for an offer from him, but not Miss Thalia Robinson. No. She planned to humiliate him—and so she was reaping what she had sown. Her regrets had come too late.
Magnus had told himself all these things, but they hadn’t helped—he just couldn’t bear the sound of a woman sobbing.
The part of him that didn’t want to strangle her had wanted to go into the maze and speak to her—and what a stupid idea that would have been! As if women ever made any sense when they were weeping. And as if he would know what to do anyway. He’d always managed to stop them crying by giving them some bauble or other, but then all the women he’d ever known had cried at him, not taken themselves into the middle of a maze on a damned cold day and sobbed their little hearts out in absolute solitude.
Magnus was sure he wouldn’t know how to deal with someone who wept like that.
‘Tish, I intend to withdraw my offer. She cannot refuse me if there is no offer, so you need not worry about any insult to the family pride. No one will know of it. I will speak to the girl before any irrevoc—’ He faltered for a moment, recalling those cheeky last words: make no irrevocable arrangements. Thalia Robinson had not realised she was sounding her own doom. ‘Before any irrevocable steps have been taken. Have her sent to me at once, if you please.’
‘But, Magnus—’
‘At once, Tish.’
‘Oh, very well. But it will make no diff—’
But Magnus had left. Laetitia pulled the bell cord to summon Brooks.
Magnus decided to receive Miss Robinson in the library. He would speak kindly to her, show her he bore her no grudge for her poor judgement. She would have no idea that she had, somehow, got under his skin. He would be casual, relaxed, indifferent. He would not receive her in formal dress, as a gentleman would normally do when receiving a lady’s answer to his proposal of marriage. His offhand manner would be conveyed by the silent message of his riding buckskins. It would appear to be a spur of the moment chat, the outcome of which held only lukewarm interest for him.
His brow furrowed as he tried to recall every detail of their previous conversation. A cold smile grew on his face as he realised he had not actually asked her to marry him. Not in so many words. He had spoken of an intention to organise a ceremony. Had used the conditional tense. Thank heavens. He might be able to fudge it. He would make Miss Robinson understand she was mistaken, that he’d made her no actual offer.
It was not an honourable solution, but it should smooth things over with Laetitia—enough to stop her throwing the wretched girl into the streets. And then he would get the hell out of this appalling house party and never have to set eyes on the blasted girl or his blasted cousin ever again!
He leant against a high, leather-covered writing desk, one leg crossed casually over the other, awaiting her entrance with an expression of bored indifference on his face. The whip snapped fast and furious against the glossy leather of his boot.
‘Lord d’Arenville?’
She’d entered the room so silently that Magnus was caught unaware. He stared, mesmerised, at the red-rimmed eyes which failed to meet his, the drooping mouth and the woebegone little face, and it was as if he could hear every choking sob again. With an effort, he gathered himself and began to speak, feeling dishonest and uncomfortable as he did so.
‘Miss Robinson, I gather from my cousin that you are under the mistaken impression that I off—’
‘Lord d’Arenville, I accept your offer of marriage,’ she said at the same time.
There was a long, tense moment of silence in the room.
What happens now? wondered Magnus. In all honour, he could not continue with his reluctant pretence that he had made no offer. There was no need—she had accepted him. So that was it. An offer had been made and was accepted. The rest was inevitable. Irrevocable. Ironic, that. She could call the wedding off, but there was no question that he could do the same. Lord d’Arenville was to wed Miss Thalia Robinson. Thalia Robinson, who looked more like a martyr going to the stake than a blushing bride.
The realisation was like a kick in the teeth. Until this moment he’d half believed that Laetitia was mistaken in saying the girl was going to refuse him. But this miserably bleak acceptance of his offer had convinced him as a thousand explanations could not.
It could not be said that Thalia Robinson actually preferred poverty to himself, but it would be clear to a blind man that it was a damned close race. The girl might be going to her execution, the face she was wearing. Magnus stared at the downcast face, the red-tipped nose, the resolute chin and the trembling lips and felt his anger rising. It had clearly taken a great deal of anguish and resolution for her to decide between abject poverty—or marriage to Lord d’Arenville.
Starvation and misery—or Lord d’Arenville!
The gutter—or Lord d’Arenville!
And finally, by a nose, or a whisker, or a hair’s breadth, Lord d’Arenville had won. Lucky Lord d’Arenville!
Lord d’Arenville was furious. He could not trust himself to speak another word to her. He bowed stiffly, turned and stalked out of the room. Tallie watched him leave, blinking in surprise.
‘Magnus, what—?’ Laetitia was standing in the hallway, speaking to the vicar. Her voice died as she saw the look on his face.
‘You may wish me happy!’ he snapped.
‘What?’
‘She has accepted me.’ He broke his whip in half and flung the pieces into a corner.
‘Oh, Magnus, how dreadf—’
‘I am ecstatic!’ he snarled. ‘The wedding will be in three weeks’ time. Make all the arrangements. Spare no expense.’ He laughed, a harsh, dry laugh. ‘Nothing is too good for my bride!’ He noticed the vicar, standing there, jaw agape and added, ‘You, there—Parson. Call the banns, if you please. I will return in three weeks for the ceremony.’
He stormed out of the door and headed for the stables. Laetitia trailed after him, pleading with him to slow down, to explain, but to no avail. Lord d’Arenville mounted his horse, and with no warning, no preparations and no baggage, set off for d’Arenville Hall, a good two days’ journey away.
Chapter Four
‘Blast and bother!’ Tallie glared at her reflection. She’d brought a mirror up from one of the salons and propped it against the wall. It told her what she had already suspected—that she was the worst seamstress in the world and that her wedding dress looked like a dog’s breakfast.
She tugged at the recalcitrant sleeves, pulling them this way and that in an effort to make them appear balanced. It was hopeless. One sleeve puffed beautifully whilst the other, which should have been an exact twin, sagged and drooped. She’d put the sleeve in and taken it out a half-dozen times and still it looked uneven—and slightly grubby from all the handling.
Tallie had no idea what arrangements had been made for her wedding. She’d tried several times to speak to her cousin, but Laetitia was still furious and had ordered Tallie to keep out of her sight or she would not be answerable for the consequences.
No
