“I will suggest to her again that she have this discussion with her fiancé, but there isn’t much time—and if the man can’t detect her lack of chastity, not much point, either.”
Maggie’s lips pursed while a silence stretched, and Eve tried to convince herself again that she should just tell Deene the exact nature of the bargain he was getting.
“Tell your friend something for me.” Maggie chose now to spear Eve with a knowing, older-sister look. “Tell her that when she is tired of trying to manage everything on her own all the time, no matter the odds, a fiancé can be a very good sort of fellow to lean on, and a husband even better. I have learned this the hard way, Eve Windham, under circumstances Deene has my leave to acquaint you with. It is sound advice. Shall I ring for more cakes?”
Eve saw the plate was empty. Now, how had that happened?
“Yes, if you please. More of the chocolate, if you have them.”
“I want one more opportunity to talk you out of this marriage.” Anthony kept his voice down, thank God. He knew as well as Deene did that the primary function of a gentlemen’s club, besides providing a refuge from the long reach of female society, was fomenting gossip.
“Not here, Anthony. I’m on foot—perhaps you’d like to accompany me home.”
They left amid the usual casual farewells and the occasional comment on Deene’s upcoming nuptials.
“It’s going to damned rain,” Anthony muttered as they gained the streets. “Am I to hold my tongue all the way home, until we’re behind a locked door, or might I make my case now?”
“I’m meeting with Westhaven later in the day, so you might as well unburden yourself now.”
They paced along in silence, while Deene reflected on the previous two weeks of being engaged. Were it not for the growing sense that Eve remained reluctant, they would have been two happy weeks. The debutantes and even the merry widows were leaving him in peace, his domestics were happy at the thought of a marchioness on the premises, and marital prospects had a way of improving a man’s financial expectations as well—even in the face of Dolan’s damned rumors.
And yet, Anthony was determined to piss on the parade.
“Until the moment the vows are spoken, Deene, I will oppose this marriage if for no other reason than that you’re being coerced. The lady was in no way importuned, in no way publicly compromised, and this entire farce is unnecessary.”
“I say it is necessary.”
“I will damned marry, Deene. I’ve told you this more than once. I have a list of candidates we can select among this evening. She must be well born enough to serve as your hostess, or someday—may God forbid it ever be so—as the Marchioness of Deene.”
Deene found himself walking faster. “Choose all you like and hope the candidate of your choice doesn’t mind that tidy establishment in Surrey, because she’ll find out, Anthony. The ladies always find out.”
His mother had devoted much of her miserable marriage to finding out…
“I do not seek a romantic entanglement with any wife of mine, Deene. If she finds out, so be it. Ours will be a practical arrangement. The point is, I can provide you your heir without you having to make this sacrifice.”
It was heartening to know Anthony’s loyalty truly ran so deep, and it was also disconcerting to admit Deene had questioned his cousin’s integrity to any degree at all.
“So you marry and you even have a son or two, Anthony. Do you know how many sons of titled families I saw fall to the Corsican?”
“Younger sons, of course, the military being their preferred lot. Name me one heir, though, who came to grief in such a fashion.”
“Lord Bartholomew Windham.”
That shut Anthony up for about half a block, but as they approached the Denning townhouse, Anthony started up again. “I am not sending my offspring to war when the succession is imperiled. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“Of course you aren’t stupid. His Grace, the Duke of Moreland, is not a stupid man, either, Anthony, but he lost one son to war and another to consumption. Other families have run through many more heirs than that and turned up without a title to show for it. I can’t allow you to meet an obligation that is squarely, properly, and completely my own.”
“Fine, then. Stick your foot in parson’s mousetrap, but what of the girl?”
“Eve?” Deene glanced at his cousin. This was a new tack, a different argument. “I will make her a doting and devoted husband.”
“For about two years at the most. Get some babies on her, and you’ll be back to those feats of libidinous excess that have characterized the Marquis of Deene since the title was elevated from an earldom and likely before.”
A nasty argument, one Deene would not entertain.
“How is it, Anthony, that you know better than I what sort of husband I shall be? My libidinous excesses, as you call them, date from five, even ten years ago—despite what gossip would inaccurately imply. I could dig into your past or the past of almost any man who came down from university with me and find similar excesses. What is your real objection to this match?”
While Deene waited for Anthony’s answer, the first few drops of a drizzling rain pattered onto the cobbled walk. The scent in the air became damp and dusty at the same time—a spring scent, a fragrance almost.
“You want my real objection?” Anthony glanced around, but the threatening weather had apparently cleared the streets. “All right: my real objection is that you’re forcing the girl into a union she neither sought nor wants. Bad enough when your sister was treated thus, and it ended tragically for Marie, didn’t it? Now you’re repeating history with your prospective bride, and that I cannot abide.”
Anthony fell silent, while Deene absorbed a significant blow to the conscience.
“I am not forcing Eve Windham to do anything.” Except… viewed from a certain angle, not that oblique an angle, perhaps he was.
“If you say so.” Oh, the worlds of righteousness the man could put into such a platitude. “Shall I accompany you to this meeting with Westhaven?”
Because it dealt with finances, the question was logical. Because it was a change from a very uncomfortable topic, Deene answered it.
“You shall not. For once, the transaction flows exclusively to our financial benefit, and that much I think I can handle on my own.”
“About the household books…”
In the flurry of wedding preparations, Deene’s focus on finances had slipped a bit—but only a bit. “I started on the ones you provided last week, Anthony, but with expenses one place and income another, I don’t see how you keep track.”
“One learns to, and that way, nobody else can take the measure of your worth with a single peek at the books. When this wedding business is behind you, we’ll muddle through it all, I assure you.”
This wedding business.
“I shall look forward to that. Don’t wait dinner for me. I’ll likely be dining with Eve and her family.”
“Of course.” Anthony looked like he might say more—apologize, perhaps, for his earlier broadside? “I will stand up with you at the wedding, Deene. Have no fear on that score.”
“My thanks.”
Grudging and belated, but perhaps that was an apology. Deene hurried into the house to change for his meeting with Westhaven—a negotiation Deene looked forward to. Yes, the settlements would benefit him, but they were also the last, necessary step to ensuring that the wedding actually happened.
Then too, it was not a crime for a man to profit from marrying a woman for whom he cared for a great deal. No crime at all. He had myriad uses for the money, not the least of which would be maintaining the kinds of establishments Eve deserved to have for her homes.
And he was not forcing Eve to the altar.