“I wish there were a way for you to escape Mr. Thorkilson’s clutches for good,” Mrs. Kernoff said. She gave Mr. Donahue a brief look before directing her gaze back to Calista. “Doesn’t seem right, escorting you back to New York so you can be sentenced to marrying such an odious man.”
“I’m afraid there’s no other choice,” Calista said with a brittle smile she struggled to hold in place. “It’s either that, or pay back the money he’s owed. Plus interest.”
15
A most peculiar weight lifted from Steven’s shoulders as soon as Miss Smith confirmed that her heart had not been engaged where Mr. Westchester was concerned. Curiosity lingered with regard to her identity. She’d boldly stated that she’d assumed a false name for the sake of protecting her family and while he’d been momentarily offended on account of her not trusting him with the truth, a moment of reflection had led to understanding.
He was a new acquaintance of hers and while he’d helped her, she did not owe him the same degree of loyalty she owed her parents. But when it came to her returning home in order to marry a man who was forcing her hand, anger gripped him with unforgiving force. Surely, there had to be another solution.
So when the breakfast was over and the Kernoffs had taken their leave, he turned to Miss Smith. “Might I have a word with you in private?”
Hesitation warred with an unmistakable show of interest, for which he could not blame her. After his flirtatious manner last night, which she must have construed as cool detachment toward the end of the evening, she probably felt like she was on unstable ground where he was concerned.
He swept his hand in the direction of his office. “Please. It won’t take long.”
She gave a quick nod. “All right.”
Steven kept his hands clasped behind his back as they strolled toward his private sanctuary. He had to since he was afraid he might do something rash otherwise, like reach up and stroke the velvety smooth skin gracing her cheeks, her jawline, her neck…
His chest tightened with wanting, which wouldn’t help either of them in the least. So he did his best to ignore the twitch of his fingers and the flex of his muscles – an unavoidable response to the sway of her hips as she swept into the room, her shoulder brushing his arm in the process.
His skin sizzled beneath the slate-grey tailored wool of his jacket and starched cotton shirt. Inhaling deeply, he followed her inside and closed the door. “Please have a seat, Miss Smith.”
“My real name is Miss Faulkner,” she said, surprising him with the revelation and the trust she was placing in him. She lowered herself to the seat behind her. “Calista Faulkner. I did not want to mention it in front of the Kernoffs – the fewer people who know, the better, and all that. But you have been kind and extraordinarily generous. It feels wrong to keep lying to you.”
As much as her willingness to open up to him warmed his heart, he wasn’t sure how to respond, short of saying, “Considering your determination to hide your identity, I was sure I’d at least have heard of you, but the name isn’t familiar.”
“It would be to the Kernoffs though.” Wide eyes gazed back at him, drawing him in. “My father is both a lawyer and a U.S. Senator. He entered into politics as a young man, after leaving the army, and has since made a good career for himself – one Mr. Thorkilson threatens to ruin.”
“Speaking of which,” Steven murmured while rounding his desk. He sat and leaned back in his chair, his elbows on the armrests and his fingers steepled in front of his chest. “How much does your father owe this man?”
“Five thousand dollars.”
Steven did a quick calculation and blinked. At roughly three and a half thousand pounds it was an impressive sum to be sure, but not as huge as he’d feared. To think Miss Faulkner was being forced into marriage, to have her life destroyed, for no more than this was disturbing to say the least.
“Can you not get a loan elsewhere? From a friend or relative, or even a bank?”
“Our relatives do not have such sums at their disposal. As for the banks, they feel it’s too great a risk, seeing as Papa still owes money on his home and has no other form of collateral. He tried, Mr. Donahue, but they turned him away.”
Steven drew a deep breath. He’d always been a rational man with regard to his own finances, investing only in projects he knew would earn him a profit. Occasionally during his youth, he’d covered a few expenses here and there for some of his friends and especially for Nigel, who’d often been stranded somewhere without the means to pay for his tab. Such experiences had taught Steven that lending money often led to disappointment and ruined relationships. Other people were selfish and reckless. They did not care about such things the way he did, were not as honorable or reliable.
Disillusioned, he no longer offered financial assistance to anyone unless there was some guarantee he’d be paid back within a reasonable timeframe. So to even consider giving Miss Faulkner – a woman he’d barely gotten to know – the money she needed to help herself and her father out of a difficult situation went against all common sense. And yet the idea remained at the front of his mind because a) he could not stand the thought of her living a wretched existence and b) he could afford to lend a hand.
However, considering her reluctance to let him pay for her clothes – a paltry sum by comparison – he feared she’d dig in her heels and refuse. Which meant he’d have to find another way if he were to help. For now, he decided to think the matter over at greater length later, when his instinct to act was no longer affected by the shock of what she’d revealed. If his experience in business had taught him anything, it was that only a fool made an impulsive purchase. The same could be said of a loan.
“Your situation is not an easy one,” he said. “I admire you for attempting to take control of it.”
“Thank you. I appreciate your saying so.”
He offered a smile. “Perhaps a walk would make you feel better? The weather has cleared since yesterday, so a stroll around Hyde Park should make for a lovely outing.”
Although her eyes maintained a sad expression, she managed to force the edges of her lips upward. “I’d like that, Mr. Donahue. Thank you.”
His chest ached for her as he stood and extended his hand. She was a lovely person – modest, forthright, determined, and beautiful to boot. It was a damn shame for her to get shackled to the sort of man he envisioned Mr. Thorkilson to be – an old fat lecher rubbing his hands together with glee while taking advantage of others.
Her hand found his and he helped her rise. “I’ll wait for you in the foyer while you collect your bonnet.”
They set off ten minutes later, taking a hackney to the park entrance where they alit and began their stroll. The sun shone brightly, casting a pleasant heat upon his face as he steered Miss Faulkner along. He liked the feel of her hand tucked into the crook of his arm. Hell, he liked her in general. She suited him in a way few women ever had since most of the ones belonging to his set tended to irritate him with their petty complaints, demands, and unfulfilling discourse.
Miss Faulkner, however, did not complain about anything or make demands. She was willing to find her own way without aid. When helped, she expressed her gratitude without the slightest hint of expecting more. And while they’d not had many conversations, she’d made no attempt to drag fashion, gossip, or the weather into any of them, which was promising.