The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,74
Charlie had all this and had cocked it up… that he expected Livvy to marry that… that vile man to make his mistakes come right…. Fury was a living thing in his chest. It burned and ached and made him wild with frustration to the point where he had to be on his own and pace and fret or stare endlessly out of the window in impotent rage. It made him want to find a bottle and drink himself back into oblivion, for he was such a bloody sorry excuse for a man that he might as well. Any man worth his salt could rescue Livvy, surely? A real man could extricate her from this god awful tangle and make her and the children safe.
King leaned his forehead against the window. The glass was cold, though a feeble warmth emanated from the sun, which was high in the sky now. It was mid-afternoon and George was taking a nap, much against his will. Livvy had peeled the boy from him as George wept piteously and clung to his lapels and was only placated by the promise of seeing King again if he was a good boy and had a little sleep. It had left King with a lump in his throat which was so utterly bloody ridiculous that he’d had to escape to do a bit more pacing and muttering and be bad-tempered and unreasonable with his faithful valet.
“Hell and the devil, Walsh. What am I to do?”
“You could marry her.”
“Yes,” King said with a sigh, despairing that Walsh had come up with the only possible answer. “If I married that silly chit, I’d have access to my funds again and I could pay that idiot Charlie’s debts and make it so Livvy and the children were safe. I’d set her up in a place of her own if I could, but… well, you know how that would look.”
“No, you bleedin’ twit!” Walsh exclaimed.
King’s mouth fell open. He allowed Walsh a good deal of freedom of speech, but he’d never been spoken to with such a lack of respect and quite so much irritation.
Walsh coloured and cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, sir, but I meant… you could marry Miss Penrose.”
King stilled, turning to stare at Walsh in outrage. “And then what? Invite her to escape this crumbling pile, to come to my own crumbling pile and live on sunshine and fresh air. How does that help? How does that keep the children safe?”
Walsh shrugged. “You’d think of something. Always have afore now.”
“Walsh,” King said with a derisive tone. “Your belief in me is admirable but entirely misplaced. I have barely muddled though, and become a raging alcoholic in the process. Somehow, I made a few quid here on there on cards and horses. As I will end up killing myself if I go back to that way of life, it is no longer an option. As history has proven time and again, anything legitimate will get my father’s attention, and he will destroy it with a smile on his face.”
His first enterprise had been a sporting gentleman’s club, a place where a fellow could box or fence, or improve his skills in any number of sporting activities. He’d set it up with a friend and the response in the early months had been very encouraging, they’d even been talking of finding better premises, and then his father had discovered his involvement. He still didn’t know how. Within days the new members stopped enquiring and the old ones were suddenly too busy to attend. Amazing the influence a marquess and a duke combined could bring to bear when they put their minds to it. It had ruined both him and his friend, a fact he could not forgive himself for. He’d been foolish to involve anyone else and a man he had liked and respected had suffered for it.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Walsh said.
“You are not, surely, suggesting my father might have had a change of heart?” King demanded, so stunned by the absurdity of this idea he didn’t know where to begin with it.
“No,” Walsh said, the word spoken slow and drawn out. “But he’s doing it to force your hand, to get you to marry the girl of his choosing. Once you’re married, there nothing anyone can do about it, even Lord high and mighty bleedin’ Eynsham.”
King snorted, amused. “I feel certain I ought to reprimand you for speaking of the marquess so, but I’m damned if I will. However,