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Authors: Margaret Evans Porter
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money. My money.”
“Did she jilt you?”
“She couldn’t risk it.” Dare sat down on the stone wall, stretching his legs out before him. “She was carrying her lover’s child. To save herself from disgrace, and to secure a fortune, she insisted upon a quick wedding. I preferred to wait. My mother wasn’t strong enough to come over from Ramsey. The manager at Dale End Mine had given notice. Willa twice fainted in my presence, and I feared she was unwell. Marriage, her parents assured me, would be the saving of her. No time for banns—they begged me to get a license, immediately. I hastened to the Bishop of Derby,” he said fiercely.
“You needn’t tell me the rest,” she said gently.
“I must.” Staring into her troubled eyes, he said, “I’ve never revealed the whole truth to a living soul.
On the eve of my marriage, the impoverished, unemployed factory man came to Damerham and made his confession. If not for him, I’d be shackled to a woman who couldn’t love me, the lawful parent of a child not my own. Within a week of these events, Mother died—peacefully, in her sleep. She was spared the whole sordid story, for which I was thankful. At her funeral, I informed my Corlett and Gilchrist relations that my engagement had ended, by mutual consent. I’ve since acknowledged that Willa was a fortune hunter, but that’s as much as anyone knows.”
“Did her duplicity prejudice you against matrimony?”
“Against mercenaries,” he corrected her. “Willa was by far the most determined, but she wasn’t the only one. Ever after, when young ladies sought my company, I detected the calculation behind their glittering smiles and lowered lashes.”
“Perhaps you misjudged them. As you did me,” she said pointedly.
“I doubt it.” He regarded her curiously. “Have you never placed too much faith in a suitor’s avowals of love and devotion?”
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Even so, it didn’t vanquish my hope of achieving perfect bliss.”
“I suppose you equate marriage with blissfulness. Most women do.”
“I give you my word, Sir Darius—”
“Dare.”
“Sir Darius,” she said firmly, “I do not covet your fortune or your possessions or your name.”
He believed her. “I suspect I’m beneath your notice-my grandsire became a baronet late in life, and I’m only the second Corlett to hold the title. Your correspondents include a duke and two earls—your connections are far superior to mine.” He added, “And I doubt your past contains an episode as unsavory as the one I’ve related.”
A frown clouded her sublime countenance. “If it did, I wouldn’t tell someone who already disapproves of me.”
“I don’t. I’ve no cause for it—I know too little about you.”
“Perhaps it’s better so,” she said, faintly smiling.
Her reticence was a shield, swiftly raised to ward off prying questions. He ignored it. “You spent your youth in Brussels. You were wed and widowed. I should like to hear more of your history.”
“My parents were eccentric, and my upbringing was unconventional. I thwarted my mother’s ambitions for me at age sixteen, when I eloped with a young soldier. I loved him dearly, but our marriage was also an act of youthful rebellion. Henry’s regiment went to India, and there he died, less than a year after we were wed. Sadder, but no wiser, I returned to my mother’s house and the life I’d wanted to escape.”
He sat quietly beside her, breathing in her flowery scent and watching the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He’d humbled himself before a woman he’d wronged, and felt better for it. By telling her his terrible secret, he’d released much of the residual anguish he had locked away.
“My rudeness the other evening was inexcusable. I crave your pardon, and I hope that from this moment we can be friends.”
She accepted his hand, but hers was quickly withdrawn.
When he suggested that she ride Envoy back to Glencroft, she
“Did she jilt you?”
“She couldn’t risk it.” Dare sat down on the stone wall, stretching his legs out before him. “She was carrying her lover’s child. To save herself from disgrace, and to secure a fortune, she insisted upon a quick wedding. I preferred to wait. My mother wasn’t strong enough to come over from Ramsey. The manager at Dale End Mine had given notice. Willa twice fainted in my presence, and I feared she was unwell. Marriage, her parents assured me, would be the saving of her. No time for banns—they begged me to get a license, immediately. I hastened to the Bishop of Derby,” he said fiercely.
“You needn’t tell me the rest,” she said gently.
“I must.” Staring into her troubled eyes, he said, “I’ve never revealed the whole truth to a living soul.
On the eve of my marriage, the impoverished, unemployed factory man came to Damerham and made his confession. If not for him, I’d be shackled to a woman who couldn’t love me, the lawful parent of a child not my own. Within a week of these events, Mother died—peacefully, in her sleep. She was spared the whole sordid story, for which I was thankful. At her funeral, I informed my Corlett and Gilchrist relations that my engagement had ended, by mutual consent. I’ve since acknowledged that Willa was a fortune hunter, but that’s as much as anyone knows.”
“Did her duplicity prejudice you against matrimony?”
“Against mercenaries,” he corrected her. “Willa was by far the most determined, but she wasn’t the only one. Ever after, when young ladies sought my company, I detected the calculation behind their glittering smiles and lowered lashes.”
“Perhaps you misjudged them. As you did me,” she said pointedly.
“I doubt it.” He regarded her curiously. “Have you never placed too much faith in a suitor’s avowals of love and devotion?”
“Yes,” she acknowledged. “Even so, it didn’t vanquish my hope of achieving perfect bliss.”
“I suppose you equate marriage with blissfulness. Most women do.”
“I give you my word, Sir Darius—”
“Dare.”
“Sir Darius,” she said firmly, “I do not covet your fortune or your possessions or your name.”
He believed her. “I suspect I’m beneath your notice-my grandsire became a baronet late in life, and I’m only the second Corlett to hold the title. Your correspondents include a duke and two earls—your connections are far superior to mine.” He added, “And I doubt your past contains an episode as unsavory as the one I’ve related.”
A frown clouded her sublime countenance. “If it did, I wouldn’t tell someone who already disapproves of me.”
“I don’t. I’ve no cause for it—I know too little about you.”
“Perhaps it’s better so,” she said, faintly smiling.
Her reticence was a shield, swiftly raised to ward off prying questions. He ignored it. “You spent your youth in Brussels. You were wed and widowed. I should like to hear more of your history.”
“My parents were eccentric, and my upbringing was unconventional. I thwarted my mother’s ambitions for me at age sixteen, when I eloped with a young soldier. I loved him dearly, but our marriage was also an act of youthful rebellion. Henry’s regiment went to India, and there he died, less than a year after we were wed. Sadder, but no wiser, I returned to my mother’s house and the life I’d wanted to escape.”
He sat quietly beside her, breathing in her flowery scent and watching the gentle, rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts. He’d humbled himself before a woman he’d wronged, and felt better for it. By telling her his terrible secret, he’d released much of the residual anguish he had locked away.
“My rudeness the other evening was inexcusable. I crave your pardon, and I hope that from this moment we can be friends.”
She accepted his hand, but hers was quickly withdrawn.
When he suggested that she ride Envoy back to Glencroft, she
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