Never Courted, Suddenly Wed (Scandalous Seasons #2)(60)

Christopher gripped the arms of his chair in an unrelenting grip. It was all he could do to keep from dragging Sophie’s pompous brother across the desk and punching him in the face. “This wasn’t her fault, Redbrooke.”

“No, it wasn’t. And I’d wager it was all quite intentional on your part.” Christopher started. “Oh, come now, do you take me for a fool?” Redbrooke pressed. “Your father owed my father quite a significant debt.”

“I didn’t know,” Christopher said, his voice hoarse with shame. “That is, I didn’t know until only just recently.” There were enough lies between him and Redbrooke.

The viscount sat back in his chair. “Tell me what else you only just recently learned about.” He folded his arms across his chest and studied Christopher like he was a piece of grime at the bottom of his boots.

The dowry.

The word dangled in the air between them, unspoken but no less real for it.

When it became clear that Christopher didn’t intend to speak, Redbrooke’s lips curled in a sneer. “I assume you know Sophie is worth a fortune.”

Christopher’s gaze slid to the floor. It didn’t matter that he’d decided not to go forward with his father’s demands and deliberately compromise Sophie—because in the end, he’d ruined her reputation all the same. He imagined that it would be a waste of energy to dispute that with Redbrooke. Nothing about Christopher’s actions in the past twenty-four hours seemed at all honest. “I’m not marrying your sister for her dowry.”

“No, you’re marrying her because you ruined her.”

He flinched.

Redbrooke apparently grew tired of bating Christopher. He turned his attention to the leather folio in front of him, opened it, and scanned the top page. “Here,” he said, and jerked his chin toward the pen.

Christopher hesitated.

“Go on. Take it. Read it.”

Christopher reached for the legal document with damp palms, fighting to steady his fingers. Mayhap this time the words would make sense. Mayhap this time they wouldn’t dance upon the page.

He looked at the sheet.

Alas, this day wasn’t one for miracles. A painful pressure built behind his eyes as he ever slowly picked through the sentences.

“I’ll spare you the time reading it,” Redbrooke said, seeming unaware of the silent battle being waged inside Christopher. “You’ll of course receive Sophie’s 100,000 pounds. I ask that Sophie receive no less than 1,000 pounds in pin money annually.”

“Of course,” Christopher said with a nod. Hell, she could have all the money. It meant nothing to him.

Redbrooke continued. “In the event of your death, I want half the sum to revert back to Sophie.”

Christopher nodded. “That is fine.”

Redbrooke’s lips turned down at the corner and Christopher suspected the other man had anticipated more of a fight in terms of the marital contract.

Christopher made quick work of signing the formal documents.

More than thirty minutes later, all the documents had been signed.

Redbrooke blew on the top sheet and then stuck it inside the leather folio. “It is done.”

A chill filled him at those ominous three words. “Does she know?” He forced out the question.

Sophie’s brother leaned back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Know what? That you ruined her reputation for her dowry?”

Redbrooke had made up his mind about Christopher’s intentions and the truth of it was that Christopher’s actions, from the outside, looked quite black. Self-loathing warred with hatred for his father who’d forced Christopher into the role of fortune-hunter.

No, he had no one to blame but himself. Christopher could have told his father to go to hell and hoped the threat of Bedlam was just that, a threat.

“My mother will insist on an elaborate wedding.”

“No. I’ve come from Doctor’s Common.” Christopher reached inside the front of his jacket. “I obtained a special license from the Archbishop,” he said, displaying the document in hand. “We’ll wed within the week.”

Again, the other man sneered at him. “Do you fear her dowry will slip from your greedy clutches if the bans are read for three consecutive Sundays?”

Christopher didn’t want to wait any longer than need be to make Sophie his wife. Again, it had nothing to do with her dowry and everything to do with protecting her and her already tarnished name.

The fight seemed to leave Redbrooke on a lengthy sigh. “Very well.” The weariness in his tone belonged to a man who knew he was largely powerless.

“I ask that you please not say anything about her dowry.” When the time came to discuss the truth, he wanted to do so without interference from the viscount.

“I really don’t care what the hell you want,” Redbrooke spat. He clasped the front of his jacket and gave a tug. “Get the hell out of my sight, Waxham. Your presence sickens me.”

Christopher understood that. He didn’t much like himself in that moment. He stood.

Redbrooke called out, and Christopher froze. “For a long time, despite Sophie’s protestations, I had encouraged my sister to accept your suit. How ironic that Sophie was a good deal more perceptive than Mother and I.”

Christopher clenched his jaw. “Good day, Redbrooke,” he said with a bow, not giving Redbrooke the fight he was clearly spoiling for.