Chapter Seven
June 20, 1817
For the third time that afternoon, Drew crumpled the letter he’d been writing to his mother. How the deuce should he break the news to her in any event? The thought of her reaction and objection, not to mention that of his brother’s snide remarks, turned his stomach and tightened his chest with anxiety. Yes, telling his family in this manner might be a touch cowardly, but it was the safest way.
For all of us.
After removing a fresh piece of stationery from the leather box on his desktop, he sighed as he stared at the blank expanse. The words wouldn’t come. How could he inform his mother that he’d decided to marry, and to a woman he barely knew? Not to mention she had absolutely no connection to the ton nor did she have looks or youth to recommend her.
What if his mother didn’t like Sarah? If she wouldn’t accept his wife—if the ton wouldn’t accept her—well, he didn’t wish to think about the ramifications. That didn’t stop his eternal foe, anxiety, from rising and putting the crushing weight upon his chest.
That had happened all too often these past few days. He’d suffered one such attack while conversing with Sarah on the road in his roundabout attempt to have her agree to the betrothal. It had been bad enough that she’d noticed, and she’d asked if he was well. Of course he’d had to lie, for what woman in her right mind would wish to align herself with a man who consistently had the overwhelming episodes that stole his breath?
Perhaps she’ll commit me to Bedlam and sit on her heels enjoying the profits from the estate.As soon as the uncharitable thought crossed his mind, he dismissed it. Sarah wasn’t that sort of person. There was a certain calm sensibility beneath her put-together exterior. Yes, she was a storm to reckon with once angered, but unlike his rage, hers cleared the air and allowed the sun to shine and usher in better things. Can she teach me?
When Barton knocked at the open door, Drew was more than ready for the distraction. “Come in.” He waved a hand at his valet. Putting off the task wouldn’t see it completed any faster though.
“I met Dalton in the hall. He’d just put a Miss Copeland into the parlor.” Curiosity blazed in the valet’s expression. “She’s apparently here to see you.”
A niggle of excitement tripped down Drew’s spine. “That’s right. We have an appointment.” When Barton hovered, clearly wanting more information, Drew set his pen in its holder. “What do you think of her?”
Confusion creased the other man’s brow. “I haven’t thought of her, my lord. This is the first time I’ve seen her.”
“No, I mean do you think she’ll be a decent countess? If you look past her penchant for drab clothing and see her dressed in silks and satins with jewels about her neck, will she pass muster within the ton?”
“I beg your pardon?” Barton’s eyes widened. “Surely, you’re not—”
“I am.” Needing something to occupy his hands, Drew once more took up his pen. He dipped the nub into the inkwell. “I asked her yesterday to marry me.” Then he began the letter to his mother. It was really quite easy. He would set down the facts. She didn’t need more information than that. Hadn’t she been after him for years to settle down and set up his nursery? Now he was doing just that.
“You’re marrying the woman in the parlor.” It wasn’t a question.
“I am. She’s our neighbor to the west.”
“But… why?” Barton was aghast. He darted his gaze about the room before landing it once more on Drew. “Do you think that’s wise given your, ah, disposition?”
“Why not?” Doubt worked with the anxiety to tighten his chest. “I need a countess and to do my duty to the damned title. She needs a secure future.”
“Yet you have recently met her.” Poor Barton. He was struggling valiantly to make sense of the news, and Drew found it rather amusing.
“True enough, but that doesn’t negate the facts.” Once more he scratched out a line on the stationery. Would his mother have much the same reaction?
Barton softly cleared his throat. “Do you and she suit?”
“I have no idea. We spend a good portion of our time together arguing.” That gave him pause. He held his pen over the page, and when a drop of ink fell, he continued to write. No, he wouldn’t put much stock into the already turbulent meetings, for beneath that was the attraction which grew each time they were together. “Does it matter, really? Perhaps half of my anxieties will disappear once the deed is done.” He hoped. God how he hoped, though this stunt would bring a whole new host of issues…
“Let me understand the situation.” Barton arched one eyebrow. “You arrived in Derbyshire not long ago, and at some point after, you met an unattached woman who you decided, apparently on the spot, to marry and make your countess, without care to whether or not she’s up to the task or even if you and she suit.”
“Exactly.” Drew didn’t care how insane it sounded from someone else’s viewpoint. The fact was that he liked Sarah—wanted her in a purely physical way—and she possessed enough mettle to battle his own horrid disposition as well as the rigors of being a countess. What more did a man need?
To quell the demons that haunt me.Would she be able to do that too?
“I see.” Though the look on the valet’s face said he didn’t see at all. “I’m not one to gossip or speak badly of anyone. However,” he lowered his voice, “are you quite certain? Marriage is a rather permanent business.”
Drew jammed the pen back into its holder lest he make more of a mess on the letter than he already had. “No, I’m not positively certain. One can’t be over anything these days, of course, but I might as well have it over and done with. As I told Sarah, if it weren’t her, it would be someone else.”
“Sarah.” Barton’s lower jaw dropped. “Have you spent time with her then?”
“We’ve had two meetings.” He glanced at the nearly complete letter and nodded. It would do. “Miss Copeland aggravates me and provokes my anger, but I admire her spirit. If she’s tried by fire, I have no doubt that she’ll survive.”