The Diamond Key by Barbara Metzger Page A

she is old and worn years before her time. I do not think a woman ought to marry a man for his fortune and then not give him his money’s worth in bed. I do not approve of fathers selling their daughters into unhappy marriages for their own gains. I see no reason for land and titles and wealth to be the foundations for many marriages, instead of mutual affection and respect. I could go on to speak of brothels where children are held in bondage, of fatherless infants left to starve in the gutters, of hollow-eyed beggar women dying of the pox. You see, ma’am, I do not approve of many things your society accepts. If, however, you are asking me if I would be a faithful husband, my opinion does not matter, for I never intend to put it to the test.”
    “You do not intend to marry?”
    “At last, she sees reason.” He spoke to the dog.
    “That is not reasonable. What about your title? The succession?”
    He laughed. “My father never cared whether I lived or died. Neither did his heir, my brother Roger. My closest living relation is dear Roger’s widow, who never ceases to mourn the fact that I am alive and he is not. The succession can go hang, as I almost did.”
    “But you survived.”
    He nodded.
    “And prospered.”
    He nodded again.
    “They say you made a fortune in the fur trade.”
    “Which shall all go to worthy charities when I am gone. My man of affairs has the list.”
    “And another fortune in spices or tea. Papa was not sure which.”
    “Both. Fortunately, or unfortunately for the poor souls involved, there are a great many worthy causes.”
    “Then you do not need my father’s money.”
    “I need nothing from any man. Or any woman.” He glared at Homer before turning on his heel. “Or any dog.”
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Chapter 8
    Torrie let the dog go. He was not hers to keep. She let Lord Ingall go. He was not hers, either.
    She let her dream go, the dream that danced through her veins, humming about true love and the perfect match and lovers who were destined to meet against all odds.
    What she could not let go of, however, was her gratitude. The viscount might not be the answer to her prayers, he might not even be a very comfortable companion, but he had saved her life. “Wait!”
    He turned at the terrace steps, one dark eyebrow raised as if in expectation of her next impertinent question or outlandish proposition. Underlings would have thought twice about their next words, when they saw that disdainful gesture. As usual, Torrie forged ahead.
    “I merely want to say thank you again. Your selfless actions might seem insignificant to you, but, I assure you, they meant everything to me. Other men would have stood aside and let the hired firefighters rescue me, and who knows if they would have been in time. Another man might have left me to my own devices outside the building, shivering in my shift. Why, you could have handed me over to Lord Boyce for the drive home, to listen to his importunings while I was in distress. Instead you preserved my life and my dignity, and never ceased until I was home safe. I know there is nothing I could possibly offer to show my appreciation, nor my father, his. I can think of no reward that you would accept, but ... but I would like to be your friend.”
    The female wanted to be friends now? Wynn shook his head. What did he need with a spoiled darling of society for a bosom bow? Very well, he conceded, Lady Victoria seemed a decent sort, not flying into a rage when she did not get her way, nor turning into a watering pot. And he would like to see her smile again, for him this time, instead of his dog. But he had never had a female for a friend. Rosie did not count; he had paid for her affection. Lady Lynbrook was not a true friend, although he had known her for ages. Wynn was more like a footman she called to fix things. They both always wanted something from him. Lady Victoria seemed to want nothing but what she asked: his friendship. But what would he and Lady Victoria talk