She supposed in a way his horse had. Since he’d reluctantly accepted that Camden Rothermere would never be his son-in-law, he’d pressed hard for this union.
“Lady Marianne, I hope you can spare me a few minutes.” His lordship stepped forward and gestured to a couch near the gleaming Broadwood piano.
“I’ll leave you then.” At a glare from his daughter, her father stopped rubbing his hands together. “No need to hurry. In the country nobody thinks twice about two old friends having a quiet chat.”
Her father didn’t want her using propriety as an excuse to back out. But the minute Marianne entered this ambush, she’d realized that any retreat only delayed the inescapable. Lord Desborough had come to Wiltshire to propose. Her father had brought her here to accept her future as Lady Desborough.
She squared her shoulders and mustered a smile for her sedate suitor, even if somewhere in the distance she heard the sound of her dreams splintering. “Shall we sit down, my lord?”
Her father grinned. “That’s it, my girl. No need to stand on ceremony with a fellow who’s known you since you were toddling.”
Desborough cast her father a worried glance. Mention of his age was hardly likely to recommend him to a woman so much younger. Despite everything, Marianne found a grim amusement in her father’s blundering tactlessness.
Her papa cleared his throat, backing toward the door. “I’m off for a walk in the gallery. Heard tell there’s some fine pictures here. A man needs to see fine pictures.”
Her father possessed a large collection of old masters inherited from previous Seatons. Marianne knew for a fact that he couldn’t tell his Rembrandt from his Gainsborough. Although she’d once overheard him commenting favorably on the abundant charms of a fleshy Rubens when he hadn’t known she was within earshot.
No, her father would linger in the Hillbrooks’ long gallery for one reason. It had nothing to do with art appreciation. He waited for news of his daughter’s engagement.
He loved her, but she always felt that was conditional on her obedience. Accepting Desborough would finally achieve his approval, especially after the disappointment with Sedgemoor. She wished that fact gave her more satisfaction.
As her father closed the door behind him—Desborough’s proposal rated concessions that Elias’s hadn’t—Marianne sat on the blue and gold couch. Her pulse was measured; her calmness this time was no sham. Resignation wasn’t a romantic response to a proposal, but it was the strongest reaction she could muster. After a hesitation that hinted his lordship was more nervous than he appeared, Desborough joined her, maintaining a decorous distance.
“You must have an inkling of what I’m about to ask you, Lady Marianne,” he said quietly, watching her with a concentration that made her want to squirm. A lifetime of training was all that kept her unmoving. Her martinet governess had instilled the rule that ladies did not wriggle.
“My father isn’t the most subtle of men,” Marianne said with a trace of a smile.
“No, but he means well, and he loves you dearly.”
Yes, he did. And since her mother’s death eighteen years ago, he’d pinned all his hopes on his only child. Marianne had tried to please him, even at seven understanding his inconsolable grief at losing his wife.
When she didn’t speak, Desborough went on. “He would be happy if we made a match of it.”
She’d known what was coming—the stupidest girl in England would know—but hearing the words shook her. “My lord, I—”
Desborough raised one hand to silence her. “Thomas, please. I hope we’ve achieved sufficient intimacy to use Christian names.” He subjected her to another of those searching regards. “I hope we’ll achieve a relationship even more intimate.”
So much for resignation. Every muscle tightened in rejection. She could hardly endure the idea of Desborough using her body.
Marianne wanted to beg him to stop, but she stifled the plea as she remembered the eager light in her father’s eyes. An eager light missing since last year’s setback with Sedgemoor.
After a pause which he clearly hoped she’d fill with some encouraging remark, Desborough went on. “Of course, no lady should marry purely to please her father. I’m hoping that over the last months you’ve come to realize how genuinely I admire and esteem you.”
She needed to say something. She forced words through a closed throat. “I’ve enjoyed your company, my lor—Thomas,” she said in a low voice, staring into her lap and wishing fruitlessly that she was a woman who aroused more than admiration in the males of her acquaintance. Wishing that she aroused a fraction of the passion that her former suitor shared with his duchess.
Wishing was a waste of time. She didn’t love Desborough, but he was a good man. There were worse fates than marrying him. Even if right now, she couldn’t think of any. She swallowed and told herself that bursting into tears would be an unforgivable breach of good manners.
“Because I admire and esteem you, Marianne, I would count myself blessed if you consent to be my wife.”
She made herself look at him. For his age, he was an attractive man. A thoughtful face, alert brown eyes, brown hair with a hint of silver at the temples. A distinguished man. Wealthy Conscientious. If he pledged himself to her, she could rely on him.
A faint smile lightened his austere features. “I believe at this point, it is usual for the lady to respond.”
She swallowed in a vain attempt to shift the emotion jamming her throat and straightened a backbone already as stiff as a ruler. She’d have a fine, useful life as Lady Desborough. And he’d give her children. She dearly wanted children to love, children who wouldn’t care that she was an heiress or famous for her perfect behavior.
“Marianne?”
She’d been bred to marry a powerful man like Desborough. If her heart cried out for something more, she could learn to close her ears to its demands.