You May Kiss the Bride(18)

“You be quiet, Livia!” Uncle Charles ordered furiously. “That fellow did you wrong and he’s going to make it right, and that’s that! But don’t expect a dowry,” he added pugnaciously, “because she ain’t got one. Been living off my charity for years.”

Mrs. Penhallow glared with even greater ferocity, and it seemed to Livia that her saying I don’t want him was even worse, more offensive, to the old lady than the fact of her grandson being caught in a compromising position.

“Naturally he’ll make it right, sir,” Mrs. Penhallow said icily. “That is, after all, the Penhallow way. He shall discuss with you the terms at his earliest opportunity.” To Lady Glanville she went on: “You had better go, with that girl of yours. I may trust to your discretion in this distasteful matter, of course.”

Livia couldn’t repress a tiny flicker of glee at seeing her ladyship dismissed so peremptorily, and watched as she managed a cool nod in reply, then drew Cecily away, saying, “Come, we’ll go up the backstairs to your bedchamber, so that no one will see you like this.”

Over her shoulder Cecily spat at Livia, “I hate you!”

Then she and her mother were gone.

“Well, isn’t this jolly.” Now that he had achieved his ends, a great deal of Uncle Charles’s bluster had faded away and he gave the appearance of a man very much in need of a drink. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, and began moving toward the house, walking sideways, crablike, as if to conceal the fact of his retreat.

“By all means,” Mrs. Penhallow said coldly. “I will serve as chaperone to this most unfortunate couple.” Ordinarily Livia heartily disliked even being in the same room with Uncle Charles, but now she was sorry to see him go. She didn’t wish in the least to be left alone with the Penhallows. It was two against one, and somehow, they both seemed to take up so much space. Still scowling, Mrs. Penhallow stalked over to the stone bench and seated herself like a queen—an angry, angry queen—taking possession of a throne, while Mr. Penhallow, meanwhile, stood there looking as calm as if he’d just agreed to buy a new neckcloth. Or carriage. Or whatever. Some thing.

So what if he was terribly good-looking, with those fine dark eyes, and a proud nose and a sensuous mouth, and gleaming hair with a single lock that brushed his forehead in a rather dashing way, and broad shoulders, and—

Livia actually pinched the skin of her forearm, as if to clear her mind of these silly thoughts. Determinedly she faced them both. “This has all been a misunderstanding. Can’t we simply forget it ever happened?”

The old lady gave a bark of bitter laughter. “Obviously you have no idea who the Penhallows are. For hundreds of years the family crest has displayed the words Et honorem, et gloriam. Do you even know what those words mean?”

Livia lifted her chin. “No.”

“How unsurprising. They mean ‘Honor and pride,’ and we’re not about to abandon them because of you. If my grandson says he must marry you, marry you he will!”

Livia looked over at Mr. Penhallow, who said coolly: “I’ve already made known my intentions.”

Oh, good heavens, he actually meant it. He really and truly meant it. Livia took a step backwards. “This,” she said firmly, “is insane. You don’t want to marry me, and I certainly don’t want to marry you!”

He only shrugged, and Livia felt dislike rising in her. “Well, I won’t do it! Not if you were the last man in England!” She spun on her heel and was just about to march away when he reached out, took her arm in an ungentle grip, and turned her around, literally bringing her back into the conversation.

“Not so fast, Miss Stuart,” he said, with that same steely composure. “Once given, my word is law. Besides, do you really think your uncle isn’t at this moment telling anyone within earshot about our engagement? You’re not backing out now. I don’t care to be made a laughingstock.”

Livia’s heart sank. It was anybody’s guess as to whether Cecily and Lady Glanville would keep their silence, but as soon as Uncle Charles had downed a few—or several—glasses of whatever spirit happened to be at hand, he’d be talking to his fellow guests, the servants, the furniture.

She looked up at him, and Gabriel could see in her expression a reluctant acknowledgement of what he’d said. Quickly he released her arm. Good God, what an unholy mess he’d made of things. Everything had been going so well—until he’d gone off like some misguided chivalrous idiot to rescue her from Tom Orr.

Tom Orr, the most easily managed man in existence.