you. I would hate to have you think I’d use you so shabbily. Lady Denby has agreed to let me speak with you privately before she comes in, so shall we discuss what is to be done?’
‘Let us do so. You did get your wish, you know. You are quite effectively ruined.’
‘Yes, I know. I certainly didn’t enjoy being mauled by Henshaw, but it might turn out for the best. We need only tell people what really happened, establishing that you had no part in it, and all will be well. I’ll still be ruined, but with Henshaw showing his character to be so despicable, no one could fault me for refusing to marry him.’
Frowning, Ransleigh shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that is not the case. Society would still believe the only way to salvage your reputation would be for you to marry your seducer. However deplorable his present conduct, Henshaw was born a gentleman, so much would be forgiven as long as you end up wed.’
‘But that’s appalling!’ Caro cried. ‘The victim is expected to marry her attacker?’
‘Rightly or wrongly, the blame usually attaches itself to the female. But it won’t come to that. Accusing Henshaw isn’t possible; he’s already left Barton Abbey. Any evidence that might confirm he was your attacker—bloody nose, ruined cravat—will have been put to rights by the time I could run him to ground. Since he can now have no doubt that you’d refuse to marry him, he has no reason to corroborate the truth, especially since Lady Melross is circulating a version of events that relieves him of responsibility. Indeed, he will probably think it a fine revenge to see me blamed for his transgressions.’
Caro nodded, distressed but not surprised that Ransleigh’s assessment of Henshaw’s character matched her own. ‘I imagine he would, though I have no intention of allowing him the satisfaction. Whether he admits his guilt or not, I still intend to accuse him. Why should you, who intervened only to help me, suffer for his loathsome behaviour?’
‘I don’t think accusing him would be wise.’
Puzzled, Caro frowned at him. ‘Why not?’
‘You were discovered in my embrace. I’m the son of an earl who exerts a powerful influence in government; you are the orphaned daughter of a rural baron. If you accuse Henshaw, who will justly claim he was in his room, preparing to depart when Lady Melross found us, there will be many who will whisper that I coerced you into naming another man to cover up my own bad conduct. Lady Melross in particular will be delighted to embellish the details of my supposed ravishment and assert such behaviour is only to be expected after my … previous scandal.’
‘You really think no one would believe me if I tell the truth?’ Caro asked incredulously.
‘What, allow such a salacious act to be blamed on some insignificant member of the ton rather than titillate the masses by accusing the well-known son of a very important man? No, I don’t think anyone would believe you. I can see the scurrilous cartoons in the London print-shop windows now,’ he finished bitterly.
‘But that’s so … unfair!’ she burst out.
He laughed shortly, no humour in the sound. ‘I have learned of late just how unfair life can be. Believe me, I like the solution as little as you do, but with your reputation destroyed and the blame for it laid at my door, the only way to salvage your position is for you to marry me.’
Alarmed as she was by his conclusion, Caro felt a flash of admiration for his willingness to do what he saw as right. ‘A noble offer and I do honour you for it. But I think it ridiculous to allow society’s expectations—based on a lie!—to force us into something neither of us desire.’
‘Miss Denby, let me remind you that you are ruined,’ he repeated, his tone now edged with an undercurrent of anger and frustration. ‘Fail to marry and you risk being exiled altogether from respectable society. Being cast out of the company of those with whom you have always associated is not a pleasant condition, as I have good reason to know.’
‘First, I’ve never really “associated” with the ton,’ she countered, ‘and, as I’ve assured you several times, polite society’s opinion does not matter to me. Certainly not when compared with losing the freedom to live life how—and with whom—I choose.’
‘But Lady Denby does live and move in that society and Miss Whitman’s future may well depend upon its opinions. We may be far removed from London here, but I assure you, Lady Melross will delight in dredging up every detail of this scandal when your relations arrive in London next spring.’
Caroline shook her head. ‘I’ve already discussed that problem with my stepmother. If they band together, I’m certain Lady Denby, your aunt and Lady Gilford can manage this affair so that no harm comes to Eugenia’s prospects. Since you are already accounted a rake, it shouldn’t much affect your reputation and ruining mine has been my goal from the outset.’
She’d hoped to persuade Max to accept her argument. Far from looking convinced, though, his expression turned even grimmer and his jaw flexed, as if he were trying not to grit his teeth.
‘Miss Denby,’ he began again after a moment, ‘I don’t mean to seem overbearing or argumentative, but the very fact that you have not much associated with society means you are in no position to accurately predict its reaction. I have lived all my life under its scrutiny and I promise you, once Lady Denby has thought through the matter, she will agree with me that our marriage is the only solution that will safeguard the reputations of everyone involved.’
He paused and took a deep breath, as if armouring himself. ‘So you may assure her that I have done the proper thing and made a formal offer for your hand.’
If the situation had not been so serious, Caro might have laughed, for he spat out the declaration as if each word were a hot coal that burned his tongue as he uttered it. His obvious reluctance might even have been considered insulting, if her own desire to avoid marriage hadn’t exceeded his.
But then, as if realising that his grudging offer was hardly lover-like, he shook his head and sighed. ‘Let me try this again,’ he said, then reached over to tangle his fingers with hers.
Immediately, heat rushed up her arm, while her heart accelerated so rapidly, she felt dizzy.
‘Won’t you honour me by giving me your hand?’ he said. ‘I know neither of us came to Barton Abbey with marriage in mind. But during our brief acquaintance, I’ve come to admire and respect you. I flatter myself that you’ve come to like me, too, at least a little.’
‘I do like and … and admire you,’ she replied disjointedly, wishing he’d release her fingers. They seemed somehow connected to her chest and her brain, for she was finding it hard to breathe and even harder to think as he retained them.
His thumb was rubbing lazy circles of wonderment around her palm, setting off little shocks of sensation that seemed to radiate straight to the core of her.
She should pull free, but she didn’t seem able to move. So he continued, his touch mesmerising, until all the clear reasons against marriage dissolved into a porridge-like muddle in her brain. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything but the press of his thumb and the delights it created.
‘I think we could rub together tolerably well,’ he went on, obviously not at all affected by the touch that was wreaking such havoc in her. ‘I admire you, too, and from what I’ve seen of your Sultan, you are excellent with horses. You could run Denby Stud with my blessing.’
