Page 23 of A Tenuous Betrothal
Bartholomew did laugh then.
Marc looked into his face and couldn’t help but join in. “Am I?”
“Not at all.” Bartholomew’s eyes twinkled in response. “This is confounded difficult. You’re not sure what to think, I’d wager.”
“That is the truth.” He frowned at his hessians. “I don’t want to be married right now. I can’t, in fact, marry. But the more I listen to her plan, the more a tiny part of me wishes to be a part of her life.” He ran a hand through his hair. “But that doesn’t leave this room, because in all of this, I must convince my father of my adamance against such a match.” He leaned his head back, suddenly exhausted at his own admission.
“She’s obviously a good woman.”
“She’s worthy of every happiness.” Marc’s frown deepened.
“And your father made big promises for her.”
“True.” His voice sounded smaller this time.
“But must she have an Oldenburg prince in order to be happy?” Bartholomew spoke sense.
“Must she?” Marc peered at him, almost in desperation.
“I think only time will tell.” Bartholomew ran a thumb along the bottom of his chin, as though he wished to say more.
Marc nodded. “Yes. Time.”
“What she doesn’t know won’t harm her.” Bartholomew’s amusement seemed to be growing.
“Right. Wait, what doesn’t she know?” Marc narrowed his eyes at his friend.
Bartholomew leaned forward, staring at him straight in the face. “That there will never be anyone in London as worthy of her hand as a Wilhelm prince.”
Marc let his head drop into his hand. “Only a true friend would feel such noble things about our family.” He hoped that was the case, at least. Because he couldn’t very well marry Miss Davies off to a man less worthy than what his father promised. “There are plenty of good men here. And they are her countrymen...” Not technically, not in her mind, he admitted, but more so than those from Oldenburg.
“Pity she has to be so beautiful.” Bartholomew toyed with his glass, an overly innocent expression waiting for Marc’s response.
“That is the most difficult challenge of all.” Marc pointed at Bartholomew and then frowned when the man tipped his head back in hearty laughter. “Oh, laugh all you like now. Wait until you and I are challenging men with pistols at dawn to defend her honor; she’s that beautiful.” Marc itched to stand and leave the room. He was finished with his old friend’s newfound amusement.
“Surely it will not come to that.”
Marc snorted.
Then Bartholomew stood. “Come, man. She’s a worthy woman. It’s difficult not to notice. But you said yourself you’re not in a place to marry. I’m certain you can evade marriage, but can you evade falling for the woman?”
Marc sucked in a breath and nearly choked as he echoed Bartholomew’s words. “Surely it won’t come to that.”
“Surely not. You still have full use of your faculties even if you think otherwise. It will help if we do something manly while the women surround themselves in fabric and ribbons.”
Marc had no idea what his friend had in mind, but he followed like a weak duck. He must be tired from all his journeying. That was his trouble. Give him a few days and he’d be back to his normal, in-control, reasonable self.
As they headed out the front door, he felt eyes on him and looked over his shoulder. Miss Davies watched him, and a soft awareness rolled over him like a gentle wave.
He nodded.
She lifted a few fingers in farewell. She was off to prepare herself to go up before the marriage mart of the Londontonbecause of him.
And suddenly he felt like a cad.
Chapter Nine
Rhi tried on gown aftergown, all fitting perfectly. The duchess, who had begun insisting Rhi call her Sophie, couldn’t decide which she liked most, and neither could Rhi. She loved them all—felt quite like a princess, in fact. Sophie liked the softer colors for herself—they looked fetching on her with her pale skin, her lovely blond hair, and her rosy cheeks. But Rhi was drawn more to the striking colors. They had decided she could forgo the white. She was not a typical debutante, after all.
