Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)

Because You're Mine (Capital Theatre #2)
Lisa Kleypas



Prologue

London, 1833

Autumn

“I can't marry him. I just can't.” Madeline's stomach churned with revulsion as she watched Lord Clifton stroll the outside grounds with her father. She didn't realize she had spoken aloud until her mother, Lady Matthews, replied.

“You will learn to care for Lord Clifton,” she said crisply. As always, her narrow face wore a dour, disapproving expression. Having led her life with an attitude of self-sacrifice that approached martyrdom, she made it clear that she expected the same of her three daughters. She stared at Madeline with cool brown eyes, her features elegant and pale. All the Matthews women shared the same colorless complexion except for Madeline, who tended to blush easily.

“I expect that someday, when you have matured,” Agnes continued, “you will be grateful that such an excellent match was arranged for you.”

Madeline nearly choked on her resentment. She felt traitorous color climbing up her cheeks, turning them bright pink. For years she had tried to be everything her parents required—docile, quiet, obedient—but she could no longer contain her feelings. “Grateful!” she exclaimed bitterly. “Marrying a man older than my father—”

“Only by a year or two,” Agnes interrupted.

“—who shares none of my interests and thinks of me only as a broodmare—”

“Madeline!” Agnes exclaimed. “Such a vulgar choice of words is beneath you.”

“But it's true,” Madeline said, striving to keep her voice calm. “Lord Clifton has two daughters from his first marriage. Everyone knows he wants sons, and I'll be expected to produce them. I'll be buried in the country for the rest of my life, or at least until he dies, and then I'll be too old to enjoy my freedom.”

“That is enough,” her mother said tautly. “Apparently you must be reminded of a few facts, Madeline. It is a wife's place to share her husband's interests, not the other way around. Certainly Lord Clifton is not to blame if he doesn't happen to enjoy frivolous pursuits such as novel-reading or music. He is a serious man with great political influence, and I expect you to address him with the respect he deserves. As for his age, you will come to value his wisdom and seek his guidance in all things. That is a woman's only course to happiness.”

Madeline twisted her fingers together and stared unhappily out the window at Lord Clifton's bulky figure. “Perhaps it would be easier for me to accept the betrothal if you had allowed me to have at least one season. I've never danced at a ball, or attended a dinner party or soirée. Instead, I've had to stay at school while all my friends have come out. Even my own sisters were presented at court—”

“They were not so fortunate as you,” Agnes replied, her back as straight as a fireplace poker. “You will be spared all the anxiety and inconvenience of the season, as you have already been betrothed to the most eligible and admirable man in England.”

“Those are your words for him,” Madeline said under her breath, tensing as her father and Lord Clifton entered the room. “Not mine.”

Like any other girl of eighteen, she had fantasized about marrying a handsome, dashing man who would fall madly in love with her. Lord Clifton was as far from those fantasies as it was possible to get. He was a man of fifty, with a stocky build and flapping jowls. With his deeply furrowed face, balding head, and moist, heavy lips, he reminded Madeline of a frog.

If only Clifton had a sense of humor, a kind nature—anything that she could find remotely endearing…but he was pompous and unimaginative. Rituals guided his life: the entertainments of the hunt and the racetrack, the concerns of estate management, the occasional speech at the House of Lords. Worse still, he had an unabashed disdain for music, art, and literature, all the things that Madeline hungered for.

Seeing her from across the room, Clifton approached her with a thick-lipped smile. The corners of his mouth gleamed with moisture. Madeline hated the way he looked at her, as if she were a thing to be possessed. Inexperienced she might be, but she knew he wanted her because she was young, healthy, and presumably fertile. As his wife, she would exist in a more or less constant state of pregnancy until Clifton was satisfied with the number of boys she had produced. He wanted nothing of her heart, mind, or soul.

“My dear Miss Matthews,” he said in a deep, croaking voice, “you grow lovelier every time I see you.”

He even sounded like a frog, Madeline thought, struggling to contain a slightly hysterical laugh. His clammy hand enclosed hers, and he raised it to his lips. She closed her eyes and steeled herself against a shiver of disgust as she felt his bloated lips brush the back of her wrist. Mistaking her reaction as one of maidenly modesty—perhaps even excitement—Clifton regarded her with a deepening smile.

He asked her to walk outside with him, and her objections were swiftly overcome by her parents' enthusiastic agreement. They were determined to have a man of Clifton's means and influence in the family. Whatever Lord Clifton wanted, he could have.

Reluctantly taking her fiancé's arm, Madeline strolled through the garden, a formal, precise arrangement of Maythorn hedgerows, tidily sanded paths, and boxed-in flower beds. “Enjoying your holiday from school?” Lord Clifton asked, his small but heavy feet crunching on the gray-white path.