in Cam’s lifetime. Not his uncle, the heir, or his father. To what benefit would such a refusal be? What would be worth refusing the family and all the financial and social support that went with it?
* * *
That night, Cam dreamt quite pleasantly of his Indian girl, his secret life, his last adventure before falling into the abyss of the London Season. In the days that followed, filled with routs and parties, and Caroline clinging to his arm as if he were already hers, it was comforting to think of his dancer out there in the world somewhere. He thought of conversations he would have with her. He talked to her in his head the way he’d talked to her that night, confessing what he had confessed to no other. Perhaps if she were by his side instead of Caroline Beaufort, the magic of the Season would be restored.
The two women could not be more different: Caroline with her blonde paleness and penchant for tradition and correctness; his dancer with her toast-coloured skin and dark eyes and sensual boldness. Cam imagined her dressed in a fine ballgown, with jewels glittering at her neck, and he wondered what she’d think of the Season. Would she think it silly like he did? Or would she see the enchantment? In short, she became a fantasy of the ideal, the perfection of beauty and companionship—giving all to him while demanding nothing in return. It was a harmless fantasy. He could imagine all he liked. There was no chance of the fantasy being realised.
* * *
‘I cannot marry Wenderly.’ Pavia stood before her father’s desk of polished Indian rosewood, her shoulders straight, defiance coursing through her veins. She had made this argument before, only this time the outcome would be different. This time she had leverage.
‘Wenderly is an earl.’ Her father glanced at her mother, his eyes pleading with her to intercede, but her mother had launched a subtle rebellion of her own and refused to come to his rescue. He was on his own. One arranged marriage in the family was enough, her mother’s posture seemed to say. ‘He is highly placed in society.’ Pavia knew this argument of her father’s well. ‘You would be a countess. Your son would be an earl when Wenderly dies, which can’t be more than seven to ten years in the waiting.’ Leave it to her father to look at all angles, distasteful as they were. ‘You will be a rich, young widow, able to pick her next husband.’
How like her father to assume there would be a next husband. For all his innovation in business, he lacked a certain creativity when it came to imagining a woman’s life without a man beside her. She supposed to his balance-sheet-driven mind the deal looked acceptable, sustainable.
Pavia looked down at the fawn medallion woven in the Kashan carpet to hide her disgust. Minimum input, seven years, maybe less, and then maximum output to her benefit in her father’s eyes. She would be twenty-five, maybe twenty-eight. Not even thirty. But those seven years between now and then stretched before her interminably. Her father was assuming she’d survive them intact, mentally, emotionally. Her father was also assuming his numbers were right and Wenderly wasn’t endowed with supernaturally long life. Her father was just as confident in Wenderly’s demise as he was in the outcome of this conversation. He was going to win. It was the thing he did best: winning at all costs. And it had cost him plenty over the years, even if he couldn’t see it.
Pavia knew her father was not concerned about the cost of her rebellion. He viewed these arguments as a temporary unpleasantness between them that would end with her capitulation and the complete return of his wife’s loyalty, something he’d always taken for granted. As for herself, Pavia knew differently. This would not end well for him. She played her ace.
‘You don’t seem to understand. This is not an issue of wanting to. I cannot marry Wenderly. I no longer meet his marital criteria. I am not a virgin.’ She would never forget the silence that followed her statement. It was an expensive ace, not only in its acquisition, which had cost her the most valuable thing a young woman possessed by society’s standards, but also in the damage such acknowledgement would do to the inner workings of her family. It would positively cleave a chasm between her and her father.
In truth, the beginnings of that chasm were already there and had been ever since Pavia had realised she was nothing but a pawn for her father to use in the advancement of his ambitions. This would merely widen that chasm. The wedding negotiations with Wenderly had been a start, making it impossible to avoid what had already been the truth: at some point, she’d ceased to matter beyond being a placeholder for him, the face of his fortune. It had been this way ever since they’d returned to England. Now it had become a conflict that caught her mother in the middle—between a husband who wanted his wife’s loyalty and a daughter who wanted the same.
Her father’s eyes glinted dangerously, his voice razor-sharp. ‘Who? Tell me who and I will see that he answers for this on the field of honour.’ Of course that would be his first response—his first concern was always for appearances. How would this look to the public? What would people think? She should not be surprised. And yet, it stung that his first concern was not for her, even if that concern came with anger.
Pavia did not flinch. ‘I do not know his name.’ It was not a lie and she was glad for the truth. It would protect her from the guilt of dishonesty and it would protect her lover’s life. Images of his strong, glorious, well-muscled body came to mind. She pushed them away along with dangerous thoughts. It had occurred to her fleetingly on the walk back to her inn that it wouldn’t be impossible to find her lover. She knew the colour of his uniform, had some idea of his rank. She could go to the military offices at Whitehall and make enquiries. No. That was not what she’d promised him or herself. One night only. There were many reasons for that precaution and this was one of them. She did not want him to face her father at twenty paces for her folly. Her father, even at forty-five, was still deadly with a pistol.
Only now, when he’d been denied a victim, did he direct his attention towards her. ‘You ruined yourself to spite me? Turned yourself into a Jezebel as part of this temper tantrum of yours? Do you know what you’ve done? What man will have you now? And you’ve ruined this family.’ Her father’s anger rumbled near the surface. ‘All my life, I have worked for our family and in one instant you have destroyed it.’ It was a visible struggle to deny his temper free rein. Pavia did not think she ever recalled him being this furious. He pushed his hand through his hair. ‘Perhaps Wenderly can be duped.’ He gestured to her mother. ‘Sabita, you have to fix this. There must be some female trick to create the impression of virginity.’
Pavia froze. Her father meant to go through with it. If he did, her sacrifice would be for naught. She’d risked herself, brought conflict to her family, all for nothing. And she’d have to sustain the lie. She had not counted on this. She exchanged a quick glance with her mother, although she doubted there would be much hope there. Her mother would be just as mad as her father.
Her mother’s dark eyes held hers for a moment and then flitted away. ‘Wenderly isn’t the only peer on the market this Season,’ her mother offered. Pavia opened her mouth to protest. She didn’t want to marry Wenderly, but that didn’t mean she wanted to marry someone else either. Her mother slid her a stern look that said they would talk later. Pavia wasn’t fooled. When that conversation happened, her mother would do the talking. She would do the listening. ‘What is all your money worth, Oliver, if it can’t buy your daughter a husband? Surely your fortune can buy more than a middling earl.’ It was subtly done, the comment a compliment and a challenge. Her mother was a master when she chose to exert her influence. It was a choice she seldom made these days. England had beaten her down, changed her as it had changed her father. They’d been a different family in India.
Her father’s face became contemplative. Her mother smiled and pressed her argument softly. ‘There are two marquises and a duke hunting brides, and there are other earls desperate enough for funds to even look towards American brides. They’d be more than happy to take your money and overlook such a little thing as
