Page 50 of The Truth About Lord Stoneville
Not that he’d succeeded very well. She could hardly be flattered that he wanted her only for a mistress. He hadn’t meant it to insult her—he’d just been utterly swept up in the idea of her and him in a cottage together somewhere, without the rest of the world to muddy their lives.
Marriage meant jointures and pin money and siring an heir to continue the dynasty. A cottage meant just him and Maria.
What a fool he was. Even a woman with Maria’s low connections wanted more. And he couldn’t give it. The very thought of attempting it made him ill, because he could never make her happy. He would muck it up, and the legacy of misery would go on.
But he’d be damned if he’d watch her throw herself away on that fool Hyatt. She deserved better than an indifferent fiancé who had no clue how to make her eyes darken in passion as she shuddered and trembled and gave her mouth so sweetly . . .
He groaned. He shouldn’t have gone so far with her. It had frightened her. Worse yet, his reaction to it bloody well terrified him—because he’d give a great deal to be able to do it again. He’d never felt that way for any other woman.
Freddy was still blathering on, and suddenly a word arrested him.
“What was that you said?” Oliver asked.
“The beefsteak needed a bit more salt—”
“Before that,” he ground out.
“Oh. Right. There was a chap in that club claiming he was your cousin. Mr. Desmond Plumtree, I think.”
His stomach sank. When had Desmond gained member-ship at such a selective club? Did it mean the bastard was finally becoming accepted in society?
“Though if you ask me,” Freddy went on, “with family like him, who needs enemies? Insulting fellow. Told me abunch of nonsense about how you’d killed your father and everybody knew it.” Freddy sniffed. “I told him he was a scurrilous lout, and if he couldn’t see that you were a good sort of chap, then he was as blind as a town crier with a broken lantern. And he didn’t belong in the Blue Swan with all those amiable gents, neither.”
For a moment, speech utterly failed Oliver. He could only imagine Desmond’s reaction tothatlittle lecture. “And . . . er . . . what did he say?”
“He looked surprised, then muttered something about playing cards and trotted off to a card room. Good riddance, too—he was eating up all the macaroons.”
Oliver gaped at him, then began to laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“You and Maria—don’t you Americans ever pay attention to gossip?”
“Well, sure, if it makes sense. But that didn’t make sense. If everybody knew you’d killed your father, you’d have been hanged by now. Since you’re sitting right here, you can’t have done it.” Freddy tapped his forehead. “Simple logic is all.”
“Right,” Oliver said. “Simple logic.” A lump caught in his throat. Maria’s defending him was one thing; she was a woman and softhearted, though that had certainly never kept any other woman from gossiping about him.
But to have an impressionable pup like Freddy defend him . . . he didn’t know whether to scoff at the fellow’s naïveté or clap him on the shoulder and pronounce him a “good sort of chap” as well.
“Oh, look,” Freddy said, already on to the next subjectas they pulled up before the shop. “It appears that Mopsy is done shopping already, thank God.”
Oliver’s eyes narrowed. Either “Mopsy” chose her clothes with less care than most females, or something was amiss.
After they left the coach, a few short words with the shopkeeper revealed that Maria had traded her mourning gowns to pay for the new ones, which had left her with a decidedly smaller clothing budget than she needed. He understood pride, but this was too much.
“My fiancée isn’t finished shopping,” he told the shopkeeper. “With a whole trousseau to buy, she needs quite a few more items.”
“Oliver, please,” Maria hissed under her breath as she drew him aside. “They’ll think—”
“That I can afford to outfit my fiancée properly? I hope they do.” He used the only argument that might influence her. “Otherwise, they’ll assume I’m even more in debt than has been rumored. Of course, if you enjoy watching people heap gossip on me . . .”
“Certainly not!” With a glance at the shopkeeper, she lowered her voice. “But I don’t want to bear any greater obligation to you than I already do.”
“Now you sound like Pinter.”
Her gaze shot to his, full of concern. “I didn’t mean—”
“I owe you clothes,” he clipped out. “There’s no obligation. Especially with Pinter refusing to charge me a fee.” Besides, hewantedto see her dressed well, with her beautiful blue eyes complemented by a gown of periwinklesilk, and her fine bosom displayed properly so she felt no need to hide it with a stupid pelerine.
