When the Marquess Met His Match by Laura Lee Guhrke - An American Heiress in London 01 - When the Marquess Met His Match Page B
Ads: Link
late at night, I didn’t see the harm in both of us looking for books to read at the same time. I was only twenty-one. And I was head over ears in love with someone else at the time, so amorous intrigues with Elizabeth never even entered my head. Call me a fool, but I had no idea she’d hurl herself into my arms just as her mother came through the door.”
Her skeptical expression shifted to one of doubt, whether as to his actions or her own, he wasn’t certain. At this point, he didn’t care.
“That,” he said as he straightened away from the table, “is the true version of the story, regardless of what gossip you might have heard to the contrary. I didn’t know I’d be made for a mug until it was too late, but as I said, I was only twenty-one. You, however, don’t have the excuse of foolish youth for your actions, madam. You could have made further inquiries into the matter, and as a result, perhaps judged me more fairly. But no, you jumped at once to the conclusion that would brand me the worst possible cad because for some reason, it’s what you want to believe about me.”
She bit her lip, her doubtful expression deepening, but after a moment, she rallied, shifting her ground. “Then what was your meaning yesterday when you referred to improper courtship?”
“I’ve no patience with the idiotic rules that govern finding a spouse. The chaperoned walks, the endless rounds of small talk where neither of us can say what we really think on any subject, dinner parties where precedent seats us at opposite ends of the table, whispered snatches of private conversation over sheets of music in the drawing room, dancing no more than twice together at balls—it’s all rot. Nothing I can learn about a woman through society’s stifling interactions will help me decide whether or not I want to marry her. Chaperones are a hindrance to two people getting to know each other, not a help.”
“I see. So you would not compromise a girl on purpose, but you would still risk her reputation to satisfy your own ideas of courtship. And if doing so happened to result in a compromising situation that forced her to marry you, that would be quite convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
“For God’s sake, I told you, I would never—” He broke off, for he was well and truly at the end of his tether. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him this angry. He also realized he was starting to defend himself, and he appreciated—too late—that coming here at all had been a strategic mistake.
Hadn’t a lifetime as Landsdowne’s son taught him anything? Defending, explaining, justifying . . . such things did nothing but make one vulnerable. And besides, his intentions, his notions of courtship, and his honor did not need defending. Not to her, and not to anyone.
“Think of me what you will,” he said, and picked up his hat. “Say whatever you like. I am determined to find a wife, despite all your efforts. So do your damnedest to stop me.”
“So I shall.”
“Very well, then.” He donned his hat. “But, by God, I hope you understand what this means?”
“No,” she answered, her elegant dark brows lifting in haughty inquiry. “Enlighten me. What does this mean?”
“War, Lady Featherstone.” He smiled, but as his gaze met hers, the clash of their eyes was like the clang of dueling swords. “This means war.”
Chapter 4
A s Belinda stared into Lord Trubridge’s tawny hazel eyes, she was reminded again of a lion, one that was cornered and angry. Though there was a smile on his lips, he meant what he said about war, and she knew he would be a formidable opponent.
If his account of the Elizabeth Mayfield incident was true, and if she had indeed misunderstood his comment of yesterday, then she could not deny he had some justification for his anger. Nonetheless, he was still a fortune hunter with notions of courtship that could ruin a girl’s reputation and force her to accept him. In light of
Her skeptical expression shifted to one of doubt, whether as to his actions or her own, he wasn’t certain. At this point, he didn’t care.
“That,” he said as he straightened away from the table, “is the true version of the story, regardless of what gossip you might have heard to the contrary. I didn’t know I’d be made for a mug until it was too late, but as I said, I was only twenty-one. You, however, don’t have the excuse of foolish youth for your actions, madam. You could have made further inquiries into the matter, and as a result, perhaps judged me more fairly. But no, you jumped at once to the conclusion that would brand me the worst possible cad because for some reason, it’s what you want to believe about me.”
She bit her lip, her doubtful expression deepening, but after a moment, she rallied, shifting her ground. “Then what was your meaning yesterday when you referred to improper courtship?”
“I’ve no patience with the idiotic rules that govern finding a spouse. The chaperoned walks, the endless rounds of small talk where neither of us can say what we really think on any subject, dinner parties where precedent seats us at opposite ends of the table, whispered snatches of private conversation over sheets of music in the drawing room, dancing no more than twice together at balls—it’s all rot. Nothing I can learn about a woman through society’s stifling interactions will help me decide whether or not I want to marry her. Chaperones are a hindrance to two people getting to know each other, not a help.”
“I see. So you would not compromise a girl on purpose, but you would still risk her reputation to satisfy your own ideas of courtship. And if doing so happened to result in a compromising situation that forced her to marry you, that would be quite convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”
“For God’s sake, I told you, I would never—” He broke off, for he was well and truly at the end of his tether. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had made him this angry. He also realized he was starting to defend himself, and he appreciated—too late—that coming here at all had been a strategic mistake.
Hadn’t a lifetime as Landsdowne’s son taught him anything? Defending, explaining, justifying . . . such things did nothing but make one vulnerable. And besides, his intentions, his notions of courtship, and his honor did not need defending. Not to her, and not to anyone.
“Think of me what you will,” he said, and picked up his hat. “Say whatever you like. I am determined to find a wife, despite all your efforts. So do your damnedest to stop me.”
“So I shall.”
“Very well, then.” He donned his hat. “But, by God, I hope you understand what this means?”
“No,” she answered, her elegant dark brows lifting in haughty inquiry. “Enlighten me. What does this mean?”
“War, Lady Featherstone.” He smiled, but as his gaze met hers, the clash of their eyes was like the clang of dueling swords. “This means war.”
Chapter 4
A s Belinda stared into Lord Trubridge’s tawny hazel eyes, she was reminded again of a lion, one that was cornered and angry. Though there was a smile on his lips, he meant what he said about war, and she knew he would be a formidable opponent.
If his account of the Elizabeth Mayfield incident was true, and if she had indeed misunderstood his comment of yesterday, then she could not deny he had some justification for his anger. Nonetheless, he was still a fortune hunter with notions of courtship that could ruin a girl’s reputation and force her to accept him. In light of
Similar Books
