‘People tend to care only when it is in their interests to express the sentiment. Moreover, now we are on the subject of emotion and motivation, I must emphasise that this is a marriage based on sound business principles.’
‘Business principles?’ Her eyes widened, her brows rising with a trace of mockery.
‘Indeed, I gain a mother for my child and access to my great-aunt’s largesse and you escape the drudgery of your current life. There is no sentiment involved.’
‘And you do not feel cheated?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Most men would wish to at least like their wife.’
‘Most men have not witnessed their parents’ infidelities only to have their wife run off with a Frenchman, taking his children with her. Romance is too fragile a base for a lifelong contract.’
He clenched his jaw, wishing the words unsaid. There was a vulnerability in such anger.
They had exited into the small clearing which marked the end of the woods and the beginning of the Crawford property. By mutual consent, they paused, facing each other.
Her clear gaze met his own. ‘I will ensure that it is a marriage without sentiment. I could develop some annoying habits if that would help.’ Her lips twisted wryly, amusement glinting in her clear, candid gaze.
Again he felt his own sense of humour awaken. His smile broadened.
They should move on, but he found himself loath to break the moment and, as though of its own volition, his hand touched the smooth satin of her cheek.
Her mouth opened. He saw the sheen of moisture on her bottom lip. He heard the quick exhalation as her gaze widened as if in surprise or awareness. He stepped closer. The top of her head brushed his chin. He leaned towards her. Her hair smelled of—
What in the name of—
Jumping back, he stared at the wriggling creature in her arms.
The rabbit.
Her grip must have loosened and the animal scrambled free, landing a few feet away.
‘Orion, come back here!’ Sarah called.
It loped in the opposite direction, its left foot dragging behind it.
Sarah squatted on the ground. She pulled a carrot from her pocket. Good God, the woman would have a carrot about her person—and pushed it towards the miserable creature.
‘For goodness’ sake, you’ll get yourself filthy. I’ll catch it,’ Sebastian said.
‘Don’t frighten him and his name’s Orion.’
‘You’ve named him?’ Sebastian took the vegetable and thrust it towards the animal.
‘It makes one seem friendlier. Less likely to put him into a stew pot.’
‘An excellent place for him.’
‘Don’t say that. He’ll never come.’
‘I don’t believe Orion is conversant with the King’s English,’ Sebastian said irritably.
‘Animals know more than we think.’
‘Right. Well, Orion, you’d better come to Miss Martin promptly or you’ll end up as fox fodder.’
The rabbit hopped again in the opposite direction. Sebastian pulled off his coat with difficulty and approached the animal.
Of course Orion zigged and zagged. Sebastian threw down his coat, hoping to entrap the creature. On the second attempt, he covered the rabbit and, in a move reminiscent of schoolboy rugby, scooped it up.
‘Well done,’ Miss Martin enthused.
‘We’d best continue promptly before he gets out again,’ Sebastian said.
‘I can take him. Truly you do not need to walk me home.’
‘If I am to reclaim my coat, I do.’
‘We could unwrap him,’ she suggested.
‘Better not. I have no wish to repeat that performance.’
They continued forward. He said nothing and was glad of her silence. What had that moment been about? He hadn’t had thoughts like that since he’d met Alicia at her debut. Not even the mistresses he’d sought after his wife’s desertion had evoked such feeling. Lust, yes. But not this confused mix of desire, humour, irritation and something else he could not even identify.
And now, instead of relief that he’d solved his childcare and financial problems in one master stroke without involving a single debutantes’ ball, he felt fear—panic—and a deep, growing conviction that he’d made one hell of a mistake.
* * *
Next morning, Sebastian stood within the spartan confines of the Crawford drawing room. No fire warmed the hearth and the walls were bare except for an amateurish portrait of, he presumed, the deceased Mr Crawford. The scent of lemon wax permeated the air.
‘Lord Langford, Sarah said you would be calling and wished to speak to me?’ A crisp voice interrupted his musing and he turned, bowing.
Mrs Crawford stood tall, but her clothes hung loosely from her angular frame as though she had recently lost weight. She wore black, the shade relieved only by a silver cross. Her hair was scraped back into a bun and her skin appeared sallow, stretched taut across her cheekbones.
‘Mrs Crawford, it is delightful to meet you,’ he said.
She nodded, advancing a few steps over the threshold, but she neither sat nor invited him to sit.
‘I must ask you to be brief. It is almost time for my morning prayers.’ She spoke quickly, her left hand already touching the silver cross.
How different this was from his first courtship, from Alicia’s coy expression and her mother’s avaricious joy.
Sebastian inhaled. ‘Mrs Crawford, I wish to ask for Miss Martin’s hand in marriage.’
Shocked surprise flickered across the older woman’s face. Her intense gaze turned on him, her eyebrows drawing together almost fiercely. ‘Did she do something inappropriate? Blood will out, you know.’
‘I assure you, Miss Martin was entirely appropriate.’ He did not have to force the haughtiness into his tone. The indignation he felt on Sarah’s behalf surprised him.
‘She is not young.’
‘Her age is immaterial.’
‘She has no money and her background is dubious. Her mother—’
‘Her background is immaterial.’ He spoke quickly, cutting off her words, conscious of an almost physical aversion to the woman.
‘Then I have done my Christian duty to warn you. You cannot say I have not.’
‘Miss Martin cares for you. I am surprised you would speak ill of her.’
‘I speak honestly as is my duty.’ Mrs Crawford clutched at her cross, so tightly that he could see her knuckles through her parchment skin.
‘You have certainly dispatched your duty thoroughly. Will you now give us your blessing?’
‘You have my permission. I am no cleric and cannot give a blessing.’
‘Of course not.’ He paused, uncertain how best to broach the subject of a companion to this thin-lipped woman.
‘Was there something else?’
‘Miss Martin is worried.’ His fingers drummed against his thigh. He stopped their movement. ‘She doesn’t like to leave you alone and I wondered if you’d allow me to arrange for a companion—’
‘A companion?