Page 15 of Forever Her Bachelor
St. Clara observed the other man in silence, noting his latter statement. Summerset was the only other member of the peerage in need of a wife, and even Allendale in all his desperation wouldn’t allow his daughter to marry the Duke of Summerset.
Taking a deep breath, St. Clara clenched his teeth together, trying not to show any reaction. He couldn’t stop thinking about Pippa marrying Summerset. He knew Wayford was forcing her, and that made him despise the man even more.
“Come now, St. Clara.” Allendale sat up, placing his now-empty glass down on the small table in front of him. “My daughter is beautiful with a large dowry; I don’t see what the hesitation is. Frankly I’m shocked you did not consider her at the start.”
St. Clara finished the last of his whisky before he sat forward himself. Was he really so desperate that he would consider marrying Florentia Vaughn?
“You know perfectly well that your daughter is not the most amiable of ladies.” St. Clara stood, reaching down and taking Allendale’s glass. “Another?” he asked, still needing something to take the edge off.
Allendale eyed him warily. “No. Should I be worried you’re a drunkard?”
St. Clara laughed and called over his shoulder, “Does it matter?”
He noted how much Allendale really loved his daughter, which was surprising considering the fact that he was trying to marry her off to the first eligible gentleman.
“Of course, it matters. I don’t want her saddled with someone that would be cruel to her. She’s had enough—” He stopped mid-sentence, clearing his throat. “I would prefer her with someone who would at least be civil toward her.” Allendale busied himself with straightening out his waistcoat, refusing to make eye contact with St. Clara.
Turning away from Allendale, St. Clara sat the glasses down on the sideboard. He suddenly felt the need to be of sound mind before he made any rash decisions. There was a part of him that desperately wanted to accept Allendale’s offer. He needed to marry quickly, and here was his opportunity.
The twitch in his fingers reminded St. Clara of the previous night, and for one agonizing second, he wished things had ended differently between him and Pippa. However, it had not, and he had to move on with his life.
“I have a proposition for you.” Allendale stood. “Escort my daughter to Heartford’s dinner tomorrow evening. See if you can tolerate each other for a night.”
The edge of the sideboard dug into St. Clara’s back as he leaned against it, thinking over Allendale’s offer. He didn’t have to marry the chit right away. There were still three weeks until his impending doom. “I’ll escort her to the dinner.”
“Very good, and if you two connect, my winter will be a peaceful one.” Allendale slammed his gloves into his hand, looking down at the dark carpet. “My wife is not happy that Florentia did not make a match for her third Season, and if my wife isn’t happy, none of us will be.”
St. Clara was taken aback by the man’s candor and revelation that it was Allendale’s wife who seemed in control. The haunted look on Allendale’s face reminded St. Clara of his mother. She’d had the same tormented look on her face in the months leading up to his sister’s birth and after.
An uncomfortable prickle in his chest had St. Clara swallowing several times. He tried to never think of his mother and her unhappiness with the situation that she had created. However, standing in front of Allendale, she was at the forefront of his mind, and for the first time in years, he wondered about his mother’s life. Wondered what would take her from the cheerful woman she was to a lifeless shell.
“I’ll expect you tomorrow.” Allendale’s brisk voice cut through the silence.
Nodding, St. Clara stood. “Of course, but I make no promises.” He walked over to the older man standing in front of him. “I’ve had the pleasure of witnessing Lady Florentia’s behavior in the past, and I am not sure we would suit each other.”
“Most marriages of thetondo not suit. What are you expecting, a love match?” Allendale laughed, his previous display of vulnerability gone.
Allendale left the parlor, his words haunting St. Clara for several minutes.
What did he expect with only three weeks to find a wife?
Love?
He would never expect that; he had never known love before. As a boy, St. Clara had thought his parents were a love match, but then their lives had changed forever with his mother’s indiscretion. The only love he had ever known was the love of a friend, and he had lost that nine years earlier.
Standing in the center of the empty classroom with faded wooded floors, long brown curtains, and a chalkboard filled with the alphabet, Pippa waited as Jessie Lewis circled her and Beatrice.
“You two were late, and you know I do not tolerate tardiness,” Jessie barked out, her boots scraping the wood floor.
The sound had Pippa bristling as she followed the curvaceous woman with her eyes, feeling like she was a soldier and not an unmarried lady. Jessie’s black breeches were loose fitting around wide hips, and a gray waistcoat fitted her perfectly. Pippa had noticed frequently that when Jessie wore her St. Giles disguise, she hid her womanly figure that matched her sister’s. Where Beatrice was dark, Jessie was lighter, her golden skin a contrast to the rest of her family’s.
Beside her, Beatrice let out a huff of annoyance before she removed the gold pocket watch that hung from her day dress. Flipping open the top, she peered down at the face. “We were only late by five minutes and twenty-two seconds.”
Jessie came to an abrupt stop in front of her sister. She was slightly taller than Beatrice; their only resemblance to each other was their small, pert noses. “You think five minutes is nothing?” Her thick accent cut through the quiet room as she tilted her head completely to the side, her gaze trained on her younger sister with a menacing look. It frightened Pippa. “You can be killed in five minutes. All someone has to do is snap your pretty little neck. It’s not just five minutes and twenty-two seconds. It’s life or death.”
Pippa’s breath caught in her throat. She had never considered the repercussions of a simple action like running late. Before meeting Jessie, she never would have considered the outcome of not thinking about one’s actions.
“My mam always said, ‘late was late,’” Ini Hutchinson, the seventy-year-old matron of the orphanage, called out from her seat in the corner. A pile of clothes sat in a basket, a needle and thread grasped in her withered hand as she mended a well-worn shirt.