A knock sounded at the door. Smith stepped inside. “The Marquess of Beaufort to see you, my lord.” He coughed loudly. “I took the liberty of asking him to wait in the drawing room.”
Jonathan scrubbed a hand over his face. “Bloody hell,” he muttered either forgetting or uncaring about the ladies present. “Show him in.”
Juliet took her husband’s hand and gave it a squeeze. A look passed between them and he nodded once. With a smile, she walked over to Patrina. “I want you to be happy,” she said quietly, the words intended for her ears alone. “And I suspect, Patrina, that you’d not marry the marquess if there wasn’t more there than a desire for a family and home of your own.”
Heat flared in her cheeks. She stared after her retreating sister-in-law. Patrina cared for Weston. In just six days, she’d come to miss him in his absence, smile when he was near, and Juliet was indeed correct—she wanted to wed him because there was more there. At least on her part.
Then, that wasn’t altogether true. I will show you the pleasure to be had in my arms. She suspected everyone thought she’d thrown away her virtue on Albert. When in actuality, she was as virginal as the day she was born. Albert hadn’t even attempted to kiss her. Her lips twisted wryly. That in itself should have been the only indication she needed that he’d been wholly uninterested in her.
Jonathan spoke, calling her back to the moment. “You’re certain, Trina. You’re certain you’d wed him.”
Smith reappeared. Weston’s broad-shouldered frame filled the entrance. “The Marquess of Beaufort.”
Her heart pounded wildly in her chest. She smiled at Weston. He appeared so serious, so unyielding. And then he grinned. A thrill of awareness coursed through her. The absolute rightness in this decision filled Patrina. “Yes, I’m certain,” she said softly.
Jonathan gave a curt nod and motioned Beaufort inside.
He paused beside Patrina and captured her hand. He bowed over it. “My lady,” he murmured, placing his lips along the inner portion of her wrist. Most gentlemen would have gone ashen at the growl that escaped the tall, foreboding figure of her brother. Weston continued to hold her hand. He gently squeezed her fingers.
“Release my damn sister,” Jonathan snapped.
Her soon-to-be intended placed another kiss as if in blatant challenge to her brother’s command and then released her.
Patrina dropped a curtsy and with a smile took her leave.
* * *
The Earl of Sinclair motioned to the seat across from his desk.
Weston sat. “I want to wed your sister,” he said not mincing words with the glowering gentleman who’d soon be his brother-in-law.
The other man’s brows dipped. “I’d tell you no and send you to hell if I didn’t think my sister would hate me for the rest of her days.” He spoke as nonchalantly as if he’d offered a brandy and refreshments.
Yes, from what Weston had come to know, Patrina possessed a strength and determination that would put most gentlemen to shame. Even her powerful brother couldn’t quell the woman’s spirit.
“I don’t like you, Beaufort,” the earl continued. He remained standing, his face black like a thundercloud. Outrage fairly seeped from the other man’s tautly held frame.
Weston folded his arms across his chest. “You don’t even know me.”
“I knew you,” Sinclair reminded him. “I used to like you,” he muttered under his breath. “You’d seemed like a decent enough chap.” His eyebrows lowered in a threatening fashion that would mayhap terrify most gentlemen. The earl was to be disappointed. Weston wasn’t most gentlemen. “I don’t like that you’d wed my sister to give your children a mother. She deserves more than that.”
Yes, on that, Weston would agree. Patrina deserved a good deal more than a man like him. She deserved love and a union based on nothing but mutual affection and warmth. His hand burned with the remembrance of her fingers in his. Then, there would be plenty of warmth.
“Get that bloody look off your face, Beaufort,” Sinclair snapped.
He grinned, taking a perverse pleasure in riling the imperious earl. “What—?”
“You know the damned look.” The earl cursed roundly. He strode over to the sideboard against the far left corner of the room and poured two glasses of brandy. He carried one over to Weston. “What do you know of my sister?”
Weston accepted the drink. He rolled the glass back and forth between his hands. “I know about Marshville,” he said quietly. He stared into the amber depths of his drink wanting to know more, needing to know more…and yet appreciating any further telling belonged to Patrina.
Sinclair’s mouth tightened. “The bloody bastard ruined her. Hurt her. I’ll not see her hurt again.”
The earl’s admission hit Weston with the same force of a punch being driven into his mid-section. “I have no intention of hurting her,” he spoke with quiet conviction. He’d come to Patrina intending to offer her a marriage of convenience, but now, he could admit there was more. He wanted to be the gentleman Patrina deserved. Wanted to restore her smile, fill her days with laughter. Make her forget there was ever a heartless cad by the name of Albert Marshville who’d disabused her of her gentle innocence.
The earl took a long swallow and grimaced. “But you will hurt her,” he said. “Sooner or later you will. She’ll grow to care for you and you’ll not return those sentiments.”
He clenched and unclenched his jaw. Sinclair was wrong. Weston cared for Patrina. He could admit that to himself. Though he didn’t love her, he would do right by her in every other way. “I’m not Marshville.”
“There is something to be said for that,” his soon-to-be brother-in-law muttered.
He went on. “But I’ll give her the protection of my name. She’ll want for nothing.”
The earl stared into the contents of his glass. He swirled the brandy in a small circle. His lips pulled in a grimace. “I wanted more for her than this.” He finished the remainder of his drink in a single swallow. “As there are no other prospects, this will have to be enough,” he said more to himself.
Weston remained silent as the protective brother grappled with letting go of his sister to an unworthy man.
At last, the earl looked up, a hard glint in his eyes. “If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.” He set his glass down hard and reclaimed his seat. “Shall we discuss the terms of the contract?”
CHAPTER 12
A short while later, Weston strode up the handful of steps to his townhouse. His butler pulled the door open, and cleared his throat.
“My lord, your sister, the Viscountess Merewether arrived a short while ago. I took the liberty of showing her to the drawing room.”
He shrugged out of his cloak. “And the children?”
“Are abovestairs attending their lessons,” the servant replied, accepting the cloak.
Weston gave a nod of thanks and continued down the corridor toward the drawing room. He hadn’t known what he’d expected in terms of his meeting with Sinclair. He understood the earl’s reservations. As a father, Weston would have snarled and sneered at any bounder who’d had the ill-sense to present such an offer to his daughter. All assurances Weston had given the other man had been met with wary silence.