Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,69
so many damned lies?’ Garth murmured on a long release of breath.
She frowned. ‘I wasn’t lying.’ Not all the time.
‘You lied about who you were. What you were.’
‘If you had let me alone, everything would have been fine.’
A scornful growl issued from his throat. ‘Would it? Or was it all part of a very clever plot?’
‘If it was a plot, it did not involve you.’
‘Really. Did you not pretend to be a widow? Did you not lure me to a deserted house and get yourself ruined? The consequences are obvious.’
‘Lure you?’ She almost choked on her anger. ‘You followed me. Next I suppose you will be blaming me for the rainstorm and the kisses. You are the seducer. And besides, it isn’t possible to ruin an opera singer.’
‘But you are not an opera singer. You are the granddaughter of Earl Pelham, the owner of the house you supposedly broke into.’
‘We are estranged. He refused me permission to search.’
He let go a huff of breath. ‘You can be sure he won’t be estranged when he learns I have you in my bed. He’ll insist that we wed.’
Why did he sound so smug? It wasn’t as if he wanted this marriage.
‘Believe me, Grandfather won’t care one iota what happens to me.’
‘The ton will care. It was bad enough I seduced an innocent, but an innocent noblewoman… I’m sorry, there is no other choice. Not to mention you might be carrying my child.’ He said the last with an edge of bitterness.
A child. The idea of her own children had always been something she had treasured. He made it sound like a terrible burden. Something to be grimly shouldered. She shivered more violently.
He pulled the quilt higher up her shoulders. ‘Shall I ring for a fire?’
Her shivers had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. It was in her heart she felt cold, in her bones. ‘You don’t want to marry me any more than I want to wed you—why not wait until we are certain there is a child? If there is not, we can go our separate ways.’
An odd expression passed across his face—not anger, it was too hard and cold for that. His lip twisted a fraction, but she had the feeling his scorn was not aimed at her, but rather at himself, as if she’d touched a sensitive spot. ‘You were willing to be my mistress. Why not my wife? You will not find me ungenerous. You will have whatever you want. Jewels. Money. Whatever your heart desires, within reason.’
Within reason. What fell within the realm of ‘within reason’? ‘I have debts. Responsibilities. More than you know.’
‘I see,’ he said in a chilly voice.
‘You don’t see. My sister was ill. I borrowed from a moneylender to pay the doctor and their school fees. I needed a singing role to pay him back.’
‘As your husband, your debts become my debts. Your responsibilities become mine.’
‘It would be a marriage of convenience.’
‘Yes.’ He seemed not to see anything wrong with it.
‘I wanted a love match.’ Spoken in relation to this man it sounded ridiculous. She stared at him defiantly and, heaven help her, secretly hoping.
‘There you go again.’ He shook his head with a grimace of distaste. ‘All women spout about is love, when all they need is a man who will provide the necessities of life.’
‘By necessities I assume you mean food and heat and a roof. What about a man who will be faithful and true? A man who will share joys and sorrows? A helpmeet?’
He shifted as if the very idea made him uncomfortable. ‘Without food and heat and a roof, a person cannot survive. Especially not a child.’
‘A child cannot survive without love.’
At that he laughed outright. It had an ugly ring to it. ‘I don’t know who filled your head with such tales, but children survive all the time without love. Use your head. Look around you. Men only care about satisfying their lust and getting an heir. If they could do the last without getting married, they would.’
‘It broke my father’s heart when my mother died. He loved her and he loved his children.’
‘Then why make no provision for you?’
Silent, she stared at him.
‘He should have,’ he said. ‘But not out of love. Out of duty and honour. Love is merely a figment of overwrought female imagination.’
‘You are awful,’ she whispered, but the cold feeling spreading into her stomach was the fear he was right. Fear that the love she remembered, clung to, held