Page 70 of A Rogue to Resist
“She’s made her choice,” he murmured to himself, the words tasting bitter as he spoke them.
Yet even as he turned his horse toward home, doubt nagged at him. Was he surrendering too easily? Should he announce himself, demand an audience, declare his feelings regardless of the impropriety?
No. Such a display would only embarrass Katherine and confirm any reservations she might harbour about his character. If she had indeed chosen Lord Clifton—or was seriously considering him—Drake would not be the one to disrupt that potential happiness with unwelcome declarations.
He rode slowly back toward the main road, his thoughts in turmoil.
What now? Return to London and reconsider Lady Westmore’s proposition?
The very idea made him recoil. After acknowledging his feelings for Katherine, accepting a marriage of convenience with another woman seemed impossible, regardless of how practical the arrangement might be.
Yet the entail’s deadline remained, implacable and unforgiving. Seven months to marry or lose Greythorne to Captain Halston. Seven months to secure a bride, any bride, or surrender everything he had begun to build.
The tenants’ faces rose in his mind—Mrs. Collins and her family, old Mrs. Parsons, young Thomas with his wooden horse. People who had begun to trust him, to believe in his commitment to their welfare. Could he abandon them to Halston’s untested stewardship, simply because his heart had fixed itself on a woman who appeared to be choosing another?
No. Whatever his personal disappointment, Drake could not—would not—relinquish Greythorne without exhausting every possibility.
As the road forked—one branch leading toward Greythorne Manor, the other toward London—Drake hesitated. The logical course would be to return to town, to force himself back into the marriage market with renewed determination. Some suitable young lady must exist who could satisfy the entail without requiring him to sacrifice his integrity through a loveless union.
But the thought of London drawing rooms and artificial conversations filled him with weary dread. After weeks at Greythorne, engaged in meaningful work and challenging discourse with Katherine, the superficial rituals of the marriage market seemed more unbearable than ever.
He turned his horse toward Greythorne Manor instead. Perhaps a night’s reflection would bring clarity. Perhaps, in themorning, the sight of Katherine and Lord Clifton together would seem less devastating, allowing him to approach the matter with the practical mindset that had served him so well in business.
Perhaps. But as Drake rode through the Greythorne gates, the emptiness of the manor house before him seemed to echo the hollow feeling in his chest. For the first time since his unexpected inheritance, the grand building felt not like an opportunity or a responsibility, but merely a house—stones and timber without the warmth or purpose he had begun to envision for it.
A future without Katherine to challenge his decisions, to advocate for the tenants, to match his determination with her own stubborn will, seemed suddenly bleak and colourless.
“My lord,” Thompson greeted him as he dismounted in the stable yard. “We weren’t expecting you back from London until tomorrow. Is everything all right?”
“Merely a change of plans,” Drake replied, striving for a neutral tone. “Any urgent matters requiring attention?”
“Nothing that can’t wait until morning, my lord. Though there is a message from Lady Westmore that arrived this afternoon.” Thompson hesitated. “She requests a response to her proposition at your earliest convenience. I assume you know what that means.”
Of course. Lady Westmore would expect an answer to her marriage proposal. The reasonable, practical proposition that had seemed so hollow compared to the possibility of a future with Katherine.
“I’ll address it tomorrow,” Drake said, unable to face the task tonight. “Please have a simple dinner sent to my study. I know the kitchens weren’t expecting me, so nothing elaborate is necessary. I have correspondence to review.”
“Very good, my lord.” Thompson bowed and departed, his expression suggesting concern at Drake’s subdued manner.
Alone in his study an hour later, Drake stared into the fire, a glass of untouched brandy at his elbow. The practical part of his mind was already assembling arguments for accepting Lady Westmore’s proposal after all. The entail must be satisfied. Greythorne needed a mistress. Lady Westmore was intelligent, independent, and harboured no romantic illusions that would lead to disappointment.
Yet every logical consideration crumbled before the memory of Katherine’s smile—not directed at him, but at Lord Clifton. The pain of that image confirmed what Drake had been reluctant to fully acknowledge: his feelings for Katherine had progressed far beyond admiration or desire to something deeper, more profound.
Something that made the prospect of marriage to anyone else seem like a betrayal, not just of Katherine, but of himself.
“She’s made her choice,” he repeated, the words no less bitter for their repetition.
And now he would have to make his.
Chapter Eighteen
Katherine stared out the carriage window as the countryside rolled past, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the fields. The visit to Thornfield Park had not proceeded as James intended—a fact her brother was still struggling to accept, judging by his stiff posture on the opposite seat.
“I simply don’t understand,” he said, breaking the tense silence that had persisted since their departure. “Lord Clifton is everything one could desire in a suitor—respectable, wealthy, and genuinely interested in you. What possible objection could you have?”
“I’ve explained this, James,” Katherine replied, weariness seeping into her voice. “Lord Clifton is indeed a fine gentleman. My objection is not to him specifically, but to the entire notion that I require a husband at all.”
A half-truth, but easier than explaining the confusing tangle of emotions she felt for Drake Halston—emotions she had only recently admitted to herself.
