Page 76 of A Rogue to Resist
“Lord Clifton’s suit,” Harrison repeated, watching Drake’s face closely. “She refused him quite definitively, from what I understand. The duke was most disappointed—he’d arranged the introduction hoping to see his sister settled again.”
Drake set his glass down carefully, his mind racing.
Katherine had refused Lord Clifton? But he had seen them together, walking through the rose garden, her face upturned to his as she smiled that rare, transformative smile.
“When did this occur?” he asked, striving to keep his voice neutral.
“Three days ago, I believe. The day before your engagement to Lady Eleanor was announced.” Harrison’s gaze remained fixed on Drake’s face, reading every flicker of expression. “Curious timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Three days ago. The very day Drake had followed Katherine to Thornfield Park. He had witnessed her apparent interest in Lord Clifton, and then had returned to Greythorne in dejection. When Lord Fairfield’s letter arrived proposing an advantageous match with Lady Eleanor, he had agreed in a surge of wounded pride and determination to secure his inheritance regardless of personal cost.
Had he misunderstood what he saw? Had Katherine truly rejected Lord Clifton’s suit, even as Drake was arranging his own loveless engagement out of the mistaken belief that she had chosen another?
The possibility sent a jolt of something like hope through him, immediately followed by the cold realization that it no longer mattered.
He was betrothed to Lady Eleanor. The announcement had been published in the papers. The wedding date had been set for six weeks hence, well before the entail’s deadline. There was no honourable way to withdraw without causing a scandal that would damage both families.
“It’s of no consequence,” Drake said finally, taking a larger swallow of brandy than was strictly proper. “Lady Katherine’s decisions regarding matrimony are her own affair.”
“Of course,” Harrison agreed smoothly, though his eyes reflected scepticism. “Just as yours are. I merely found the coincidence noteworthy.”
Before Drake could formulate a suitably cutting response, they were interrupted by the arrival of several more gentlemen eager to congratulate the newly engaged earl. Drake enduredtheir well-wishes with as much grace as he could muster, accepting handshakes and backslaps with a fixed smile that never reached his eyes.
“You’ll be returning to Greythorne Manor soon, I imagine?” one of the gentlemen asked once the initial flurry of congratulations had subsided. “Or will Lady Eleanor prefer to remain in London until the wedding?”
“We haven’t discussed it in detail,” Drake replied, though in truth, he had been avoiding his betrothed as much as propriety allowed.
Their interactions thus far had been limited to chaperoned visits in her father’s drawing room, where Lady Eleanor had displayed every proper sentiment expected of a young lady securing an advantageous match.
She had not once asked about Greythorne or its people. Had expressed no interest in the estate beyond its rank and income. Had betrayed no curiosity about the renovations Drake had begun or the lives of the tenants who depended on the land.
All of which might be perfectly normal for a conventional aristocratic bride, especially one so young. But after weeks of Katherine’s passionate advocacy for Greythorne’s people, her detailed knowledge of the estate’s operations, her fierce determination to protect those under her care—Lady Eleanor’s pretty indifference felt like a personal affront.
It wasn’t fair to compare them, Drake knew. Lady Eleanor had been raised to be exactly what she was—a decorative, well-mannered young woman who would grace any nobleman’s drawing room without causing the slightest ripple of controversy or challenge.
Katherine, by contrast, had somehow managed to retain her independence of mind despite the constraints of her marriage to Edmund. Had carved out a meaningful role for herself in theface of her husband’s neglect. Had become the true steward of Greythorne, in all but name.
Drake drained his glass, setting it down with more force than he’d intended. The sound drew a few curious glances, which he ignored.
“I’ll be returning to Greythorne within the week,” he announced, answering the question that had been partially forgotten in his wandering thoughts. “There are repairs underway that require supervision.”
“Admirable dedication,” someone commented. “Though surely the steward could manage in your absence? These last weeks before a wedding are precious time with one’s betrothed.”
Drake forced another smile. “Lady Eleanor understands my responsibilities to the estate.”
In truth, they had barely discussed Greythorne at all.
Their conversations had been confined to the sorts of innocuous topics deemed appropriate for newly engaged couples—music she enjoyed, poetry she had read, acquaintances they had in common. Nothing of substance. Nothing that might reveal whether they could build any genuine connection beyond the social and financial transaction their marriage represented.
“Another brandy, my lord?” a footman inquired, appearing discreetly at Drake’s elbow.
Drake nodded, more to escape further conversation than from any desire for additional spirits. He had already consumed more than was his habit, the burn of the alcohol doing little to ease the hollow sensation that had taken up residence in his chest since the moment he had spoken his proposal to Lady Eleanor.
As the evening wore on, the gathering at White’s grew more boisterous. Most of the gentlemen had been drinking steadily, and the conversation had turned from marriages and estates tohunting prospects and political wagers. Drake remained on the periphery, responding when directly addressed but otherwise lost in increasingly morose contemplation.
“You don’t look like a man celebrating his engagement,” Harrison observed, rejoining Drake after circulating through the room. “In fact, you look decidedly grim.”
“Merely tired,” Drake replied. “It’s been a long day.”
