Page 22 of An Offer for a Spinster
Timothy swallowed. “Yes, but for now, they’re celebrating. We’re celebrating. The baby may be a boy, and then even if they don’t have more children…”
“An heir and a spare,” Lord Rustford interrupted.
Timothy fell silent. As he’d suspected, this conversation was taking the direction he’d thought.
“That has been the rule for centuries,” his father continued, “And for good reason. Life is uncertain. Accidents happen. Illnesses come. For a great house and estate like ours to survive, we must always be looking to the future. And by that, I mean children. Heirs. Christopher did his duty at once, marrying an eminently suitable woman, and now they may produce an heir. Rebecca is unmarried, and so, my boy, are you. This must be remedied with all speed.”
He swallowed hard again. His mouth was dry. He hadn’t been offered so much as a cup of tea since he entered. Even now, the family would be in the dining room next door, staring at the dinner which Lord Rustford had insisted should be put on the table earlier, unable to eat a morsel. At least they’d have water and wine within reach.
“I never expected,” Lord Rustford spoke again, slowly making his way across the room towards his son, “that you should make as marvelous a match as your brother. But I did expect that you would make asuitableone. And now here you are, unmarried, writing… writingnovels, living in hovel.”
“I live in a perfectly respectable apartment, Father.”
“Do not contradict me. Where is your future? Do you intend to live as…” he paused, lip curling, “… asL. Sterling?”
Fear arced through Timothy, seizing up his muscles and all but rooting him to the floor with dread. Lord Rustford ventured a sly smile at his expression.
“Ah, you thought I did not know? Very sweet. You should know by now, my boy, that I know all things. I found out rightaway what your pseudonym was. If you must write novels, I intend to keep a tight rein on what you write. If you had not moved out of the family home, I would have long since put a stop to it all.”
“But I have moved out of the family home,” Timothy managed. “You pay me no allowance, and I have never asked for money. I support myself. I haven’t attempted to disgrace the family by revealing my identity. What have I done wrong?”
“I think I have been clear,” Lord Rustford said crisply, throwing back the last of his whiskey, barely tasting it. “I do not object to your novel-writing, since you have had the sense to choose a pseudonym. Your writings are immensely popular. I have never read any, of course, but I daresay they are passably good, if one enjoys popular modern trash.”
Timothy smiled grimly. “Do you know, Father, I think that’s the closest thing to a compliment I have ever heard from you.”
Lord Rustford did not, it seemed, like that. His head jerked, and his eyes narrowed.
“Do not disrespect me, boy. Do you think I can’t reach you? You think that moving out of your home and disgracing yourself as a scribbler puts you at a safe distance? Oh, no. If I applied myself, I daresay that no volume of L. Sterling would ever grace the shelves of a bookseller’s again.”
“You say that,” Timothy responded, taking a step forward and trying to swallow down his anger, “But my novels are popular. Very popular. I make money for myself and for others. Are you quite,quitesure that you can make people forget?”
Lord Rustford smiled thinly. “Would you like me to try?”
Timothy stopped. The answer, simple and poignant, wasno. He thought of the tired Mr. Hawthorne, the shabby publishers, and the ladies and gentlemen who were not rich, buying his books. What could his father do about it? Timothy was not entirely sure, but one thing he did know.
Lord Rustford was a man who would stop at nothing for revenge. No act was too cruel, no retribution too heartless.
“What are you saying, then?” Timothy managed, after the pause had stretched out between them. “Are you blackmailing me? Am I to toe the line and do as I am told, and marry the lady you pick out for me, or else you will sabotage my career and kill my novels? Is that it?”
Lord Rustford gave a hoarse, mirthless laugh. He set down the empty whiskey glass with aclackand withdrew an expensively embroidered handkerchief to dab at his lips. This, too, was part of the act, designed to make Timothy feel more uncomfortable and out of place with every passing second, more likely to blurt something out or lose his nerve.
“Don’t be so dramatic, you ridiculous boy,” Lord Rustford scoffed. “Blackmail and arranged marriages, good heavens. I never heard the like of it. It’s clear you’re a novel-writer. Those books are full of lunacy, from what I’ve heard, and nonsensical situations. Why anyone would want to fill their heads with that, I could not say. No, I do not intend to blackmail or force you into a marriage. I do, however, expect you to act more like the gentleman that your position requires. You think that leaving home and turning up your nose at an allowance and my money frees you of responsibility, do you? You’ll find it otherwise.”
“So, you want me to marry?” Timothy said, pleased that his voice did not shake. Not much, anyway.
“You should think about it,” Lord Rustford said decisively. “An heir and a spare, boy, an heir and a spare. Now,” he clapped his hands together, indicating that the conversation was over. “Let’s go in to dinner. They’ll be waiting.”
Timothy followed his father mechanically. There wasn’t much else to do, really.
Chapter Seven
“Morning, Mama.”
The Duchess glanced up at her daughter, thin lips curving into a smile.
“Good morning, Katherine. Might I say, you were a remarkable success at the ball. Every scandal sheet comments on it the last two days.”
A tingle ran down Katherine’s spine. She seated herself at the breakfast table, trying not to look at the newspapers and scandal sheets spread out over the surface. Her mother read them all, naturally, memorizing key bits of gossip as if there would be a test on them later.
