Page 6 of The Inconvenient Compromise
He smirked, his lips quirking upwards in an expression that was far more appealing than it ought to have been. The man really was too handsome for words. It was infuriating.
“Really? Marriage to a man you know nothing of is not a reason to faint?” he queried in a slightly bemused manner. “I have no question, Lady Rathmore, that you are indeed possessed of remarkable fortitude… but that’s a bit much for anyone, don’t you think?”
“In truth, women do such things all the time,” she replied. She felt at a terrible disadvantage lying in that bed while he towered over her. Rolling to one side, she sat up on the edge of it and then, cautiously, came to her feet. “We have few options in this world unless we have the protection of a man’s name. When you have no claim to either fortune or beauty, any husband is better than no husband.”
“Well, I’ve certainly been put in my place, haven’t I?” If he was indeed insulted, he did not seem overly bothered by it. If anything, he appeared to be quite amused.
Fiona’s face flamed with embarrassment. She had been speaking in generalities, after all, and not of the specifics of their situation. She understood that she could have done far worse. He was an earl. A man whose handsomeness no one could deny. Not only that, he’d proved to be not only honorable but chivalrous. After all, many men in his position would have refused a woman such as herself. She had only tenuous connections in society beyond the patronage of Lady Bruxton, which was now clearly lost to her. Offending him was the last thing she wished to do. “I did not mean it that way,” she said. “I did not mean you.”
“But you did mean Kenworth,” he surmised. “You never had any wish to marry him. Yet, you set your cap for him very publicly at Lady Bruxton’s insistence. Why? And it can’t be just that she told you to do so. There was more.”
Fiona glanced away. “When Lady Bruxton demands something, then it must be done. Otherwise, you fall out of favor with her, which is social suicide, isn’t it? She wields her power in society like a scythe, cutting a wide swath for those she chooses and burying all others under the detritus she leaves in her wake.”
A knock sounded on the door then. He called out for them to enter, and immediately a serving girl stepped into the room bearing a heavy tray laden with food. Another girl followed behind with a tray bearing a pot of tea and cups. There was also a bottle of wine.
Lucian Maxwell. What did she know of him? Illegitimate but recognized by his father, though there appeared to be an estrangement there. His mother had been a widowed noblewoman, and it was through her Scottish relatives he had recently inherited the title. Prior to that, he’d been considered a ne’er do well, floating around the edges of society and subsisting primarily on the merits of his ability to be a charming guest. Handsome as the devil and just as wily, she’d been warned during her first Season.
As she recalled, he was great friends with Lord Ralston—an unlikely pair. Ralston was polite and proper to a fault, staid by most standards. He was so nice that it rendered him all but invisible to women, despite his handsomeness. And Lucian Maxwell was not. Gambling. Drinking. Womanizing. He was guilty of it all. And now, he was playing the considerate husband far more successfully than she would have anticipated.
When the serving girls were ushered out, and they were alone once more, the veritable feast laid out before them, he turned back to her. “Let us get some food in you. Perhaps we can avoid another fainting episode as we discuss what we mean to do about Lady Bruxton.”
Leaving the bedside, Fiona walked towards the small table, which should have bowed under the weight of the food upon it. Sliced ham, several cheeses, bread, fruits, a tureen of hearty stew, a platter of tarts, and other sweets—it was a veritable feast. “Do you normally order this much food?”
“I did not order it, not specifically, at any rate. I merely asked for a meal. They are remarkably generous,” he observed. With an air of utterly false innocence and wide eyes that would fool no one, he continued. “Serving girls like me. I can’t begin to imagine why. But they always load platters with extra bits of this or that.”
Fiona’s lips pressed into a thin, firm line. “Of course, they do. Shop girls likely give you extra sweets or conveniently forget to make a full accounting of all your purchases, no doubt.”
“I’m charming,” he said. “And they get so flustered. If I point out their errors, then they become more flustered—it’s for the best just to let it go unremarked.”
Realizing that he was doing his best to be intentionally provoking, Fiona chose to ignore him. Instead, she seated herself at the small table, took one of the plates that had been provided, and began heaping it with food. Her stomach growled with hunger, reminding her just how long it had been since she had eaten.
“I like a woman with healthy appetites,” he observed, pouring tea into one of the cups for her. “Alas, the vicar… priest… whatever he calls himself, did extract a promise from me that I would not fall upon you like some ravening beast and demand my husbandly rights. Would I have to demand them, Fiona? Might you be sweetly coaxed to offer them to me instead?”
“No,” she answered quickly and quite firmly. “If I am to have a reprieve, I mean to make it count. We are strangers, after all.”
He sighed heavily, quite put upon, as he sat down at the table with her and began helping himself to the dishes before them. “Ah, well. One cannot blame a man for trying, I suppose. Thought I should point out if you really wish to know me—”
“I’d prefer to know your character before I know you in the biblical sense,” she replied sharply.
“Then, by all means, ask your questions, Lady Rathmore,” he offered glibly.
“Why did you marry me, really? I understand that you needed a bride and needed her rather quickly… but there are others. With your charm and now your title, you could have your choice.”
He shrugged, his broad shoulders moving with an elegant economy of motion beneath his well-fitted coat. “Let us be honest… even without the title, I would not have lacked alternatives. Any number of wealthy widows and aging spinsters would have happily married me.”
She didn’t call him out for his vanity. It was true. Women had been trying to lure him to the altar for years. Instead, she simply arched her brow as if waiting for him to continue.
At last, he did so. “I cannot say in truth, for I do not entirely know. Other than to say that I liked the look of you naked in my bed, and now, or soon at least, I will have the option to keep you there.”
Fiona paused with a bite of food halfway to her lips, the fork hovering in mid-air as she simply gaped at him. Her face flamed with embarrassment even as she asked, “And if I’d been wearing a nightrail?”
The earl ripped a hunk of bread off one of the freshly baked loaves that rested on the table before generously slathering it with butter. “Then I imagine you’d be in quite the pickle… and likely still only Miss Trimble rather than the Countess of Rathmore.” He took a bite of the bread, chewing deliberately.
“You are vile,” she said. “Cretinous.”
“And yours, darling. Don’t forget that. I’m yours… This bread is delightful. Perhaps we could tempt their cook to come with us and take on kitchen duties at Rathmore House when we finally take up residence there? Though, I suppose that is your domain, isn’t it, wife?”
She supposed that it was. And she hadn’t a clue how to begin. Finally taking the bite she’d all but forgotten halfway to her mouth, Fiona realized she was out of her depth in more ways than one.
