Font Size
Line Height

Page 47 of A Wife for the Beast (Scandals and Second Chances #6)

Vera’s throat tightened, though she managed a wry half-smile, carefully hiding the faint sting of insult behind practicality. “Then at least we shall disappoint no romantic expectations. And the settlement?”

“More than generous,” Porter assured her. “Your father’s debts will be cleared in full. The twins’ education is provided for in the marriage articles, as is a small annuity to be held in trust for your maintenance in widowhood. Moreover, Maplewood Hall shall remain in your family’s possession.”

From the doorway, a soft rustle of movement drew Vera’s gaze.

Olivia and Robert stood there in silence, their matching amber eyes wide and uncertain, framed by the gloom of the corridor.

Olivia clutched her brother’s sleeve, and Robert— usually defiant and irrepressible—looked utterly stricken.

The weight of what Vera was sacrificing for them pressed heavily on him, as if someone had drawn a curtain across the sun.

She smiled gently at them. They did not smile back.

Olivia’s bottom lip trembled; she was clearly close to tears.

“It will be all right,” Vera assured her siblings gently, meeting their anxious gazes with quiet confidence. “We shall make the best of this, as we have always done. You will see.”

Yet even as she spoke, Vera felt a sharp pang of uncertainty deep within, hidden carefully beneath layers of practised composure. I must be brave, she thought firmly. For all of us.

***

Meanwhile...

At the precise hour that Vera Huxford surrendered her name to a contract inked in duty rather than desire, the man who would become her husband stood at the tall, mullioned window of Thornborough Abbey, his gaze fixed upon the rain-slicked Yorkshire moors beyond.

The sky was iron grey, the colour of stormwater and steel, and the wind had begun its seemingly ceaseless keening against the stones, slipping through the narrow gaps in the ancient glass.

Firelight cast flickering shapes against the panelled walls of his study, dancing over dark wood and shelves lined with dust-laden tomes, untouched for years. It was a veritable scholar’s haven, though the man within its walls had long since ceased to find comfort in books.

Phineas Renwick, the Earl of Thornborough, tightened his jaw as he leaned one hand against the windowsill. His other hand remained curled behind his back, the fingers flexing unconsciously as if they still remembered heat, flame, and betrayal.

“A wife,” he muttered under his breath, the word bitter on his tongue. “Another necessary arrangement. Another transaction.”

Behind him, his estate manager and long-time friend and confidant, Walter Sinclair, sat at the desk, reviewing the contract with his usual quiet efficiency.

The firelight glinted off the wire rims of his spectacles, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepened by thought—or perhaps worry.

A former military man, Walter still bore the bearing of discipline, though his injured leg prevented long hours in the saddle. He was, as ever, composed, yet focused.

“The terms are complete,” Walter said at last, lifting his gaze.

“The settlement is generous. Sir Reginald was once considered a man of agricultural vision—you spoke of him with some admiration in years past. His daughter is said to be well-educated, from respectable bloodlines. She appears... all things considered, a practical choice for your requirements.”

Phineas gave a sharp, joyless huff of laughter and turned from the window, allowing the firelight to strike the left side of his face.

The scarred flesh was pulled taut from temple to collarbone, a grotesque partial mask of healed burns and puckered skin.

The ruined half of his face still visibly startled new acquaintances, though few had ever dared comment out loud.

“Practical,” he echoed. “Excellent. I shall have a wife who can tally linens and catalogue preserves. The epitome of every man’s wildest dreams.”

Walter lifted an eyebrow but did not rise to the bait.

“She will not be shocked by your appearance—until the wedding day,” he said instead, his voice measured. “That, at least, is a mercy.”

“I’ve no intention of riding to Kent to parade myself like a show pony,” Phineas replied coolly. “She agreed to the match sight unseen. I am merely returning the favour. Presumably, she has been told of this hideous disfigurement?” he said, gesturing to his extensive injuries.

Walter was silent a moment before closing the folio with quiet finality. “Indeed. We thought it prudent to provide her with a basic understanding. She has agreed to marry you with very little background information, after all. And yet... she may be kind. She may well surprise you.”

Phineas’s lips curled—something between a smile and a snarl. “I am long past surprises, Walter. And further still from kindness. I doubt she will be able to stand to look at me, but this is what it is, and there is nothing I can do about it.”

“Even so, she may bring... companionship.”

Phineas turned fully now, crossing to the hearth and resting one hand upon the mantel. The flames crackled below, their warmth unable to touch the ice that had long since settled beneath his skin.

“I do not require companionship. I require an heir.”

His tone brooked no argument, but Walter said quietly, “Not everyone is intent on making your life isolated and miserable. You do not have to follow the mistakes of others. You do not have to live this life alone.”

That earned him nothing but silence.

A moment later, the door opened—unannounced, of course—and Nathaniel Renwick stepped inside with his usual flourish, one hand holding a fine bottle of brandy, the other already reaching for the sideboard glasses.

“Well, cousin,” Nathaniel said, all affable charm and careless grace, “I hear congratulations are in order.”

Phineas stiffened. “Have you taken to rifling through my correspondence now?”

Nathaniel chuckled, setting down the bottle and pouring two generous measures. “Hardly. Walter mentioned the agreement to my mother, and you know how swiftly information travels in this old tomb of a house. Besides, I thought it my duty to toast the occasion.”

He crossed the room in a few unhurried steps and handed Phineas one of the crystal tumblers. The russet liquid glowed like firelight in the glass.

“To your bride,” Nathaniel said cheerfully, raising his own. “May she be comely, compliant, and completely unaware of the madhouse she’s marrying into… until it is far too late.”

Phineas accepted the glass without drinking, his expression unreadable. Nathaniel, ever adept at feigned good humour, grinned broadly.

“And how did you settle on this particular sacrificial lamb, Renwick? Porter’s suggestion?”

“Sir Reginald Huxford,” Phineas said curtly. “A man of intelligence and principle—once upon a time.”

Nathaniel’s eyes gleamed. “Ah, yes. Kentish fellow. Some unfortunate financial ruin, I seem to recall. Took his ease when vigilance was required—and paid accordingly.”

Walter rose from his chair, closing the folio with a quiet snap. “That is none of your concern.”

Nathaniel raised both brows and sipped his drink with exaggerated innocence. “Of course not. I wasn’t intending to stick my nose where it wasn’t wanted. I’m merely curious. One likes to know the family connections of future countesses. For posterity.”

Phineas’s gaze did not waver from his cousin. “The financial terms are of no consequence to you, Nathaniel. It would do you good to remember that.”

There was steel beneath the calm, and Nathaniel heard it. But his smile only widened.

“Of course. Merely an idle inquiry. You always were so serious, cousin.” He tossed back the rest of his brandy and stood.

“Well then. I shall leave you gentlemen to your weighty matters. Do try to remember to look forward to your forthcoming nuptials. A wedding is, after all, supposed to be a happy event, is it not? Something to look forward to.”

As he swept out of the room, Walter muttered, “Vultures always circle before the kill.”

Phineas shot his retreating back a quizzical glance but remained by the hearth, his untouched drink reflecting the firelight like gold in a prison cup.

Walter, by contrast, provided a steady counterbalance to Phineas’s natural cynicism — more sanguine by temperament, and invariably pragmatic. Yet he was nothing if not perceptive, while Nathaniel, for his part, had a marked tendency to entangle himself in matters that scarcely concerned him.

She signed the contract today.

Somewhere in Kent, a young woman had just surrendered her name to his. A complete stranger. A means to an end. He might have thought her unfortunate, but he was hardly better situated.

He closed his eyes briefly. This changes nothing.

“I will not make the mistake of trusting again,” he said aloud, to no one. “Not for beauty. Not for warmth. Not even for hope.”

Behind him, the fire whispered and crackled, but offered no answer.