Page 21 of Marriage with a Proper Stranger

His cane hit the tiled floor as he moved toward her, echoing in her heart and sending a chill through her. This was not a wizened, weak shell of a man, but one whose cruel aura matched the baron’s. This is what made him far worse: he reminded her of her wretched father.

Once, long ago, Sutherhorne was no doubt a fine looking man. But time had not been kind. He had a wraith-like appearance, from his pale, white skin to his full head of white hair and his icy gray eyes. Deep lines were etched into his face, reflecting years of harsh living. Did he have a weak heart, as her father had proclaimed? God, she had had her fill of old, cold men.

The marquess stared at her with shrewd, lecherous eyes. She scanned the long length of him. Far too slender, and the breeches and polished hessian boots he wore were two decades out of date. Although, on closer inspection, his long frock coat and double-breasted waistcoat were of a more recent fashion. What an odd ensemble.

He stood in front of her, and she caught the cloying scent of musky cologne—it made her nose twitch. Liver spots dotted his temples, and it was then she realized he sported a closely cropped goatee; it was as white as his skin and not completely visible at first glance. His cheekbones were prominent, no doubt an attractive feature in years past. Now they only enhanced his austere appearance.

“My dear Lady Pepperdon,” he rasped, his voice as rough as sandpaper. He clutched her hand, which she had gloved on her way back from the school. She could feel the coldness of his touch through the fabric. It took all her inner resolve not to pull her hand from his in horror.

Mustering an indifferent but polite smile, she inclined her head. “My lord.”

“I will leave you both to become better acquainted.” Her father turned and marched from the room. Did Sabrina detect a spring to his step? Miserable man. He was genuinely happy to be rid of her. As hard as she tried to ignore it, the fact her own father did not love her still smarted.

“Were you offered refreshment? Perhaps I can order tea.”

“No, thank you. I recently had a meal at the inn. Shall we sit?” he asked. A brief, brittle smile haunted his waxen features.

Sabrina immediately sat in the wingchair. She had no desire to sit next to him on the small settee. With a fling of the tail of his coat, he sat opposite, crossing his long legs.

“Allow me to give you a little information about myself. I am sixty-one years of age, in fine health, and in the possession of a modest fortune. I have been a widower for fifteen years, and I am of a mind to marry again. I do a fair bit of entertaining and need a hostess for these events.” He leaned forward, his bony hands resting on the ornate knob of his silver cane. “But more than that, I am lonely. I want a companion, a friend.”

Nothing he said caused her to be alarmed, but his narrowing gaze made her tremble involuntarily. Fine health? Her father had lied to her about the heart condition; she was not the least bit surprised. There was something not quite right about this man. He acted smug. As if he already owned her.

“Allow me to speak boldly, my lady,” he continued. “I am of an amorous nature, and because of it, I wish for a willing bed partner—one old enough to appreciate experience and young enough to withstand my attentions.” A slow, creeping smile spread across his face, like a malevolent feline spying a helpless mouse. “I already have an heir and a spare. I have no desire to have squalling brats running about my house. The fact you are barren appeals to me greatly.”

The utter arrogance of men. They automatically believed the blame of not becoming pregnant lay solely on the woman. Pepperdon had made her see a physician, and the doctor had quietly relayed to her that all appeared to be in working order and perhaps the culpability, as it were, lay with Pepperdon. God forbid the doctor reveal such a fact to the earl. But neither did she. It would have only angered him further and no doubt subjected her to more humiliation.

Her father must have given Sutherhorne all the salacious details of her marriage to Pepperdon. May all men rot in a fiery pit. Well, except Riordan. Looking at the earl, she was glad she’d sought out the schoolmaster. Such a stark difference between them. Riordan was welcoming warmth, the marquess the complete opposite. A walking, talking icicle. He eyed her, waiting for her response.

Sabrina cleared her throat. “I appreciate your frankness. Allow me to do the same. My marriage to Pepperdon was loathsome, and he left me penniless. I have a few caveats before I will consider your suit.” Her voice was strong, her tone confident. She was off to a good start.

He arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? Your father did not indicate such.”

As I surmised. “I will be bringing my personal maid with me. Her yearly salary is forty pounds per annum, to be paid quarterly. By you.” Sabrina decided to keep talking with the marquess, to allow both him and her father the illusion that she was even considering this marriage.

He gave her a slight shrug. “That is agreeable. The salary is a bit more than what is paid a lady’s maid, but I will consent to it.”

“I also will require a quarterly payment. Let us call it pin money. I want currency to call my own to spend as I please. I should not have to come begging if I wish to purchase new gloves or a book.”

The marquess’s steely gaze narrowed further. “Greedy little thing. Again, I do not object. Shall we say fifty…?”

“One hundred pounds per quarter.”

He licked his thin, colorless lips. “I daresay you have more fire in you than your father led me to believe. What a pleasant revelation. It will bode well in the bedchamber.”

The bedchamber again. The complete conceit of the man. Was she supposed to be charmed and excited by this? Instead it made her stomach churn. Sabrina decided to ignore his statement. “I require you to stipulate in your will that upon your death, I will be granted a yearly stipend of three thousand pounds until my death, and a place of residence of my choosing. All I require is a comfortable, modest place by the sea. Before I agree to any marriage, I must see all these provisions in writing, in a legal and binding document.” There. The requests should delay things long enough for her to make her escape.

“Well. Marriage to Pepperdon taught you much. What you are requesting is not unreasonable. Any man of honor would make sure his widow was provided for. Pepperdon was a lout. Rest assured I will meet your demands.” He stood, and Sabrina did the same. Apparently the meeting was concluded. What a relief. “I will go at once to the solicitor in town.” He patted his coat pocket. “I already have a special license, signed by the archbishop himself. I will pay a visit to the town vicar and make arrangements. We will be married before the week is out.”

“Perhaps you are getting ahead of yourself, my lord?”

He stalked toward her, and without thinking she backed up several steps until she found herself against the fireplace mantel. He leaned in; his heavy, pungent scent nearly made her retch. “I have waited eleven years for this, Sabrina, and I have run out of patience. You see, your father chose Pepperdon over me. There was more than one suitor for your hand. Quite the…contest.” A cruel smile spread across his face. “All I know is I wanted you then, and I want you now. More than ever.” He whorled the shell of her ear with his tongue, causing her to cry out. “I will have you, make no mistake,” he whispered before he stepped away. “I shall return tomorrow with the appropriate agreements, and I will expect your answer. Good afternoon, Sabrina.” With his hand on the door handle, he paused, turned, and stared at her with a neutral expression that developed into a slow, wide grin. With a slight cackle and nod, he opened the door and left.

As if out of a Gothic novel, cracks of thunder sounded as he exited the room. Heavy rain thrashed against the windows in concert with her beating heart.

Sabrina whirled about and grasped the mantel to keep from collapsing into a heap. Never had she been so frightened. She covered her mouth to keep a scream from clawing its way up her throat. What did he mean by a contest? Sabrina did not like the sinister way he’d conveyed the sentence. As if it had an underlying and ominous meaning.

Regardless, the path was clear. She could not stay here no matter the circumstances. Nor could she allow herself to be trapped in another loveless marriage with an old peer.