The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(80)

“To court me.” She forced herself to say those three words as a reminder that there was no certainty or permanency to a mere courtship.

“To marry you.” He grinned. “Or rather, to ask you to marry me.”

Through her smudged lenses, Cleopatra blinked once. Twice. And then a third time. Surely she’d misheard him. For Cleopatra knew next to nothing about the ways of Polite Society—at least where propriety and decorum were concerned—but she knew enough to know they certainly didn’t go about offering marriage after just two meetings.

A twinkle danced in his blue eyes. “I see I’ve shocked you.” His tone hinted at an inordinate delight in that fact.

And for the first time in her existence on this earth, she was remarkably without a cheeky retort. He wanted to . . . marry her. Her toes curled into the soles of her slippers. Nay, not her. He didn’t even know her. Mayhap he was merely a bored nobleman, making light of an interloper to the haute ton. “You want to marry me?” she asked warily, studying him closely for hint of teasing.

“I need a bride,” he said frankly. He paused. “A wealthy one. And you, by rumors and whispers, are in search of a titled husband.”

Her brother’s intentions had been that transparent, then. Not for the first time since the plan had been cooked up and Cleopatra thrust into an unfamiliar world, she felt a dangerously building resentment for her brother.

The marquess removed his gloves and beat them together. Why . . . why . . . he has the look of a bored gent? “Are the rumors . . . true?” he ventured.

She met that next bold query with silence.

He sighed. “You disapprove of rumors,” he went on, stuffing the immaculate white gloves inside his sapphire jacket.

“I disapprove of a bloody nob who’d make light of me.” Normally she did. Now she prayed that he was, in fact, just a pompous bored lord, merely toying with her.

“This isn’t making fun,” he said, his voice carried a new gravity that only increased the terror clamoring in her breast. “What I propose is a . . .” He tapped a finger against his lips. “A . . . business arrangement. If the rumors are in fact true, and you are in need of a titled husband, I am offering myself for that role.”

How coldly methodical he made it all sound. It was an arrangement she’d considered and resolved herself to prior to coming to Black’s household. Yet to have them laid out so . . . by this man, a stranger she’d only observed at the Devil’s Den and who’d met with her only once prior to this, turned her stomach. I am no different than him . . . And whether or not she’d agreed to Broderick’s plan to help the family, she’d become a whore in her own right.

A floorboard groaned from somewhere in the corridor, and she briefly glanced at the doorway. Adair.

He’s there. She knew it the way she knew where to put her foot when climbing to keep from plunging to her death. It was an instinctiveness that could not be explained or understood.

“Why would I marry you?” She finally got words out, a question. “Oi don’t know you at all.”

Lord Landon gave a small shrug. “Ours would be no different than so many other ton marriages. You would have your connections to the nobility; I would have the necessary funds to . . .”

Her ears pricked up—but ultimately, when he spoke, he withheld that single revealing detail about his circumstances.

“I would have my finances set to right. I’d, of course, require an heir and the necessary spare.”

“Of course,” she said drily. Here, all these years she’d believed ruthlessness a trait reserved for the bastards of St. Giles.

“I’d agree to set aside a portion of your dowry so that it remains in your hands forever.”

That in itself was a generous offer that said something about the marquess and proved he was not necessarily the heart-hardened nobleman his marriage offer painted him to be, but a man who was desperate, and desperation was something Cleopatra understood. It was an abhorrent emotion she was all too familiar with.

Lord Landon withdrew a watch fob. The gold gleamed brightly in the early-morn sun as he consulted the piece. “I ask that you consider it, Miss Killoran. You’ll find I’m not cruel.” He may as well have just declared his preference for taking tea. Coming to his feet, he tucked away the watch.

Cleopatra abruptly stood, eager for him to take his leave. “Oi . . . I don’t know what to say,” she said. That raw honesty would have earned her a beating from Diggory and a lecture from Broderick.

Reaching inside his jacket, the marquess drew his gloves on one at a time. “It is my hope that you’ll say yes . . . and relatively soon. I’d hope to have an answer on your decision by the end of the week.”

By the end of the week? With his request and the terms he’d laid out, he was precisely what she’d come to Mayfair for—a titled husband, a quick marriage, and then a secure future for her siblings. It’s too quick . . . I don’t know him . . . he’s a stranger . . .

But as he’d said, what did it truly matter if her ultimate purpose was a business arrangement? There would never be more between her and any man. Not now when she’d fallen so helplessly and hopelessly in love with Adair.

Her heart buckled. “I . . . I will think on it,” she promised.

“Splendid,” he said with his roguish charm. It didn’t escape her notice that he didn’t so much as lift his attention from the gloves he now jammed his long, uncallused fingers into.