The Perfect Arrangement (The Not So Saintly Sisters #4) - Annabelle Anders Page 0,7
an even more pronounced wince. “I am in need of an heir. Rather quickly, unfortunately.” He cleared his throat. “I haven’t a good deal of time left.”
Lillian wasn’t certain she’d heard him correctly. Her smile fell. “You are going to die?” He was a young man, likely just a few years older than her herself. And he appeared to be vigorous and healthy .
He pinned that gaze on her again, and nodded, breaking her heart more than a little.
“I… I am so sorry.” She wasn’t certain what else one should say upon hearing such devastating news. “You are not married?”
He shook his head. “I considered betrothing myself to one of the ladies of my acquaintance, but any proper girl wishing to marry will want a husband for far longer than I anticipate being around.” He flicked his gaze down to the missive she’d handed him. “I had considered the ad unseemly.”
And then he stared at her again. “I hadn’t contemplated the possibility that a lady such as yourself, a lady of refinement and intelligence, would actually respond. May I ask what has compelled you to do so?”
The question was a fair one. The nature of the ad itself was improper, to say the least.
Lillian considered her words carefully. He’d been honest in what he wanted, what he needed. He deserved the same from her.
“I have been under substantial pressure to marry.” She frowned as she considered her odd predicament. “Not that my brother would ever turn me out. He’d never do such a thing. But my mother refuses to allow my younger sisters to come out until I marry, and I have no wish to—ever.” She couldn’t very well explain her natural distrust of the institution. “The ad suggested eventual financial independence. Such a prospect… is an appealing idea.” More than that— it was a spectacular one.
After Lillian’s father’s death, her mother had remarried. Lillian and her sisters had only worn black upon the scoundrel’s death because their mother had insisted.
They ought to have celebrated.
The gentleman sitting across from her had watched closely as she spoke. She half expected the sound of her beating heart to cut through the silence that followed her admission.
“I have a sister,” he said suddenly. “If I cannot sire a son, she will be vulnerable to the whims of my legal heir.” He appeared almost haunted at the admission. “I cannot allow that to happen.”
Lillian, unfortunately, did not require a good deal of imagination to picture what sort of man his heir must be. As if the knowledge of his impending demise wasn’t tragic enough, he would have this worry hanging over him.
“What if… a child is born but not a male?” It would be tragic, really, to go to such lengths and meet with failure. “What if… such an alliance fails to produce any offspring at all?”
“My family, my ancestors, have had no trouble siring males. My present dilemma results from our lack of ability to keep them alive.” He lifted one side of his mouth in a sheepish smile that sent an odd warmth flowing through Lilian. “I have an emergency plan that would be implemented if such a situation arises.”
“How old is your sister?”
“Ten and seven.” He stared down at the dog at his feet. “I’ve wracked not only my brain, but several legal ones as well in search of any legal means to ensure her security, to ensure she is safe.” And then he swallowed hard.
Was it possible Lillian was actually contemplating doing this? For the past few years, pretending she was actively shopping on the marriage mart, she’d felt adrift, purposeless. She loved her nephews something fierce, and yet they had several aunts and caretakers, not to mention loving parents.
Could she help this man?
An heir would require legitimacy. Legitimacy would require they be married.
“How long?” she couldn’t help but ask. “How long do you have?” His illness must be the reason for mentioning squeamishness in the ad. Would she be able to watch this kind gentleman weaken and eventually die? She’d been a child when her real father passed. When he’d returned from the war, he’d already begun to sicken. And yet she distinctly remembered the scent of death. It had hovered in his room for weeks before he’d succumbed.
Her throat thickened.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
The doctors had spared him such knowledge then, so that he could live out the remainder of his days without counting them one by one.