Page 11 of The Boys of Summer
“I’m bloody furious, Marchwood. That woman brought my daughter here without my consent!”
The viscount lifted one eyebrow at the sharp tone and raised voice. “I would remind you, sir, that you are in my home by my grace. That can be easily rectified. And while I cannot attest to Miss Milson’s exact age, I’m fairly certain she has attained her majority and if she chooses to attend a house party, there is little you can do about it!”
“See here, Boy! There are contracts,” the squire said, shaking his bony fist. “Contracts have been signed and funds have been exchanged. The girl is mine!”
“I see,” Marchwood said. “And did anyone bother to ask Miss Milson for her consent to this union?”
“Why would I ask her? She’s my daughter. She will do as she is told,” Edward scoffed.
“Clearly not, Mr. Milson,” Marchwood replied, “or she would not be here.”
Stymied by that irritating bit of logic, Edward paced more. “You will produce my daughter, Marchwood, or the magistrate will be summoned.”
“The magistrate is here. He’s enjoying a game of billiards. Shall I summon him for you?”
“That will not be necessary.”
Edward turned to face the door at the sound of his daughter’s voice. He’d never been more furious with her in his life. “You have a lot of nerve! How could you behave so irresponsibly, Clarissa? You are very fortunate that the squire is willing to overlook this lapse in behavior!”
“I’ve no wish for the squire to overlook it,” she answered. “I never consented to marry him. In fact, I will not marry him. Not under any circumstances.”
Edward stepped forward, his hand drawn back to strike her. As he neared her and let it fly, a strong hand shot forward and grasped his wrist, preventing contact.
“You will not strike her. Not ever again.”
“Who the devil are you?” Edward demanded of the large, dark-haired man who had dared to intervene.
It was Clarissa who answered. “This is his grace, Augustus Brandeis, Duke of Atherton… and we are to be married.”
From his chair before the fire, Squire Timble shouted in anger. “I’ll not be swindled this way! I want the girl, Milson, or I want my money!”
Chapter Seven
“You will explainyourself, Girl!” It was clear from his expression that Edward Milson was not a man used to being disobeyed.
Beside him, Augustus could feel Clarissa trembling. But despite her fear, she lifted her chin and met her father’s gaze squarely. And when she spoke, her voice was firm and calm.
“Augustus and I were friends when we were children… in Margate. That summer, before I left to return home, he and I made a vow to one another that we would marry when we were older. And finally, the time is right for us to do so,” she explained. It was the short and vague explanation of it all, but entirely truthful.
“The contract with Squire Timble is binding! A childish promise has no meaning in this.”
“Did you sign the contract, Clarissa?” Augustus asked.
“No, I did not,” she replied.
“And did you give verbal consent to Squire Timble that you would marry him?” That question came from Viscount Marchwood.
“No, my lord, I did not,” she stated. “In fact, prior to my father signing the contract, I stated quite vehemently that I would not marry the squire for any reason.”
“Then you are not in breach of anything, Clarissa. Your father, however, has committed fraud,” Augustus said. “Naturally, given the family connections we are to share, I am willing to provide assistance in this matter. I will happily repay any funds to the squire that are owed. That shall be the end of it.” It was a more than fair offer to both his future father-in-law and the squire. But he had no illusions that they would accept it. Fairness was not what they were after.
“I do not need your charity, your grace,” Mr. Milson sneered. “I am her father. I am the one who decides her future. I have made a perfectly respectable match for my ungrateful daughter and she will abide by my will in this or I will—”
“Careful what you say,” Augustus warned in a tone that brooked no argument and left no room for negotiation. “You will not threaten her. Lest you forget, Mr. Milson, I am a duke. And the man seated at that desk behind you is a viscount. Our titles hold a significant amount of power and prestige. Do not say something you will regret.”
The squire rose to his feet then, approaching them in a halting gait, no doubt caused by his advanced age. “Let it go, Milson. So long as I am repaid the sum I advanced to you, I’ve no quarrel with anyone here. I presume, Viscount Marchwood, that you will find suitable accommodations for us in your home given that the weather has turned.”
Augustus saw Henry’s expression turn even more grim. It was clear he didn’t like the notion, but given that the rain was now falling so hard it was nearly impossible to see the road, little could be done about it.
