“All I wanted was the chance to find a husband of my own choosing,” Rebecca had said. “Why won’t you let me do that? Have you no desire to see me happy?”
“Happy? By God, you’re as spoiled as your mother was—always making demands. It’s her fault my brother’s dead, and yet I took you in after they both perished in that fire, even though you’re just as unlikeable as she was. You ought to be grateful that I’m even capable of finding a man who’s interested in you, given that unfortunate coloring of yours. Why, you look as if you haven’t bathed in a year, and yet I have worked a miracle, finding not one but two titled gentlemen willing to be your husband—old ones, even, whom you’ll soon outlive. If you’re smart about it, you’ll hurry up and give the one you marry a son as soon as possible to secure your own position. Now get to bed—the sooner you recover, the sooner we can get the matter settled.”
Her aunt had then left, locking the door behind her and leaving Rebecca to wonder exactly how long it would take before her aunt and uncle deemed her fit enough to meet with her suitors. No more than a week, she imagined.
With little comfort to be had in light of what her future probably held for her, Rebecca had been overjoyed to discover that Laura had managed to convince the Griftons that she’d played no part in Rebecca’s escapade. The cunning maid had actually told the Griftons that Rebecca, being of the sound mind that she was, must have switched the laudanum-laced tea that Laura was supposed to serve to pacify Rebecca when she was at her worst with Laura’s untainted cup. She’d apologized profusely to them for not keeping a better eye on Rebecca, going so far as to claim that Rebecca obviously didn’t know what was best for her and that it was obvious that the Griftons were only trying to do what was in Rebecca’s best interest. They’d swallowed the fib without further question.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that a handsome young gentleman might call on you soon?” Laura asked. “I’d hate to see you married to either of the men that the earl and countess have selected for you. Why they refuse to find someone who’s closer to you in age and whom you might actually stand a chance of happiness with, I cannot imagine.”
Rebecca groaned, her shoulder aching as she turned a little so she could better see Laura. “They probably don’t want to bother with the hassle of going to the City and dragging me from one ballroom to the next when there are already two gentlemen willing to take me off their hands here, and with no extra expense—you know how fickle they are.”
Laura nodded. “That’s true, though I still have this niggling suspicion that there’s more to it than that. They’re too insistent.” Her brow creased as she shook her head. “There’s something odd about the whole situation if you ask me.”
The thought had occurred to Rebecca before, though she’d yet to discover if there was any merit to it. “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ve no reason to believe that they just want to be rid of me.”
“Perhaps,” Laura agreed, though she was looking doubtful. On a deep breath, she suddenly smiled. “So, is there a young gentleman, my lady? Did you meet someone last night from whom you might expect a visit . . . or perhaps a proposal?”
A slow smile captured Rebecca’s lips as she thought of the troublemaking rake. “There is one whose company I particularly enjoyed.”
A squeal of excitement escaped Laura. She quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with curiosity. Removing her hand slowly, she spoke in a whisper, as if there had been others present who might overhear. “Who is he?”
“Well . . .” Rebecca dragged out the word for dramatic effect. “His name is Mr. Neville, and he is the heir to the Marquisate of Wolvington.”
Laura’s eyebrows shot up. “He must be a handsome devil—charming too, I’d imagine.”
“Why do you say that?” Rebecca asked curiously.
“Because of the way you speak his name, my lady.” When Rebecca frowned, Laura imitated the dreamy way in which she’d spoken. She chuckled as she got up from her chair and went to fetch Rebecca a cup of tea. Looking over her shoulder, she gave her mistress a knowing smile. “I believe you’re quite smitten.”
Rebecca couldn’t lie. “I must confess that I cannot stop thinking about him, although I fear marrying him is completely out of the question—he won’t suit.”
“And why is that?” Laura asked, returning to Rebecca’s bedside and handing her the warm cup.
“Because he’s a rake who will never be able to offer me the happy family life I’m seeking. You would be shocked to hear of some of the things he’s done, but even if I chose to accept his faults, I doubt that Aunt and Uncle would approve—not when there’s an earl and a duke in the running.” “But if he’s an heir—”
“You know as well as I that they won’t care about that. All they’ll see is a man who’s presently untitled and accompanied by a poor reputation.” She shook her head, feeling terribly sad that her relatives were so shallow, but they were not the only ones, as evidenced by the scowls of disapproval Mr. Neville had received from almost everyone the night before. She took a sip of her tea before sinking back against her pillow and closing her eyes. “What am I saying? I’m talking as if I expect him to call on me, which he will be unlikely to do now that he knows who I am. I’m a charlatan, Laura, and not even a very pretty one at that, which makes Mr. Neville’s interest in me so much more suspicious. No, I’ll probably end up with Topperly or . . .” She scrunched her nose. “Grover.”
Opening her eyes, she found Laura watching her. “How many times must I tell you that you’re beautiful before you believe me?”
Rebecca forced a smile. “My skin tone is darker than everyone else’s and I have black hair. Don’t think I’ve forgotten the way other girls mocked me when I was a child. They used to call me gypsy, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them still do.”
“If that is the case, then they’ve no idea what a gypsy looks like. You have your mother’s Spanish blood in you, that’s all. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, my lady. If anything, you should embrace how different you are from everyone else. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if this is what drew Mr. Neville to you in the first place. Besides, even if he is a rake, as you say, there’s always the possibility that he might reform,” Laura said. “The duke did.”
Rebecca sighed. “Yes, I suppose that’s true, but he also had good reason to do so. There’s a lot of responsibility resting on his shoulders. Mr. Neville, however—”
“Has no responsibility? You just said that he’s the heir to the Wolvington title. Surely he will need a wife and an heir of his own one day.”
“I’m sure he will,” Rebecca agreed. In fact, Mr. Neville had pointed out the exact same thing. But just because he gave her his name did not mean that he would give her his loyalty . . . his fidelity. She handed her now empty teacup back to Laura and settled back against her pillow with a yawn. “Forgive me, Laura, but I’m suddenly very tired. I think I’ll try to get some rest.”
“You do that, my lady, and I’ll go and cut some of those daffodils I promised you.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca sighed, her eyes closing to the sound of Laura shuffling about the room. The door opened and closed, silence settled over her, and she slowly drifted off to sleep, her last thought being of Mr. Neville’s smile as he twirled her in his arms, dancing.
Chapter 5
“Why, Lady Rebecca,” the Earl of Topperly was saying loudly as his light blue eyes slid over her figure with great appreciation, “you look exquisite today.”
One day of rest: that was all her aunt and uncle had afforded her before insisting that she ready herself for meeting her suitors. “It’s not as if you were shot in the leg,” her aunt had said as she’d picked out a gown for her to wear. “You can easily take a walk with them in the garden.”
So here she was, parading about between the flowerbeds with a relic on one arm and a fossil on the other. “Thank you, my lord, you’re most kind.”
“And may I say,” the Duke of Grover told her, his eyes gleaming as he dropped his gaze to her bosom and leaned closer to her ear, “that you look riper than ever before. Wouldn’t you agree, Topperly?”
“Hmm? I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” the earl asked. He was partly deaf and rarely heard what anyone was saying unless they spoke loudly enough.
“I was merely remarking on how lovely Lady Rebecca’s hair is,” Grover shouted back. “Such a bold color against her unblemished skin. I find it quite striking.”
“Oh yes, yes indeed,” Topperly agreed.
“Now, I know a decision has yet to be made,” Grover added, his voice once again soft so that Topperly wouldn’t hear, “but I thought you’d be pleased to know that I’m just as functional as any young buck and with a very healthy appetite. You won’t be disappointed in that regard.”
Oh dear Lord, she was going to be sick.
“Let’s pick some daffodils,” Rebecca said. It was the first thing that came to mind as a possible means of distraction. If only they would soon leave. Didn’t people their age require a midday nap? Disengaging herself from their arms, she crouched down and began collecting the flowers while both men watched. She didn’t mind Topperly’s presence so much. He came across as a harmless gentleman who merely sought a bit of company in his old age as well as someone who’d be capable of looking after him. His reasoning behind seeking a young wife made sense, but that didn’t make Rebecca any more eager to accept him as her husband. Perhaps she was being selfish, she reflected, but she couldn’t help it; she was too spirited and adventurous to be the least bit tempted by the idea of nursing an old man in his dotage, no matter how much money he’d leave to her once he departed this earth. Looking over her shoulder, she smiled up at him, silently wishing him many more years of good health.
Grover, on the other hand . . . She turned her attention back to her task when she caught a disturbing leer upon his lips. The things he said to her and the way in which his eyes were forever inappropriately fixed upon her person made her skin crawl.
“I hope you took my meaning seriously before, Lady Rebecca,” Grover said as he bent down to pluck a daffodil from the flowerbed, his forearm brushing against the side of Rebecca’s breast as he did so. “I mean to beget at least one son off of you before I die. I hope you’re fit for the challenge.”
Swallowing the sharp rejoinder that threatened to escape her, she smiled tightly. “I shall do my best to be a dutiful wife to whomever I marry.” Rising, she then offered him a large bouquet of daffodils. “Would you please carry these for me?” She might have to suffer his company and his rude behavior, but at least she’d just thought of a way to discourage his touch—for now.