“That is my point,” she said calmly. “I cannot leave until it is settled.” Gillian spit into her palm and extended that saliva offering to him.
He blanched. “What in blazes—?”
There came the crack and crunch of brush and twigs breaking under the noisy approach of the marquess. And because he would have offered her anything to get her gone and save himself from discovery and her father’s ire, Colin spit into his own hand and placed it in hers. “I’ll marry you if you don’t find a good fellow by—” He released her quickly.
“Twenty-three,” she said, entirely too loud.
“Fine. Fine.” It was a lifetime away, and even when she reached those years, she’d be married. “Twenty-three.” Again taking her by the shoulders, this time more firmly, he pushed her in the direction of her father’s approaching voice.
“Do you promise?” she asked, seeming wholly unworried about the prospect of discovery.
But then, Colin was the one facing hell and trouble if they were caught together. “Didn’t I just shake your hand?” Please, go!
She smiled. “Splendid. I’ll draw something up and bring it for you to sign—”
“Gillian.”
“Oh, fine.”
With their deal struck, she thankfully took herself off, saving him from discovery by her father.
Chapter 1
Lady Gillian Farendale had either been trapped… or caught.
She’d gone back and forth over which it was since that hated carriage, and the even more hated occupant of that carriage, had descended some thirty minutes ago.
And in reflecting, as caught meant there was no escape, she vastly preferred trapped.
After all, a trap suggested there was also a way out.
And there had to be.
Because the alternative… was not one she’d allow herself to consider.
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” Mildred whispered for the tenth or so time since she’d come flying into Gillian’s chambers to share word of the gentleman’s arrival. The gleaming windowpane reflected the young maid’s agonized features. “I… just thought I might mention he was here, and according to several of the parlor maids, your name was overheard.”
The front door opened, and a figure stepped out. Adjusting his ridiculously high D’Orsay hat, the gentleman took the steps to his carriage jauntily. Triumphant. That was what they were. After four weeks of turning him away and rejecting his calls for marriage, he’d come here to rob her of choice. Fury had a taste, and it was sharp like vinegar on her tongue. “Oh, no,” she said, letting the curtain fall so she didn’t have to look upon his hated figure. “You can rest assured I’m grateful to you for telling me.” In doing so, Mildred, along with the other maids, had allowed Gillian some time to prepare.
And yet, was there really any way to prepare for whatever was to come?
Gillian began to pace. This moment had been inevitable. From the moment she’d stolen out with her friend Honoria Fairfax for one of impolite society’s most scandalous affairs and made the mistake of wandering off with a rake and sipping the champagne he’d given her, this threat had loomed.
It couldn’t be enough that the scoundrel had taken what he’d no right taking, now he’d try to trap her into marriage?
The window, left slightly ajar by her maid, sent a light breeze filtering into the room, stirring the curtains and allowing Gillian a glimpse of the aged carriage as it lurched into motion and rolled off.
Perhaps the visit had nothing to do with her. Perhaps it had been gentlemanly business or Parliamentary affairs—
Between Society’s darkest rake and your father? a voice jeered.
She winced. Yes, unlikely.
A scratching sounded at the door, and as one, she and Mildred turned to face the doorway.
Well, there was the end of the possibility that the visit wasn’t about her.
Oh, God. How much had he revealed? Because there could be no doubting that, with the viscount’s insistent attempt to marry her, he’d revealed something. Any detail would be enough to horrify.
Scratch-scratch-scratch.
“My lady,” one of the maids called hesitantly from the other side. “Your presence is requested below by the marquess and marchioness.”
Her stomach lurched. Oh, this was bad. Very, very bad indeed.
Gillian remained there, unmoving.
“I can say you’ve gone out, my lady,” the young girl whispered.
For one very brief moment, Gillian considered the offer. She thought of taking the coward’s path, onward and away from the meeting waiting to unfold below… with her father.
But she was no coward.
“Thank you, Mildred,” she murmured. “It is fine.” Which was one of the greatest understatements she’d made in the course of her twenty-four years. As Gillian made her way from the room, the servant looked on the cusp of tears.
Gillian herself wasn’t a crier. She never had been.
But if ever there was a situation for a good, hearty weeping, this was decidedly that moment. A short while later, she found herself outside her father’s offices.
She lifted her hand to knock, but paused in midmotion. To knock would put her at a disadvantage. It would establish roles in the conversation that was to come, where she was subservient to her father. And she was sick to death of that.
Clasping the handle, she pressed it, letting herself in.
Her parents’ gazes, dripping vitriol and disgust—so very different than their usual, and much preferred, apathy—met hers. There was plenty of silence, too.
All her bravado and courage flagged.
They had found out her secret. As she’d suspected, it had been inevitable. She’d been a fool to expect her parents would not have found out. One of the most ruthless gossips in Society, the Marchioness of Ellsworth, could have pulled the secrets from the Home Office before the war office had even realized they’d been breached. Gillian, however, had not imagined it playing out this way—with Lord Barber outing her to her parents.
“Father,” she said calmly. “Mother.”
“Shut the door, Gillian,” her mother snapped.
Just like that, she was the same scared girl who’d gone out of her way to avoid her cold, unfeeling, and always disapproving parents. Gillian pushed the door shut behind her.
Resisting the urge to move under the weight of those fierce gazes, she kept her arms forcibly at her sides, refusing to be cowed. Refusing to be broken by her parents.
And certainly not by the cad who’d taken his leave.
Gillian lifted her chin in silent defiance and waited. Forcing them to begin the conversation.
Her father jabbed a finger at the vacant seat opposite his desk, ordering her about without even the benefit of words.
Why, he’d show greater respect for his damned hunting dogs.
When she didn’t immediately comply, her father’s arm wavered and then fell. “Sit.”
“I’d rather not.”
Her mother gasped. “Gillian, listen to your father this instant.”
“I did,” she said coolly. “His was a question, asking me to join him, and mine was an answer saying I’ve no desire to.” She turned to go.
“That was not a question. It was a command. You are not to leave this room. I’m ordering you to remain.”