spoken with solicitors, too. His father's title had to pass through him. There was no way for him to renounce his right to the title before it was his. Now, there was no need.
Keene raised his glass to his lips and remembered with frustration it was empty.
"I have decided you shall marry your cousin, or I will have you charged with attempted murder."
Keene stared into the empty glass. The last time he had seen Sophie she had been sitting in a tree spitting cherry pits. She hadn't been that young, either. At least fourteen or fifteen. She was a hoyden. She ran through her father's house. She laughed too loud. Once he even heard her swearing at an uncooperative fence gate. He shuddered and swallowed hard.
A year ago he would have laughed. He would have stuck to his guns that he would never marry. Certainly not that awful, unruly girl. Not marrying had been the one sure way he could give his father what he wanted. "If that would please you, sir."
His father guffawed.
Not the expected response.
"What happened to your pledges of eternal autonomy? Were you not the one who said fifty horses could not drag you to an altar?" asked the old man.
Had his father hoped he would chose exile? "That was when Richard was my heir."
Lord Whitley's eyes sparkled with a dewy glitter.
Keene stood and crossed to the brandy decanter. He poured a glass full and downed it in practically one swallow. "I am standing here in my dirt." He pulled the bellpull. "I shall attend you at dinner, where you may inform me of particulars. I assume, as I am willing to do your bidding, that you will see fit to allow me the wherewithal for a wife."
"That's it, you sniveling cur. You would marry that girl for the money."
Keene brushed his sleeve. No, that wasn't it. "I am sure that I could find a much more suitable and demure heiress who would accept my suit. Sophie is your choice, is she not?"
Keene moved to the door; fortunately, the butler arrived to show him to rooms he hoped had been prepared for him.
He dreaded the coming evening. Without Richard, who had loved them both, to buffer them, it would be an ugly business.
The next day he eagerly climbed into his carriage to travel to the Farthings. As he drew out into the lane, he laughed, realizing he was so glad to be free of his father he actually anticipated seeing Sophie again. He could hope that someone had taught her the meaning of the word demure in the last few years.
* * *
Sophie hitched up her skirts and skittered down the hall. She would have run, but she feared her footfalls would be overheard. Her thin slippers made little sound against the thick carpet. She ducked into her room, pulling the door shut ever so gently.
"Oh, miss—"
Sophie jumped and hit her head on the door.
"—you are wanted in the drawing room."
Sophie rubbed her forehead. "Lord, Letty, you gave me a fright. I didn't know you were in here."
"I was sent to fetch you."
"I'm not going. I saw Squire Ponsby's carriage. He'll just ask me to marry him again, and I'll have to say no. Then there will be nothing but unpleasantness for the rest of the day."
"Please, miss." Letty wrung her hands.
Who was foolish enough to send her maid to fetch her? Letty wouldn't have any more success than if one of the carp from the fountain had come calling. Sophie kicked off her slippers. She reached for a pair of shoes and sat on the bed to put them on. "Just tell them that I have gone out and you don't know where."
"Please, miss. Your mother said I had two minutes before she would come herself."
That was why they had sent Letty. She was to stall Sophie long enough so her mother could find her. Sophie dropped her shoes and sprang off the bed. "Oh, Ludcakes."
"There is another visitor coming to see you."
"Dash it all. Is it the vicar? Because I tell you, if he proposes and I refuse, I shall be damned to hell."
"Miss, please."
Sophie hardly knew if Letty was protesting her language or her sentiments. She was too busy pacing the
Keene raised his glass to his lips and remembered with frustration it was empty.
"I have decided you shall marry your cousin, or I will have you charged with attempted murder."
Keene stared into the empty glass. The last time he had seen Sophie she had been sitting in a tree spitting cherry pits. She hadn't been that young, either. At least fourteen or fifteen. She was a hoyden. She ran through her father's house. She laughed too loud. Once he even heard her swearing at an uncooperative fence gate. He shuddered and swallowed hard.
A year ago he would have laughed. He would have stuck to his guns that he would never marry. Certainly not that awful, unruly girl. Not marrying had been the one sure way he could give his father what he wanted. "If that would please you, sir."
His father guffawed.
Not the expected response.
"What happened to your pledges of eternal autonomy? Were you not the one who said fifty horses could not drag you to an altar?" asked the old man.
Had his father hoped he would chose exile? "That was when Richard was my heir."
Lord Whitley's eyes sparkled with a dewy glitter.
Keene stood and crossed to the brandy decanter. He poured a glass full and downed it in practically one swallow. "I am standing here in my dirt." He pulled the bellpull. "I shall attend you at dinner, where you may inform me of particulars. I assume, as I am willing to do your bidding, that you will see fit to allow me the wherewithal for a wife."
"That's it, you sniveling cur. You would marry that girl for the money."
Keene brushed his sleeve. No, that wasn't it. "I am sure that I could find a much more suitable and demure heiress who would accept my suit. Sophie is your choice, is she not?"
Keene moved to the door; fortunately, the butler arrived to show him to rooms he hoped had been prepared for him.
He dreaded the coming evening. Without Richard, who had loved them both, to buffer them, it would be an ugly business.
The next day he eagerly climbed into his carriage to travel to the Farthings. As he drew out into the lane, he laughed, realizing he was so glad to be free of his father he actually anticipated seeing Sophie again. He could hope that someone had taught her the meaning of the word demure in the last few years.
* * *
Sophie hitched up her skirts and skittered down the hall. She would have run, but she feared her footfalls would be overheard. Her thin slippers made little sound against the thick carpet. She ducked into her room, pulling the door shut ever so gently.
"Oh, miss—"
Sophie jumped and hit her head on the door.
"—you are wanted in the drawing room."
Sophie rubbed her forehead. "Lord, Letty, you gave me a fright. I didn't know you were in here."
"I was sent to fetch you."
"I'm not going. I saw Squire Ponsby's carriage. He'll just ask me to marry him again, and I'll have to say no. Then there will be nothing but unpleasantness for the rest of the day."
"Please, miss." Letty wrung her hands.
Who was foolish enough to send her maid to fetch her? Letty wouldn't have any more success than if one of the carp from the fountain had come calling. Sophie kicked off her slippers. She reached for a pair of shoes and sat on the bed to put them on. "Just tell them that I have gone out and you don't know where."
"Please, miss. Your mother said I had two minutes before she would come herself."
That was why they had sent Letty. She was to stall Sophie long enough so her mother could find her. Sophie dropped her shoes and sprang off the bed. "Oh, Ludcakes."
"There is another visitor coming to see you."
"Dash it all. Is it the vicar? Because I tell you, if he proposes and I refuse, I shall be damned to hell."
"Miss, please."
Sophie hardly knew if Letty was protesting her language or her sentiments. She was too busy pacing the
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