Bound By One Scandalous Night. Diane Gaston
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Edmund returned to the Grosvenor Street town house at ten the next morning. As he announced himself to the footman attending the door, Glenville walked down the stairs.
‘Edmund!’ Glenville was, of course, surprised to see him. ‘You are back so soon. To what do we owe this pleasure?’
Edmund had come to call upon Amelie, but to say so now would only cause Glenville to ask questions. He might as well provide the answers first.
‘A moment of your time?’ he asked.
‘Certainly,’ Glenville said, still sounding puzzled. ‘Come to the library. Would you like some refreshment?’
‘No,’ Edmund handed his hat and gloves to the footman. ‘Just a word with you.’
Glenville gestured for Edmund to follow him. The library was behind the drawing room, in the back of the house. If the drawing room was designed to impress and entertain, the library was intended for comfort and solitude. It was lined with books and filled with comfortable chairs.
Glenville lowered himself into one of them. ‘Please have a seat.’
Edmund remained standing and debated how to start.
Might as well charge ahead. ‘I came to ask for something which, no doubt, you will be unprepared to hear.’
Glenville’s brows rose.
‘Actually, it is not something I think you can grant, but I owe you the courtesy of hearing it from me.’
‘And this is?’ Glenville asked.
‘I would like to pay my addresses to your sister.’
Glenville’s eyes widened. ‘Pay addresses?’
‘Court her,’ Edmund went on. ‘Marry her.’
Glenville shook his head in bewilderment. ‘But you do not know her!’
Edmund knew her better than Glenville could guess, but he could not explain. He’d promised to never speak of that night to anyone.
‘It is true we have not been in each other’s company—’ he began.
Glenville cut him off. ‘Not above twice! Once in Brussels and last night.’
Three times, actually. ‘I would still like to speak to her.’
Glenville stood again and walked over to a far corner of the room. He turned. ‘Do not get me wrong, Edmund. I think you are a fine man. I am proud to be connected to you by marriage, but I do not think this will work.’ He paused. ‘Your suit is—is just not...’ His voice faded.
‘Not acceptable because I am a bastard?’ Edmund finished for him.
Glenville lifted his hands. ‘That is of no consequence to me, but I cannot see my father giving his permission.’
‘I will have to speak to him, of course,’ Edmund said. ‘But first I would like to speak to your sister.’
Glenville frowned. ‘Are you thinking she will accept you, because her betrothal to Fowler fell apart? She is still young. My parents will expect other suitors.’
Better than he, a bastard with uncertain prospects, though perhaps not once the pregnancy was discovered. ‘I am well aware that she might deserve a better suitor than me.’
Glenville shook his head. ‘I still cannot wrap my mind around this. What makes you think she will accept you? She spoke hardly two words to you last night.’ He frowned and peered suspiciously at Edmund. ‘Are you experiencing financial difficulties? Because Tess and I would be glad to help you—’
Edmund straightened. ‘I am not after her dowry! Believe me, money does not enter in this at all.’
Glenville sputtered. ‘This is hardly making any sense!’
‘What is your objection to me speaking to her?’ Edmund pressed on. Even a decent gentleman, like Glenville, could not help but wish for a better man than Edmund for his sister’s husband, apparently. Edmund was disappointed, but not surprised. ‘I am perfectly willing to withdraw if she should refuse me.’
Glenville’s expression, however, seemed filled with kindness. ‘I do not object to you speaking to Amelie, Edmund. I do not object to you at all. I am merely taken aback.’
‘That is all I ask,’ Edmund said. ‘To speak to her.’
‘By all means. And I wish you well.’ Glenville walked to the door. ‘Wait here. I will send her to you.’
He left the room, and Edmund pressed his fingers against his temple. No one would think this viscount’s daughter should marry a mere bastard. Even Edmund did not think himself worthy of her. Her marriage to him would cause talk. More talk when a baby was born too soon, but this was the respectable solution, the honourable choice.
A few minutes passed before the door opened again.
Amelie walked in. ‘Edmund?’ She looked surprised and less than happy to see him. ‘What are you doing? My brother said you wanted to speak to me.’
She also looked unwell.
‘Are you ill?’ he asked, taking a step towards her.
She halted him with her hand. ‘Mornings are bad for me. Tell me what you are about, though. My brother looked uncertain. You did not say anything to him about—about—?’
About Brussels? ‘Never,’ he responded. ‘I gave my word.’
‘Well, my guess is that my brother is going to pound me with questions after you leave. Why would you wish to speak to me? Marc and Tess are going to want to know. When the truth comes out about—about me, this might make them think you were involved.’
‘I was involved,’ he said. ‘I am involved. Stop talking and listen to me.’
She clamped her mouth shut and crossed her arms over her chest.
‘You ran off last night before I could make plain to you what we must do—’
Her eyes flickered, but she did not move.
‘There is only one solution, Amelie. We must think of what is best for the child, not for you or me.’ He was not coming to the point. He took a breath. ‘We should marry. Marry me, Amelie.’
‘Marry?’ She looked shocked.
He hurried on. ‘The baby will have my name instead of no name. He or she must never know the scandal of being a bastard or of growing up not knowing who his parents really were. The child will be able to grow up respectably.’
‘You cannot truly wish to marry me!’ she cried.
He’d never dreamed it to be possible. ‘You cannot wish to marry me, but our wishes cannot matter in this. We must do this for the baby.’
‘For the baby,’ she repeated, glancing away.
He strode up to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘I know what it is to grow up a bastard. It is an albatross one must carry all one’s life. It is the fact against which everything else one does is judged. I do not want that for our child. I cannot allow what I have done to so burden a child.’
‘It was my doing, Edmund,’ she said sadly. ‘You should not have to pay the consequences of what I have done.’
‘What we have done,’ he corrected. ‘I accept my part in it.’ Indeed, he knew he bore the lion’s share of the guilt. ‘But the child. He or she should not have to pay the price.’
In so many ways Edmund had been lucky. He’d not been abandoned to the streets of the Rookery. His mother had loved him. His father had acknowledged him and raised him as a gentleman, sent him to school and purchased his commission. But, even so, never, in any situation, had he been allowed to forget he was a bastard.