Page 27

Brendan winced at the servant’s clipped tone. Clearly, the man felt no concern that Brendan might lodge a complaint. He cast a scathing glance over his shoulder as he strode away, spine stiff with disapproval.

When Brendan was finally shown into the viscount’s study, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The room exuded quiet wealth. No gilding or ostentation, yet the lines of the furniture were unmistakably Chippendale, each piece balanced in harmony with the dark, polished wood panels cladding the walls. The space spoke of old money and meticulous taste.

Lord Moreland rose from behind his mahogany desk, a figure of solemn authority. He gestured for Brendan to take a seat.

“I confess I am relieved you are here, Ridley. My daughter has taken an extraordinary risk to secure your freedom, and I hope you appreciate her sacrifice.”

Brendan nodded. “I am here to discuss terms of marriage.”

The older man’s brow furrowed. “Marriage? Lily must accept your offer before we can discuss terms.”

The throbbing in Brendan’s temples had reached a fever pitch, and it took him a few moments to fully comprehend the viscount’s words. “Surely she has no choice, given the circumstances?”

Moreland was a tall man with broad shoulders, dressed in conservative but clearly expensive clothing. His square face bore the sort of calm bred from long-standing authority. But at Brendan’s question, his countenance hardened.

“I appreciate you are here and that you are taking steps to correct this situation. However, let me be plain. My daughter has acted with uncommon courage on your behalf, and she has the unwavering support of our entire family. Whether she proceeds with a wedding is entirely her decision.”

Brendan raised a hand, pressing his fingertips against his right temple in a vain attempt to ease the pounding ache. As if it were not difficult enough to consider binding himself to a stranger, now he must also contend with a doting father and a household sure to watch his every move.

Perfect. Not only a bride he had never desired, but an interfering family to accompany her.

This was, without question, the worst week of his life. Worse even than the week his mother had died, leaving him and Annabel to the cold charity of the baron’s household. In the span of days, he had been accused of murder, narrowly escaped arrest, and was now being ushered into a marriage not of his choosing, with an idolizing family ready to pounce at the first misstep.

“Do I have your permission to speak with her, then?”

“I am in the process of making inquiries into your past, Ridley,” the viscount replied with unflinching directness, “and I must confess that what I have learned does not inspire confidence. Your history with your father does not reflect a strong regard for familial duty.”

Brendan’s breath caught. He forced himself to remain still, to rein in the tide of frustration that rose within him. “That was the baron’s choice, my lord. He sent me to London and bade me never return to Somerset.”

Lord Moreland’s expression shifted slightly, a flicker of understanding softening the hard lines of his mouth. “Your father is the cause of the estrangement?”

Father. Huh.

“Yes, my lord.”

“That is something, I suppose.” The viscount leaned back slightly, though his eyes remained sharp. “However, any man who maintains an acquaintance with the widow Slight is bound to attract scrutiny. It is not the conduct one expects from a man of serious intention.”

Brendan gritted his teeth as the throbbing in his temples ratcheted up. The irony of defending his right to marry a girl he scarcely knew was not lost on him. He searched for an answer that might satisfy a man so clearly invested in virtue. Many fathers of the ton would have cared little about such things, as the late baron had made abundantly clear when Brendan’s sister had once found her betrothed embracing another woman. But Lord Moreland, it seemed, possessed firmer convictions on the subject of fidelity.

“The actions of an unwed gentleman, I assure you. I have no intention of continuing any acquaintance with Lady Slight if—when—I am wed.”

He caught the misstep even as the words left his mouth, but Moreland’s narrowed gaze confirmed it had not gone unnoticed. Brendan pressed his lips together. The truth, if he admitted it to himself, was more complicated. Part of him wished he could see Harriet again. She had offered him comfort once—an escape, of sorts. Had she heard of his predicament? Perhaps not. Perhaps, had she known, she might have stepped forward. Unlikely, but maybe.

Moreland stood. “It does not signify. Lily is aware of your prior connection, and the choice is hers. If she chooses to proceed, so be it. I trust my daughter’s judgment, and since she has taken such extraordinary steps on your behalf, I will permit you to speak with her to come to terms. Thomas will show you to the drawing room.”

The viscount rang a bell. A moment later, the door behind him opened. Brendan rose to his feet, stiff from the weight of expectations now draped across his shoulders like a yoke. He could not help but wonder why an established man such as Moreland would place so much faith in a girl barely out of the schoolroom. How had Miss Abbott even found the courage, or the means, to present herself to the coroner in the first place?

It was with a heady sense of relief that Lily had observed Mr. Ridley’s arrival. She had swiftly adjusted the silly lace and muslin gown she had chosen that morning and checked her coiffure in the mirror, her fingers trembling. She had not slept in several nights. Her head ached with the weight of wakeful hours, and her eyes burned from too many unshed tears, but if Mr. Ridley had come up to scratch and was here to offer for her hand, then perhaps this wretched week might yet end with dignity restored.

It was not the manner in which she had envisioned stepping into matrimony. Still, the gentleman was certainly handsome and affable. More importantly, he was courteous and of sound lineage. Given their shared connections, she could do far worse than binding herself to him.

Lily bobbed nervously about the drawing room overlooking the street, unable to still her restless limbs. Excitement shimmered beneath her anxiety. Mr. Ridley might yet salvage her reputation. If he did, perhaps Mama would cease her weeping, which weighed heavily on Lily’s already tender conscience. And Aidan, dear Aidan, might stop blaming himself for her predicament.

Some semblance of normalcy would return. Lily would embark on a new chapter as a wife, as a proper member of the ton. She might finally make her own decisions—select her own gowns, attend musicales with Sophia, and breathe in the quiet freedom that came from no longer being her mother’s ward in every sense. And perhaps she and Mr. Ridley would find common ground. Perhaps, over time, they might come to understand one another. Perhaps, if Providence smiled kindly, love might one day follow.

Checking the clock, she wondered what Papa might be saying to Mr. Ridley.

At last, a knock sounded at the door. Lily hastily rubbed her scratchy eyes and called for the servant to enter. Thomas stepped in, announced Mr. Ridley, bowed with practiced efficiency, and withdrew. Unexpectedly, he shut the door behind him, and the sound echoed like a turning key in Lily’s imagination.