swirled around him like a cloak, a complement to his bone-deep confidence. Though perhaps a better word was arrogance.
Belying his battered face, he was wearing a coat as extraordinary as any his father had ever donned: he looked ready to dance attendance on a queen.
"What on earth are you doing here, Thorn?" she asked, affecting a casual tone with effort. "Are you . . . did you catch up with Dr. Hatfield?"
"Not in time."
"Ah." It was no wonder he looked tired. He had lost his ideal spouse. "I'm sorry. You'll find someone else," she offered, feeling the words chip away at her heart.
"I already have."
"Oh."
"I came to ask you to marry me, India. To pay me the very great honor of becoming my bride."
India knew why this was happening. The moment Vander had stepped forward and told Lady Rainsford that they were married, she'd seen the look in Thorn's eyes.
Men like Thorn were ferociously competitive. They didn't give up, and failure was just a temporary inconvenience. In fact, it was likely the competition had escalated once Lala had removed herself from the equation by eloping with Dr. Hatfield. It left India as the bone of contention.
"Why is your eye bruised?" she asked sharply, unable to respond to the question she had longed for-not when it was simply offered, like a business proposition to be accepted or rejected.
"Vander," he said, confirming her guess.
Her heart sank. She stood between two snarling wolfhounds. The story never ended very well for the bone.
"You fought over me," she stated.
"That is irrelevant," Thorn said. "You are the epitome of beauty and grace, India. I cannot imagine spending my life with anyone other than you, and I beg for nothing more than the honor of your hand in marriage."
The words rolled out of his mouth with all the passion of a vicar reciting his third service of the day. He was obviously exhausted, his eyes shaded with some emotion that she couldn't interpret. He took a step closer and held out his hand. "This is for you."
A diamond ring lay in his palm, a lavish, costly ring. India looked at it, and back at his face.
He hadn't come to say that he was in love with her, as she had secretly dreamed. He was asking her to marry him because Vander had claimed her, and Lala had got away.
He was here because he wanted to win. She swallowed hard. Her heart was breaking. Lala was the golden fleece and India was apparently the consolation prize.
It was as if the world was presenting her with everything she wanted . . . in all the wrong ways.
Her throat tightened painfully, but she refused to cry in front of him. She was the daughter of a marquess, even if her papa was the oddest nobleman who'd ever held the title. She was Lady Xenobia St. Clair.
Somehow she found her Lady Xenobia voice, the cool, businesslike voice that expected-and received-complete obedience. "I'm afraid that I must refuse your very moving offer of marriage."
His eyes burned into hers, so intense in their focus that she felt a bit dizzy. "Why? Did I say it incorrectly?"
"Not at all. It was one of the more eloquent I have received."
A movement caught her eyes, and she saw his right fist clench. The skin was broken over his knuckles, presumably from pummeling Vander.
"Yours is not my first marriage proposal, but it is nonetheless appreciated." Her heart wanted to give in and say yes. Who cared why he was proposing? Maybe he would fall in love with her later. . . .
But every ounce of practicality in her screamed no. He wouldn't. Men who slept with an available woman didn't later declare their love. If she hadn't succumbed to him like a trollop, she could have pretended to herself that he would love her someday. She could have lied to herself.
Perhaps.
Frustration burned through Thorn as he stood before India. She was so damned beautiful. Even though she looked pale and was far too quiet.
Abruptly, he decided to discard his father's advice. At this point he should kneel and slip the ring on India's finger, but he had the feeling that she'd back away and he'd be left on his knees like a fool.
He dropped the monstrous ring on a table, and hundreds of pounds' worth of diamond clinked against a teacup.
"I want to marry you, India."
Her eyes met his, steady and grave. "Why? Only yesterday you were courting Lala. You threw yourself into a carriage, by all accounts, trying to stop her marriage. Why are you proposing to me?"
Vander's question resounded in his head. Why would she want to marry you? India was a jewel of a woman in a jewel-like setting that he presumed she'd designed herself. She was surrounded by exquisite objects, the patina of age and wealth on every wall.
He might have been dressed like a bloody peacock to come to her, but it was all just show, covering up who he really was: more beast than man. They were beauty and the beast, the lady and the bastard. . . . It was stupid. Impossible.
But the warrior in him reared up. She was everything to him. All that he had thought mattered-his factories, Vander, that damned house-none of it mattered compared to her.
"I want you," he stated, the raw note in his voice telling its own truth.
The air burned as India drew it into her lungs. At least Thorn was honest. He desired her. He didn't pretend to love her, or even declare that she was perfect, the way Lala had been. Her reaction must have shown on her face.
"I'm not talking about intimacies," he added. "In other ways."
Fury engulfed her and there was no stopping it, no telling herself to be adult and compose herself the way a lady should. "The hell you're not talking about intimacies," she cried. "You bedded me while you courted Lala. Now she's no longer free and, as you say, you want me. That's not good enough. I deserve better."