Unforgivable(2)

Worse than that, though, worse than anything, was her face. Gaunt and drawn. And those marks. The worst one was the scab on her left eyelid that still hadn’t gone and that made her eye look droopy. She’d tried to cover it with powder, but that had only made it look worse.

When she stared at herself in the mirror, she felt an awful, yawning hollowness in her stomach. She supposed the feeling was horror.

She wished she didn’t have to meet Viscount Waite looking like this. He couldn’t possibly find her the least bit attractive.

“Rosebud,” Papa said as she descended the last step. “You look lovely, my dear.”

His eyes shone with sincerity, and she realised he believed it. He must be blind, but then perhaps all papas were.

“Ready?” he asked. She smiled and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The whole situation was so bizarre that she was having difficulty believing it was really happening. A week ago, she’d had no thoughts of anything but trying to get better. Now she was to meet, for the first time, the man who might turn out to be her husband.

She hadn’t been out much since her illness, and it felt strange. She lifted the hem of her new gown carefully as she descended the steps from the front door to the street below. She leaned on her father in a way she never used to. He patted the hand that rested on his arm, and the small, thoughtless gesture made her happy and sad all at once. She’d grown up knowing she loved her father more than he loved her. Even today, his smiles and excitement were not really, not wholly, about her. Once married, she would be his responsibility no longer. He would be free.

The carriage was waiting at the bottom of the steps, and Papa handed her in, climbing in behind her and settling himself on the bench opposite. He thumped the ceiling with his cane, and the carriage lurched forward. He fiddled with his gloves, seeming uncharacteristically nervous. So unlike the father she knew. Miles Davenport was the most confident, debonair and charming man in England. But the most charming man in England had a serious look about him now. A serious look that he tried to temper with a smile.

This was another familiar expression. He usually wore it when he was about to leave her for a while. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes—the same grey eyes he had bequeathed to her—were a little anxious.

He leaned forward and took her small hands in his larger ones. “You needn’t have him if you don’t like him, Rosebud.”

Rose looked at their linked hands. Papa ducked his head, looking up to intercept her downcast gaze. “I won’t deny I want to see you settled. And this would be a brilliant match for you. But I won’t force you to marry against your will.”

“I know, Papa,” she replied. But she knew too that her father had his heart set on this match. And besides that, she had to think practically. She was well aware that this wasn’t the sort of chance that was going to come along very often—not for her. Papa’s money came and went like the seasons. His profession, if you could call it that, was gaming. As the youngest son of a peer, he was a gentleman, but he had no income. As a young man, he’d been offered the chance to take orders but had rejected that opportunity, preferring to make his living at the tables. And although he was often successful, no one could win all the time.

He was currently enjoying the luckiest streak of his life—for the last two years, they had lived in relative splendour. Recently, he had sat Rose down and informed her he’d had a spectacular evening at the tables. One that had produced a veritable king’s ransom in winnings. And he wanted to invest those winnings in her, in her future. To secure her a husband. A husband, Papa had said with a self-deprecating smile, who would be a steadier and more reliable protector than he.

The dowry he was offering must be substantial indeed if it was sizeable enough to attract Viscount Waite, the eldest son of the Earl of Stanhope.

“There will be no mention of marriage today,” Papa continued in a soothing voice. “It will just be an opportunity for you to meet Waite and decide whether you wish to take the matter further.”

“And for him?”

“I beg your pardon?” Papa looked bewildered.

“And an opportunity for the viscount to meet me and decide if he wishes to proceed,” Rose asked patiently.

“Oh—oh yes, I see what you mean,” Papa mumbled. But he didn’t answer. Could her dowry really be so substantial that the viscount would agree to marry her sight unseen?

All too soon, they arrived at Berkeley Square. The coachman opened the carriage door, and Papa alighted, holding his hand out to help Rose descend. When she reached the ground, she straightened her skirts and set her shoulders back. Her calm appearance did not reflect her inner misery. In truth, she couldn’t see how this meeting could be anything other than a disaster. The viscount was twenty-two and sounded like a typical young buck. He would be horrified when he saw her, so plain and young.