his own progeny except on Sundays, when the family went to the church in the village and afterward endured a long reading from the Bible by the earl, followed by a careful catechism from him concerning their religious training at the vicarage and what particular sins they had committed that week. He lived by the precept that children were placed on earth to honor and obey their father, and any form of rebellion was immediately and thoroughly quashed.
The youngest of the three children, Rachel had grown up seeing the battles that raged between the earl and his son, finally ending in a cataclysmic rupture in which Ravenscar had thrown Devin out of the house and told him that he would no longer be received there. Since that time, Rachel had not seen her beloved older brother until this summer. The aching hurt and loss of that split, the terror of her father’s purple-faced rage, were indelibly imprinted on her psyche. Rachel had managed to avoid such painful and frightening confrontations by staying out of her father’s sight as much as possible and never crossing him openly. Her thoughts were her own, but she was careful never to reveal them to Ravenscar.
On that particular day almost seven years ago, however, her father was smiling and pleased. “Well, Rachel,” he said cheerfully, “I imagine you have some idea why I’ve called you in here today.”
“I—I think so,” Rachel answered a little hesitantly. She would not have thought her father would have been this pleased about Anthony’s proposal. She knew nothing about his finances, of course, but he was a younger son of a younger son, his lineage perfectly respectable, of course, but without a title or any prospects for one, and not, she would have assumed, a man of such wealth as to make her father beam with pleasure.
“I’ll warrant you do,” Ravenscar went on in a hearty avuncular way. “Lord Westhampton is quite a catch. Not a duke, of course, like your sister…” He gave this little quip the chuckle he thought it deserved, and went on. “But still an excellent prospect. Title. Lands. Family dating back to one of William the Conqueror’s barons. Yes, I am quite pleased that Westhampton has taken such a fancy to you. Offering a very generous settlement, of course—haven’t worked out the details yet. Of course, he wants to ask you the question himself. But I think we all know what your answer will be, eh?”
“Lord—Lord Westhampton?” Rachel got out through suddenly bloodless lips. There was a strange roaring in her ears, and she thought for a dreadful moment that she might actually faint. “Lord Westhampton has asked for my hand?”
“Why, yes.” Her father cast her a look of surprise that quickly turned dark and suspicious. “Why? Were you thinking it was someone else? Have you given your affections to another?” His voice rose with each question until it was close to a shout.
“Nonsense,” Rachel heard her mother say smoothly, moving up to wrap a hand around her daughter’s arm. “Of course she has not given her affections anywhere. I am sure she was just surprised that a man of such consequence as Lord Westhampton had been so taken by her. Any young woman of proper modesty would be. He is quite a catch, as you said, especially for a mere slip of a girl.”
“Yes, no doubt you are right.” Ravenscar accepted her explanation easily, for he could not imagine his youngest daughter, the one with the least spirit of any of them, opposing him.
Rachel’s mother, fingers digging into Rachel’s arm, then told her husband that she and Rachel must decide exactly how to dress and act for Westhampton’s upcoming proposal, and she deftly steered her daughter out the door, leaving Lord Ravenscar to congratulate himself on landing yet another excellent son-in-law, an accomplishment that he was sure was in large part a reflection of his own consequence.
“Whatever are you thinking?” Lady Ravenscar snapped as she led her daughter down the hall and into the ladies’ sitting room, where she closed the door firmly after them. “You gave me quite a turn. I thought Ravenscar was going to explode. Is it really such a surprise to you? Westhampton has been haunting Cleybourne House all summer.”
“But—but he is a friend of the duke’s. I thought—”
Her mother let out an exasperated sigh. “And to think I imagined that you were handling him skillfully! Ah, well, it’s no harm done. No doubt he assumed you were merely becomingly modest and innocent. Men in love, fortunately, are great fools. Now…we need to plan. Doubtless he will be coming over this afternoon to speak to you, since Ravenscar has given his permission. We must decide what you shall wear. Perhaps Caroline will lend you her Lucy to put up your hair. You must look just so—beautiful, yet not as if you were anticipating his question.”
“But, Mama!” In her panic, Rachel reverted to her childhood name for this woman who was in general far too cool and reserved for a more affectionate name than Mother. “I cannot accept Lord Westhampton! I…”
Her mother stared at her in astonishment, and Rachel’s words faltered to a halt.
“Are you mad?” Lady Ravenscar’s voice was like the crack of a whip. “What do you mean, you cannot accept—” She drew in her breath sharply. “No! Was your father right? Have you given your affections elsewhere? My God, girl, what have you done!” Fear and fury mingled in her face. “Do not tell me you have let a man have his way with you!”
“No!” Rachel gasped, shocked. “How could you think that? I have never—he would never—”
“Good.” Lady Ravenscar relaxed a little. “Then it is nothing that cannot be put right. Who is this man? I cannot believe that I have not seen this happening.”
“It is Mr. Birkshaw. Anthony Birkshaw. And he has done nothing untoward. He has been all that is proper and correct. He would never have incurred gossip by dangling obviously after me.”
“Birkshaw!” Her mother’s first look of puzzlement changed quickly to one of horror. “Anthony Birkshaw! That penniless pup? He dared to try to engage your affections! Oh, Rachel, how could you have been so foolish? What have you said to him? Have you promised him—But, no—no one would regard a silly girl’s promise as binding when he had not had the courtesy or courage to speak to your father first.”
“He has not asked me to marry him,” Rachel assured her. “I tell you, Anthony—I mean, Mr. Birkshaw—has been all that is proper. We have made no promises, done nothing that anyone could construe as wrong. I swear it. But I—I love him, and I know that he returns my feelings. I thought today, when Father called us into the library, that it was he who had asked for my hand.”
Her mother looked at her with a touch of pity. “My dear girl, you cannot think that Ravenscar would have approved such a match, can you? Mr. Birkshaw could not hope to get his permission. He has no money. No prospects. His father is the third son of Lord Moreston. The family runs to males. A plague would have to hit for him to come into the title. And it is only a barony, anyway. I cannot imagine how the man could think he could aspire to the daughter of an earl.”
“I don’t think he thought much about my father’s title,” Rachel replied with rather more asperity than she was accustomed to using with her mother. “It was me he fell in love with.”
“Then all I can say is that he is a proper ninny and so are you.” Lady Ravenscar shook her head. “Well, you had better put such foolish thoughts out of your head—and with no time wasted, either. You have to accept Westhampton this afternoon—and with no unhappy looks, either, to give him second thoughts.”
Rachel’s heart turned in her chest. “But, Mother, how can I accept him? I don’t love him! I scarcely even know him! I—I love another man!”
“There is no reason for him to know that,” Lady Ravenscar
