Page 53 of Earl Crazy
“At last, a point we can agree on." Lord Fairmont let out a grim laugh. “I wonder though, Prestwick, if you really did change your mind, or if Harriett refused you? Or perhaps you heard I was returning to England, and you knew I’d never approve the match when I discovered what a scoundrel you are. So, you decided to take matters into your own hands—”
“James!” Lady Fosberry snapped. “That is quite enough. Christopher is telling the truth. He never initiated a courtship with Harriett. Indeed, it’s Lord Wyle who’s been courting her all season. Before you hurl any more unfounded accusations, I advise you to wait until Harriett awakes. She’ll tell you herself that—”
“It doesn’t matter what Harriett says. A half dozen servants witnessed the scene in the drive this evening. By tomorrow morning, all thetonwill know of it. She’s disgraced now.”
“My servants can be trusted not to breathe a word of what they saw tonight,” Lady Fosberry said, but her face had gone pale. “We’ll make certain—”
“No, Aunt. That’s not good enough.” Lord Fairmont turned to Kit. “There’s only one way to set this right. Prestwick here is going to marry Harriett.”
Kit, marry Harriett? Tilly sucked in a breath. Kit’s gaze snapped to hers, but he looked away quickly. “You’re mad, Fairmont.”
“If you refuse, Prestwick, then I will have no choice but to demand satisfaction from you for the insult you’ve dealt my sister.”
At that, Kit leapt to his feet, his calm deserting him. “For God’s sake, Fairmont—”
“Is that a refusal, Prestwick?”
This time, when Kit looked at Tilly, he didn’t look away, and she… she couldn’t. In that moment, nothing in the world could have torn her gaze from his. A heartbeat passed, then another, his beautiful dark eyes soft and warm as he gazed at her. “It is a refusal,” he said at last, still holding her eyes. “I don’t love your sister, Fairmont. I’m in love with Tilly, and she’s the lady I’m going to marry.”
Oh, dear God. DearGod—
“Tilly!” Phee shot to her feet with a gasp. “I… you… you’re in love with Tilly? You intend tomarryTilly?”
“Very well then, Prestwick.” Lord Fairmont tossed back his brandy, and slammed the tumbler down on a table. “Primrose Hill at dawn, the day after tomorrow.”
“You’re acting in haste, Fairmont—”
“Appoint your second. I’ll receive him here tomorrow morning.”
“You’re making a mistake, Fairmont. We’refriends—”
“No, we’re not. Not anymore.” Lord Fairmont turned and left the drawing room without another word, leaving them all speechless behind him.
All but Kit, who hurried to Tilly, and took her hands. “I didn’t intend to offer my hand to you in quite this way, but I love you, Tilly. Will you have me?”
Have him? Had he not heard Lord Fairmont? The Prestwick curse was true, and it was unfolding right before their eyes! Through no fault of his own, a most improbable series of events were lining up in a most improbable way to see Kit sent to the dueling field!
Couldn’t he see that? In two days, he’d be murdered in a duel! There was no question the encounter would end with a pistol ball embedded in his flesh. The curse would see to that. It would make certain he—
“Tilly?” He took her hand. “Do you love me?”
She could only gaze up at him, her heart fluttering like a trapped bird inside her chest. She was twenty-one years old, and in that time, she’d never once imagined she might marry someday. She’d always intended to live out her days in Hambleden with Phee. She’d never indulged in girlish fantasies of a gentleman who’d steal her heart, and make her his bride.
But she hadn’t planned on Kit, had she? Whoever would have imagined she’d fall madly in love with a rake? But here she was, with her heart torn to shreds, and every hope she’d never known she had falling to ruins.
Because shedidlove him. So much, her heart ached with it every time she looked into his dark eyes, and every time he smiled at her. She’d never imagined there could be such a love as what she felt for him.
And that was why she had to refuse him.
“Tilly?”
“I can’t…marry you, Kit.”
She tried to withdraw her hands, but he caught them, and pressed them first to his lips, then to his chest, over his heart. “That’s not what I asked you, Tilly. I asked if you love me.”
“That doesn’t matter.” It should matter—it should be the only thing that mattered—but it seemed the Prestwick curse had caught her in its talons, and it was squeezing her, ripping into her flesh. “I won’t send you to the dueling field to die, Kit.”
“There will be no duel, Mathilda.”
