Page 14 of The Botanist’s Improper Bride

He didn’t know her at all.

“I don’t want to marry him. Did you tell him I would?”

It would be just like her father to agree to something without consulting her first. It was what he had done with Beardsly, after all.

His jaw muscle ticked, and when he spoke, it was through gritted teeth. “I didn’t give him a definite answer. Believe it or not, I know you aren’t fond of the man, and I don’t wish to make you unhappy if there are other options. The trouble is, we owe him, and other options may potentially be few and far between.”

“Why do I have to marry at all?” she asked in a fit of uncharacteristic bluntness.

“Because that’s what young ladies in your position do.” He sighed and visibly made an effort to loosen his jaw, rubbing at the spot just below his ear. “I know that losing your mother has made all of this more difficult for you, but you must marry. It’s best not to draw it out for too long.”

“But why must I?”

“That’s just how it is.” He snuck a peek at the door as if he wanted nothing more than to leave this conversation. Frankly, she felt the same way. “You’re a resourceful girl. I’m certain you’ll make the most of whatever situation you find yourself in once you’re married.”

He wasn’t wrong, but didn’t he see that there were so many more possibilities for her than just being a wife? There was nothing wrong with marrying, raising children, and running a household, but nor was that all there was to life.

She dreamed of more.

If she was forced to marry Mr. Emerson, that was all she would ever do: dream.

A man like him would never allow her to indulge in a hobby that he considered unsuitable. If she had to wed, she would be better off with a husband who was happy to let her do whatever she wished as long as she provided an heir. Someone less involved in the affairs of the ton who wouldn’t care if she didn’t want to play the consummate hostess.

“Please don’t make me marry Mr. Emerson. Please, Father.” If she had to beg, she would. “I can find someone else. I’ll do my best not to put them off with any bluestocking tendencies.”

He cocked his head. “You would be willing to pursue a husband in earnest?”

“If I must.”

“Without doing or saying anything to make him think you aren’t a good choice of wife?”

She squirmed, wondering if he suspected what she’d done with Phineas Beardsly. “Yes.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and then he said, “Fine. I asked Mr. Emerson to call on me officially in thirty days, after the gossip about the failed wedding has quietened. I will give you that time to find an alternative suitor and persuade him to offer for you. If you don’t, then I’m afraid I’ll have to accept Mr. Emerson on your behalf.”

“Thirty days?”

Thirty days was nothing. A single month. How could he expect her to achieve so much so quickly?

“I can ask for a month’s reprieve considering how recently you were betrothed to another man, but if I ask Emerson to wait for longer, he may rescind the offer, and we can’t afford that. Thirty days is the most I can give.”

Tears burned in the backs of her eyes, and she was glad he couldn’t see them in the dim carriage interior. It wasn’t enough time. But somehow, she would have to make it work.

CHAPTER 6

“Everything is going to be fine,” Lady Wembley said as she descended from the carriage and stepped aside so Trevor could join her.

He wasn’t sure he agreed. He doubted he had ever been more uncomfortable in his life. He was a grown man who was bringing his mother with him to the tailor’s shop because he didn’t know how to properly dress himself in order to court a society miss.

He should have outgrown this stage of life a good ten years ago.

Unfortunately, the only other woman who could advise him was his cousin Letitia, and as an unmarried chit, she could hardly accompany him on such an errand.

He looked up at the tailor’s shop, which was much larger than the one he frequented in Lincolnshire. It was painted a dark blue-green with gold lettering above the large gridded windows.

He inhaled a lungful of cool air, then coughed. Bloody awful London pollution. At Nunhaven, the only fragrances outdoors were from flowers, grass, and if he ventured far enough from the house, livestock. It was much preferable to this nasty mix of city odors.

Lady Wembley made for the front door, so he followed and held it open for her. Inside, the smells dulled, and it was quieter. Gentlemen’s clothes in a range of styles and colors—mostly dark—hung along the back wall, and others were displayed in the windows.