Page 83 of A Rogue to Resist
The question hung in the air between them, uncomfortably direct yet impossible to dismiss.
Drake had told himself repeatedly that honour required him to proceed with his engagement to Lady Eleanor, regardless of his personal regrets. But what was truly honourable about binding himself to a woman who viewed their union with such cold calculation? What kind of future would they build on such a foundation?
Before he could formulate a response, their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Lord Marwood, who approached with an expression of relief at finding his friend.
“There you are,” he said, bowing to Lady Beauford before turning to Drake. “Lady Eleanor has been inquiring after you.The next set is forming, and I believe she expects you to partner her.”
“Of course,” Drake replied automatically, his mind still reeling from Lady Beauford’s revelations. “Please excuse me, Lady Beauford.”
The elderly woman inclined her head graciously. “Certainly, my lord. Though I hope you will reflect on our conversation. Some decisions, once made, cannot be easily undone.”
As Drake followed Harrison back toward the ballroom, his thoughts remained in turmoil. The prospect of rejoining Lady Eleanor, of taking her hand for the dance after hearing her clinical assessment of their engagement, filled him with a dread he could no longer ignore.
“You look positively grim,” Harrison observed in an undertone. “What has Lady Beauford said to upset you so?”
“Nothing I didn’t already know, deep down,” Drake replied, pausing at the threshold of the ballroom. “That I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
Harrison’s eyebrows rose. “Regarding Lady Eleanor, you mean?”
“Regarding everything.” Drake ran a hand through his hair, heedless of its careful arrangement. “I agreed to the match because I believed Katherine had chosen Lord Clifton. Because I was hurt and desperate, and when the Earl of Fairfield suggested the arrangement, I couldn’t see any alternative that would secure my inheritance in time.”
“And now?” Harrison prompted.
Drake’s gaze found Lady Eleanor across the crowded room, where she stood surrounded by admiring friends, her golden curls gleaming in the candlelight. She was everything a conventional earl might desire in a countess—young, beautiful, properly deferential. Everything Katherine was not.
Not to say Katherine was old. At seven and twenty Lady Katherine had a great deal of life left in her.
“Now I find myself wondering if securing my inheritance is worth the price of my happiness,” Drake admitted quietly. “If Greythorne itself would be better served by a countess who truly cares for its people rather than one who sees it merely as a symbol of status.”
Harrison studied his friend’s face intently. “You’re considering breaking the engagement.”
It wasn’t a question, and Drake didn’t treat it as one. Instead, he adjusted his cravat once more, a gesture born of restlessness rather than vanity, and said, “I need to speak with Lady Eleanor. Privately.”
“Now?” Harrison asked, clearly startled. “In the middle of the ball?”
“Not to end the engagement,” Drake clarified. “But to begin a more honest conversation about what we both want from this match—if, indeed, either of us truly wants it at all.”
As he moved toward his betrothed, threading his way through the crowd of elegant guests, Drake felt as though he were seeing everything with new clarity.
The glittering ballroom, the artificial smiles, the carefully calculated social manoeuvres—none of it held any genuine appeal for him. He had built his fortune in America through honest dealings and straightforward negotiations. Why should he accept less integrity in the most important relationship of his life?
Lady Eleanor turned as he approached, her practiced smile revealing nothing of the candid discussion he had overheard earlier. She was, Drake realized, adept at presenting precisely the façade Society expected—a skill he had once valued for its convenience but now found disturbing in its implications.
“My lord,” she greeted him, extending her hand. “We were beginning to wonder if you had abandoned us.”
“Never that,” Drake replied, taking her gloved fingers briefly in his own. “But I would speak with you privately, if you would permit it.”
A flicker of something—concern? wariness?—crossed her delicate features before the composed smile returned. “Of course. Though perhaps after the next dance? The music is about to begin.”
“This cannot wait,” Drake said firmly. “Please, Lady Eleanor.”
She studied his face for a moment, then nodded with the same graceful acquiescence she had shown to every request he had made since their introduction. “As you wish, my lord.”
As they moved toward a less crowded corner of the ballroom, Drake considered what he would say. How did one begin a conversation that might ultimately lead to the dissolution of an engagement? How did one determine whether any foundation for genuine partnership existed beneath the practical arrangements and social expectations?
He had no answers yet, but for the first time since announcing his betrothal, Drake allowed himself to consider the previously unthinkable question:What if I call it off?
What if he acknowledged the mistake he had made in proposing to Lady Eleanor while his heart remained stubbornly fixed on Katherine? What if he risked scandal and social disapproval rather than proceeding with a union neither of them had freely chosen?
