you have my word.”
Gerard sighed. Damned, damned curiosity. “Very well.” He stalked back to the chair and dropped into it.
Slowly Katherine Howe sank to her seat as well, watching him as if afraid he would bolt from the room. “I need a husband,” she said baldly. “You are—or very soon may be—in want of a wife with money if the rumors about your father are true. I have heard you will be left virtually penniless if your brother cannot inherit the dukedom of Durham.”
“Not quite,” Gerard said in clipped tones, “but go on.”
She clasped her hands in her lap, lacing her fingers together. Her thumbs dug into the backs of her hands so hard, the leather of her gloves creased. “My father left me a large fortune. He made it in trade, but money is money. When I was younger, he arranged an advantageous marriage for me, to Viscount Howe of West Sussex. Lord Howe was older than I, but desperately in need of funds. My parents were pleased with the connection, Howe was pleased with my marriage portion, and it was done. Howe died last year, and his nephew Lucien inherited the viscountcy.”
“And you cannot wait to cast off the widow’s weeds?” Gerard asked when she fell silent.
“Very much the contrary.” Her expression turned stony. “I would gladly wear them for the rest of my life. Instead I’m now being pressured to marry Lucien, whom I cannot abide.”
“I presume he wants your money as well.”
Again she gave him that queer look. “No. It is worse. Not only did Howe spend my marriage portion, he borrowed a large sum from my father. The expectation, of course, was that my father’s wealth would descend to me at his death, then to my children, and there would be no need for repayment. Unfortunately for Lucien, Howe died before my father, without a child. By the terms of my father’s will and the loan agreement, I now hold the note against the Howe estate. Not only must Lucien return half my dowry since I had no children, but he owes me the sum of the loan as well.”
“Which, naturally, he does not have.” Gerard guessed.
She nodded once. “My husband did not spend wisely. Even if Lucien wished to, it’s unlikely he could borrow enough to repay me, given the state of the Howe finances. He could pursue an heiress, but most would be unhappy to hear that the bulk of their fortune must be paid out immediately to me.”
Gerard studied her. In the firelight she looked almost bloodless, cold and hard like alabaster. “You needn’t call in the loan—ever, let alone at once.”
“But I could,” was her answer. “And Lucien will never forget it.”
He leaned back in his chair and stretched out his feet toward the fire. “So the new Lord Howe finds it easier to wed you than bestir himself to honor his uncle’s debts in some other way. Sounds a bit lazy to me.”
“Yes.”
“And you would rather marry a complete stranger than simply take your own house and hire a solicitor.”
She sighed and spoke with slow deliberation. “Lucien has all my property still under his control. He will not let me leave at will. Mrs. Dennis is the only person in the whole household I can trust.” The old lady sharpened her minatory eye on Gerard. “And I would rather die than marry Lucien. I am sure my death would suit him just as well as a wedding—perhaps even more so—which is why I will take any other option open to me. And at the moment, those options are limited to you.”
Gerard picked up the glass of wine the older woman had poured for him earlier. He held it up as if studying the hue of the burgundy, then took a long sip. He hated being treated like an idiot, particularly by a woman who claimed to be in desperate need of his help. She was going to have to work for it if she truly wanted him to marry her. Because, curse it all, she was absolutely right about his needing money, from her or some other heiress. “And why have I been so fortunate to be preferred over both Lucien and death?”
“My father respected your father. He called him an honorable man.”
He raised one eyebrow skeptically. “You chose me because of my father?”
“You’re a military man of some acclaim. I’ve read about you in the papers.”
“You must have an extraordinary memory to remember a passing mention here and there.