Page 40 of The Viscount's Pearl
there was emotion in his voice, something like anger at the idea, which emboldened her.
She stepped closer to him, so that they stood face to face, within arm’s reach, looked up into his face.
“Then you will marry me?”
He hesitated and that frightened her.
She spoke again, anxious to secure him, to escape her looming future with Lord Hosmer. “As I said, I know that you wish only for a marriage of convenience, and I am happy to abide by that choice. I will be a good wife.”
He opened his mouth to speak but she could not let him refuse her, she must make her plea now, or risk a lifetime of unhappiness.
“I know that I can be odd in my manners at times, but I will try harder, I will not disgrace you in the eyes of thetonor of our neighbours. I am willing to bear children, you have seen me with my nieces and nephews, I am fond of them. Our marriage will be everything you wanted to achieve.” She stepped closer and now they were only a hand’s breadth apart, she could feel the warmth of his body. Summoning all her courage she placed a hand on his chest where his heart was beating hard and fast below her palm. She did not want to be too emotional, he might not like it, but there was too much at stake, she must plead her case. “Marry me, Laurence.” Her voice shook. “Please.”
He looked down at her and slowly raised his hand, placed it over hers, warm over her cold skin. There was one last moment of hesitation and then he said, “I will marry you, Frances.”
Relief swept over her, and she sagged. Her movement towards him was met with him pulling her into his arms, holding her stiffly as though surprised at the turn of events. He looked down at her, frowning, then lowered his face to hers and kissed her. It was a soft kiss, and then he drew back, looking into her faceas though seeking something there. Frances only gazed back up at him, uncertain of what to do. The kiss had been tender and gentle, she almost wanted him to kiss her again so that she could experience that unexpected touch again and better understand it, better explore all the sensations it had stirred in her. But she had agreed to the marriage being one of convenience, and tender kisses were not part of that. Perhaps the kiss was intended only to seal the agreement between them, she did not know if that was a custom, something a man would be expected to do to agree a betrothal.
She stepped back and at once he loosened his arms, letting her go. She was right then, it had only been an acknowledgment of the agreement between them. Even though she had liked it, she must not expect such intimacies regularly, for this was an arrangement, not a love match. She would speak and behave more formally, so that he would know she was not trying to change his mind.
“I am grateful to you, Mr Mowatt. I am certain that our marriage will be a good one, you will not regret your decision. And now I will leave you, it is growing late and you have had a long journey. I will ask the servants to bring you a tray for your dinner, so that you can be comfortable. I will see you in the morning. Goodnight.”
He opened his mouth as though to speak but then closed it again and bowed. “Goodnight, Miss Lilley.”
She walked through the house, checking more than once that she had behaved correctly. She had repeated her intentions to be a good wife. She had secured his agreement and accepted a kiss as confirmation, without in any way suggesting that she would expect further intimacies, returning to using his surname rather than his first name. She had thought of his comfort, withdrawing so that he might rest and arranging for him to have something to eat after his journey here. These were all the actions of areliable wife, she thought. She had done her duty. There was a lingering sensation of disappointment, of something just out of reach but she supposed that was only because of her planned life as a spinster, which was now gone from her future. That was to be expected. She would set the feeling aside. It was better to be married to Mr Mowatt than to Lord Hosmer. She must make her peace with the sense of disappointment; it would fade, she was sure of it.
Laurence stood in the garden for some moments after Frances had left him. One of the lanterns, burning low, sputtered and went out, the other lantern flickering as a chill wind passed, leaving him in deeper darkness.
He was engaged to the woman he loved.
A reckless joy rose up in his chest, making him want to shout out with happiness, but it was balanced by a cold chill that sank to his stomach like a lead weight. What had he agreed to? He was to marry a woman he loved… but with the agreement that there should be nothing romantic between them, that the marriage was to be only one of expediency: he had saved her from a wretched future, she was to provide him with a suitable wife and, one day, with heirs. That was all. Nothing more.
But her lips.
He had watched her from the door before he had approached her, seen her swinging back and forth, her face set with a worried frown. She had startled at his voice, then come to him, put her hand on his chest, made her case in a shaking voice that made him want to sweep her into his arms and hold her tightly, to promise that she would be safe with and loved by him, always. But that was not what she had offered. She would have been shocked by his change of attitude, might even have withdrawn the offer. He knew the life she wanted: to be left alone to gatherher shells, the days passing in solitude. She did not really want a husband, she was simply afraid of the one being forced upon her. His only chance of having her by his side was to agree to what she had offered, to save her from a barbarous future.
He made his way back into the house and was met by the footman, who assured him that Miss Lilley had made good on her word, a tray was about to be sent to his room. She had asked for hot water that he might wash, and for one of the maids to put a bedwarmer in the bed to take off any chill.
He stood in his room and watched the steam rise from the water in the jug and basin. Frances was keeping her word, being a thoughtful wife. She would stick to her word, he was sure of it, but in that moment he would have given up the warm bed, the hot water, the fine meal, for one more kiss in the garden, just one.
She had moved towards him when he said he would marry her and it had made him reach out for her, take her in his arms and kiss her. He had not been able to help himself. But when she pulled back he had hastily let go of her and now he regretted it. He should have held her, have asked gently if she would in time consider something more between them.
Too late. The quick kiss would stand only as a token of their agreement, not the start of something more. Could he now begin a conversation to change the terms of their agreement, would that be unwanted? He considered going along the corridor to her room, to softly knock and say… but no, that would be ungentlemanly in the extreme, would frighten her and make her think him a liar and a breaker of promises.
No. He would leave it as it was for now. Once the marriage was done, he would try, perhaps, to suggest that there could be more. He would tread gently, he would not startle her with new demands. It was possible, after all, that after their wedding night, when intimacies had been shared in which she tookpleasure, she might reconsider their agreement, might open up to his suggestion that there could be love and pleasure in their marriage. Yes. He must tread with care. He would behave with more formality, so that she could trust his word.
The next morning, Laurence woke late and found that Lord Barrington and Frances had already headed to the beach. He refused breakfast, taking only a cup of coffee, and then mounted Hippomenes, urging the horse to a gallop to the shoreline. There he dismounted and found a boy to watch the horse, all the while scanning the sands.
He spotted them with ease. Frances, head down, the breeze playing with her skirts, making her way along the beach, which was full of visitors old and young. Some way off, Lord Barrington sat in his chair, his carriage nearby, the footmen in attendance. Laurence would go to him in a moment, but first he must see Frances, must touch her and speak with her, know that she was truly his betrothed, that he had not awakened from some strange dream.
“Miss Lilley!”
She turned at once and her face lit up with a smile that made his heart swell. He hurried across the beach to her, making his way past people. “Excuse me, good morning, excuse me…” until he stood before her. She was dressed in a pale frothy green dress, as though newly risen from the sea, her cheeks and lips pink, eyes bright, meeting his gaze directly, unlike that first time when she had kept her eyes lowered even when speaking to him.
“Mr Mowatt…” she began.
“Please call me Laurence.”
She swallowed. “Laurence,” she repeated, voice low. “Good morning.”
