Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 74156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 371(@200wpm)___ 297(@250wpm)___ 247(@300wpm)
“I worked very hard to ensure you wouldn’t. It’s pointless to dwell upon it at this point. We must be married and make the best of things.”
“The best of things.”
He barely heard her peevish exhalation. Her shoulders drew up tight.
“Yes, the best of things,” he repeated. “There’s nothing else to do. My lady, I wish you would turn to look at me. Otherwise, you won’t recognize me at the altar. I’m not much like Jack Drake, not on a typical day.”
For a long moment, she made no movement. Then finally, slowly, she turned, her gaze faltering and lighting somewhere in the middle of his chest, upon his shining coat buttons. She looked so different now, here, in her childhood room, clean and wan, with her appearance so terrifyingly ladylike. Her blue eyes looked vivid as cornflowers in May.
He must look different to her too, with his hair tamed and his stubble shaven, turned out in his best finery from head to toe. Did it offer any solace that she was marrying a member of the peerage rather than a common mister off the street?
“My real name is John Daniel Worthington Drake,” he began, when her gaze finally traveled to his face. “I’m the eldest son of the Duke of Arlington, titled the Marquess of Wescott, although my mother and sisters still call me Jack on occasion, when they wish to make me feel like a boy.”
But he was no boy, and she was no actress. He was a rake, and she his offended victim. She exuded delicacy and refinement—and helpless anger. He could hardly believe they’d lain together with such tender abandon. He’d made love to her mere hours ago, enjoyed her breathless caresses, and now she regarded him with vitriol and shame. He wished to reach for her, to see if she could possibly be the same woman, but he didn’t dare. Her expression and stance didn’t welcome familiarity, however they’d conducted themselves the night before.
“It’s my pleasure to meet you,” she whispered in her barely-there voice, in a tone that let him know the sentiment was not true. She did not offer her hand. “You are quite different than I remember, and I suppose you must realize by now that I’m not who I said I was.”
“If only we’d been honest,” he said, attempting a smile.
“I chose not to be honest,” she whispered. “And now…”
Now, she was clearly aghast at the prospect of marrying him. She was devastated by the situation, as he was. He believed she downright loathed him for his part in her ruination. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the way she wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“My lord, if you please…” She rubbed her forehead as her rosebud lips pursed in a frown. “I’m very tired from…from last night. Perhaps you might call upon me some other time.” She was already turning away when the door burst open.
“Lady Ophelia, I wish to marry you!”
Wescott and his betrothed spun as one toward the other side of the room, where a disheveled and wild-eyed Townsend stood ramrod straight, breathing full-on, as if he’d run across the whole of London to make his declaration.
“You may think I’m being impulsive, but I’m not.” Lord Townsend gazed, transfixed, at Lady Ophelia, his hand pressed to his heart. “I love you, dear lady, more than anyone in the world, and it would be my honor to marry you without question or hesitation, no matter your current situation.”
Ophelia turned to Wescott, her eyes wide, and whispered, “Who, my lord, is that?”
Chapter Five
For Better or Worse
Ophelia stared in shock as the young man strode toward her, running his fingers through disordered black hair.
“My lady,” he began, halting a respectable distance away. “My deepest apologies for frightening you. It is only that I must—” He paused, out of breath. Had he sprinted up the stairs? “It is only that I must speak my heart, and offer you an option besides marriage to this—this—If I may be frank, my lady, he is a creature of the lowest moral habits, an inveterate scoundrel.”
The man gestured toward Mr. Drake. No, the Marquess of Wescott. He drew himself up in return.
“A ‘scoundrel,’ Townsend?” he repeated, with a taut edge to his voice.
“No, Wescott.” He held up a hand. “I will speak without interruption from you, you blackguard. I have only just become aware of what transpired last evening, of the disrespectful and scurrilous way you conducted yourself whilst Lady Ophelia was in your care. It was wrong of you to ride with her through London and expose her to gossip, and imperil her good reputation with your—your selfish manipulations.”
“You’re saying a lot of big words,” the marquess retorted, “but making very little sense.”
“I used to regard you well, but no longer. Anyone who would carelessly risk such a worthy lady’s reputation—”