To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(3)

But the third quality, wealth, was the one she refused to negotiate on, and the fact remained that the marquess was a second son who had unexpectedly inherited his title upon the death of his brother—and who was currently scrambling to pay the death duties from the depleted Willingham coffers. He would never suit.

And for that reason, she had to make him stop—stop gazing at her with his peculiar intensity, as though he saw right through her carefully built shell, right to the heart of her. To her heart.

That was, quite simply, unacceptable. She had decided long ago that she wouldn’t let anything so foolish as her heart have any part in deciding whom she married.

And so, to make him stop, to remove herself from that unsettling gaze at all costs, she said the first thing that sprang to mind, razor sharp, guaranteed to wound.

“Even if you weren’t in debt…” She trailed off, letting his focus sharpen on her even more, granting the moment its full weight. “I certainly wouldn’t consider you for a husband. I can’t think of a man who would be less devoted to his wife.”

Because this was the Marquess of Willingham—rakehell, charmer, and seducer—he didn’t allow his flirtatious smile to slip for even an instant. But something in his gaze dulled and shuttered, and internally, Diana cheered.

Even as a small part of her, buried deep inside, cracked.



* * *




This, Jeremy supposed, was what you should expect when you attended a ball sober.

He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been at one of these affairs without the comforting warmth and distance provided by a blanket of brandy, fogging his senses, making him genial and fond of everyone he encountered. A glass of brandy or three made him more appealing to the ladies—smoothed any possible rough edge, any trace of bitterness, leaving behind only the Willingham they wanted to see: handsome, charming, and without an iota of depth. He had learned in his Oxford days not to fool himself—the ladies he lured to his bed were not interested in conversation, or feelings, or anything other than his face and physique. This was a state of affairs that was, naturally, entirely satisfactory to him—he was certainly not looking for any sort of emotional entanglement. He liked his life the way it was: simple and full of pleasure. At least, that was how it had been, prior to his brother’s death. These days, chasing that pleasure took a rather more concerted effort on his part.

So why, then, had he skipped his brandy, knowing that a certain Miss Bourne would be in attendance tonight, a lady on whom his charms seemed wasted? And what had further propelled him not just to ask her to dance, but also to half-seriously suggest matrimony while doing so? He could not think of anyone less suited to marriage than himself, no matter how appealing Miss Bourne was, with her hair gleaming by candlelight and her rather spectacular bosom evident even in the modest gown she wore. There was something about her that always had this effect on him, from the moment he had first met her, when he was a young buck at Eton and she still a skinny little hell-raiser galloping about her aunt and uncle’s estate. Even then, she had never lacked a biting retort to anything he threw at her, and it had done nothing but make him want to rile her even further. It had been maddening, then.

Now, it was still maddening, but there was an undercurrent of tension to it that he was not enough of a fool to mistake for anything other than attraction. The fact was, Diana Bourne was beautiful and intelligent, and that was a dangerous combination. And something about her still made him want to best her at any endeavor, including simple waltzing conversation. And so, listening to her coolly explain marriage as a financial transaction, he had wanted nothing more than to shock her, set her off-balance. And he had done so in the most obvious way he knew how.

He had not expected her to say yes. Had not wanted her to say yes. Marriage to Diana Bourne was something for a stronger man than himself—or so he reminded himself now, as they continued to turn about the room, sharing a silence that was growing tight as it stretched between them.

“I expect you have a list of acceptable mates inside that scheming head of yours,” he said, adopting the bored tone that was his lifeline and his shield in moments when he felt anything other than suave, confident, and entirely in command.

“Of course,” Miss Bourne said, without a trace of embarrassment, and this was yet another thing he liked about her. She was no worse, really, than the majority of the debutantes on the marriage mart this year, and yet they hid their scheming behind giggles and insipid smiles and, truly, a disturbing number of feathers. Miss Bourne stated her intentions plainly—and, mercifully, without a feather in sight.

“Might I hear the list?” He gave her a roguish wink. “I’m certain I could help you narrow it down to an acceptable choice.”

“I don’t think so.” Her voice was cool and distant—this was the voice that never failed to make him want to provoke her. He dampened the impulse with great difficulty. Where had that instinct gotten him not five minutes before? Offering marriage to a woman who would no doubt use this as a weapon in every argument they engaged in for the rest of their lives. It had been an amateur mistake, and one he certainly wouldn’t make again.

“You see,” she continued, “this isn’t a game to me, like it is to you. I have my looks and my family’s name and the bloom of novelty, and not much else. Not much to attract any man looking for an intelligent match. I need to marry this Season, and I don’t need you making a joke out of it.”