Page 77 of Everything a Lady is Not
A wave of indebtedness rippled through Lucy. She wanted to rush to her grandmother’s side and embrace the woman. However, given proper decorum, she merely stood and curtsied deeply. “You have my undying gratitude and devotion.”
“Nonsense. Come give an old woman a hug.”
Lucy sailed into her grandmother’s arms and clenched her fiercely. Though she worried that every suitor would reject her when they learned the truth, she was determined to follow through. Choosing was the only path to a husband, a husband the only path to the dowry, and the dowry the only path to caring for the duchess. And though the thought of choosing anyone but Henry crushed her, she vowed to sacrifice herself.
“I will choose tonight. For all of us.”
The duchess leaned away from the embrace. Concern pricked her features. “Who will you select?”
Lucy’s eyes fell again. “I do not know, Grandmother. I do not know.”
…
As dusk fell, Henry remained ensconced on a fallen tree—the one he had shared with Lucy days earlier following the world-shifting kiss—and questioned his entire existence. Since he was old enough to understand his place in the world, he had been nothing but a killer. Of his mother. Of his dog. Of his father. Of his family name. Of everything decent, honorable, and noble. James had taught him what he was. His father had not countermanded it. Charlotte had been silenced on the matter. And so, he had remained a killer who walked the path of those who destroy—toward corruption and ruin and death. His single-minded pursuit of lawbreakers had been but a desperate attempt to avoid his inevitable fate. Then, when he fell into association with Lucy, he had abandoned even that. He had deliberately hidden her actions at Shooter’s Hill, willingly carried forth the ruse that would likely destroy them both, and enthusiastically fallen for her along the way while simultaneously engineering her destruction. He had become an abased character, befitting his heritage.
But now, he was a knight.
A knight!
How could he possibly be a knight? The knights of legend were noble and decent and honorable—everything his mind dictated he was not. The knights he knew personally were courageous and faithful and sacrificial. James had never ascribed any of those traits to him. His father never had, either. In what world could he ever pass for a knight? How had the Portuguese king been so deluded as to point to a killer and say, “There stands a knight!” In the throes of dissonance, he recalled his actions in France, one by one. Of charging thundering French batteries because his Portuguese duke had lost his way in the smoke. Of fighting off a half dozen men on foot with nothing but a saber to allow the man to flee. Of pulling the duke from beneath his dying mount as shot hissed through the air past his ears, and then carrying him to safety even with shrapnel lodged in his thigh.
Odd. He had forgotten the details. Put them from his mind. Dismissed them as unimportant, until now. His actions did not align with those of a man with a debased character. They seemed more…knightly. Courageous. Faithful. Sacrificial. He massaged his temples as the discordance wracked his thoughts. How could he, at the same time, be what his brother claimed and what his knighthood declared? That question consumed him until a striking revelation froze his hands.
He hadearnedhis title.
Unlike his brother, who had been given his. Henry had earned it! Not even James—the all-important Earl of Ravensheugh—could claim that. And what Henry had earned could never be taken from him for as long as he lived.
Never.
He was a knight, now and forever.
What had Sir Hugh told him? To begin behaving like a knight? Then what would a knight do? He stood and began to pace while wrestling with that very question. Within seconds, answers began coming to him. A knight would not be indecisive. A knight would not blame fate for his actions. A knight would not betray a friend. A knight would certainly not forsake the woman he loved. He would never turn her over to the same tormentor who had tried to ruin him. He would never allow her to stand alone in her hour of greatest need. He would never abandon the fight for her freedom for as long as he lived.
Determination rose within Henry. He would be a knight. He would becomeherknight. He would sweep aside all distractions and ask for her hand in marriage. If she saw fit to accept, despite his deep unworthiness, he would spend every waking minute of the rest of his life loving her, and defending her honor, and clearing her name. He would begin by tracking down Steadman again and not accepting “no” for an answer. That is what a knight would do. That is whathewould do.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Lucy stood on the edge of a razor-thin precipice with deadly plunges waiting on either side. Before her were the doors to the ballroom, a place now occupied by men determined to either have her dowry or clap her in irons. Behind her was escape, and a path to a secluded life in hiding where she would wallow in misery after abandoning the duchess. And where was Henry when she needed his counsel most?That’s right, she thought.I sent him away. Though her wound of betrayal remained raw, she regretted not allowing him to explain. Now, she could only guess what he might have planned. But he was not here, and the moment of choosing had come. She gathered her pluck, prayed for deliverance from the hangman, and pushed open the ballroom doors.
When she swept inside, all conversation ceased. Suitors and guests alike locked her in their respective gazes, expectant. James was the first to break the spell.
“So, you have decided to join us after all.” He gave her a wink. “Very prudent. A good quality in a dutiful wife.”
She tried not to glare, but instead dropped a faint curtsy. “The time for me to choose has come. Any last words?”
She glanced at Sir Hugh and waited for him to end the charade. To produce an arrest warrant and lead her away. He simply stood with a drink in one hand and dipped his forehead toward her. Mildly surprised, she faced Lord Garvey. “So, how is this to be done?”
He motioned to his sheaf of documents spread atop a serving table. “Very simple, Lady Margaret. You choose a suitor. If the suitor accepts, I will note the details and ask for your respective signatures. The reading of the banns will commence on the morrow.”
“Thank you,” she said. She clasped her hands at her waist and faced the knot of suitors, who all waited expectantly. Lord Canterfield, who saw her merely as a stepping stone to power. Lord Rayleigh, who would fund his gambling with her dowry. Lord Jeffrey, who would forsake their marriage bed the first chance he got. Lord Warwick, who had humiliated her before learning how she could end his family’s financial duress. The Earl of Ravensheugh, who had broken Henry and now sought to do the same to her, brazenly confident that he had already won. And Sir Hugh, come at Henry’s bidding, present only to…well, she still did not know. A bag of rotten apples from which to choose. Should she select the man least likely to reject her when Sir Hugh inevitably revealed her shameful secret? Or the man in the best position to help her? No choice made sense. She considered how many steps it was to the ballroom door, and how far she could run in a ball gown before they caught her.
“Stop!”
Henry’s shout spun her around. He leaned with one hand against the doorframe, out of breath and with flushed face. He locked her in his wild gaze while refilling his lungs. “Have you chosen?”
His question came plaintively, desperately.
“I have not.”
