A Marriage Deal With The Viscount. Bronwyn Scott
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want to spend any more time in the Viscount’s company. He would have questions about her; he would want to know what a married woman with a foreign title was doing here in England alone.
Those were questions she preferred not to answer. The less he knew about her, the better. The sooner they were away from London, the less chance there was of him discovering her sordid past.
Sofia let out a breath. This was not going as planned. She would have been content to stay hidden away in her Chelsea terrace home, conducting business by letter behind the façade of Barnham’s name, making money and pursuing her own dreams, her own plans. She wouldn’t have participated in the Season at all if it hadn’t been for the wedding and the lure of the alpaca deal.
That wasn’t quite true. Those were lures that brought her out into society. But there’d been a threat, too, that even now under the warm spring sun brought a chill to her bones. Sofia pressed a surreptitious hand to the hidden pocket of her skirts, feeling the folded sheet of paper within: Il Marchese’s latest letter and least friendly to date. It had arrived on the heels of Helena’s invitation to the wedding, an invitation she’d thought to refuse. But the letter had changed that. It was a reminder that for all of her careful plans, a formal divorce sanctioned by the Kingdom of the Piedmont and the distance of three delicious years of freedom, she was still not beyond Giancarlo’s reach. Il Marchese di Cremona, her husband, wanted her back.
It wasn’t the first letter in the last six months, but it was the darkest. The first letters had wooed her with apologies and testaments of reform. He wanted to try again. He would be a better husband this time. She did not believe those protestations, not with ten years of infidelity and cruelty to weigh against his words. Nor had she given them any credence. Why should she? She was here and he was a continent away and unlikely to bestir himself to come after her. She knew him. But those letters had invoked a tremor of subtle fear. He’d found her. The address on the envelope proved it right down to the number of her row house—not that she’d ever taken pains to hide her location. She’d not thought she needed to. She was here in England with a choppy Channel, a continent and the legal assurance of their dissolved union. She had every security that Piedmont no longer recognised her marriage.
But times had changed, it seemed. This letter no longer cajoled. Giancarlo’s patience and the King’s was running thin. Piedmont might recognise her divorce, but the Kingdom of Piedmont no longer approved of its existence. The King himself wanted Giancarlo to reclaim his wife, and Giancarlo, wanting the King’s favour, was willing to do so.
Sofia drew a deep breath against the panic such a thought raised. She wouldn’t go back, not even if the King of Piedmont required it, which it seemed he did. This time, Il Marchese was not the only one with money. She had money, too, a lot of it, and that was the most important weapon of all. With money, she could fight. She could raise an army of solicitors and barristers, she could tie up proceedings in Chancery for years with appeals.
The comfort in that idea was short-lived. Of course, Il Marchese wouldn’t fight fair. If she took it to court, there were things he might accuse her of, things that, even though untrue, could cast a poor light on her scruples and cause people to question her morals. Should that fail, what he couldn’t force legally, he would force practically. He would simply take her, kidnap her and drag her back to the Piedmont. Then, a piece of paper regarding the dissolution of their marriage would hardly matter. There was no one to stop him from taking her except herself.
Il Marchese would have to find her first. Money meant she could fight. It also meant she could run. Money was portable. She would go to ground in the most obscure parts of England if need be. The trip to Somerset was a start. Would the Marchese give her fair warning? Would he come himself or would he send his minions to negotiate?
No. She wasn’t going to think about it. She would not worry over it. He wanted her to worry. This letter was the beginning of the torment he’d designed for her, part of his game, lest she forget who really held all the power. She entered the house, her head high, a smile on her face. Helena must not know about this new threat. Helena would want to fix everything, would want to use her father-in-law’s influence to protect her without realising the consequences of stirring that pot. Sofia could not allow her friend to be dragged down into the mire of her life. She’d not told Helena everything, could hardly bring herself to give words to her marriage, not when Helena’s was so blissful.
This was her battle and she’d wage it alone as she’d waged so many other campaigns in her life. Alone, victory was possible, escape was possible, freedom was possible. With others involved, there could only be...complications. In two days, she could leave London behind her and vanish into the west. Like a good general, she would retreat, regroup and fortify her new position. There was only the wedding to get through and then the ball. She’d survived worse.
Conall shifted uncomfortably on the hard seat of the pew. He’d survived worse, but there was no doubt weddings made him edgy. They were reminders of the passage of time and the pressing need to do his duty for the Viscountcy; a duty he could not afford without a wealthy bride, which placed him in a rather contradictory position. To marry money, one needed to have money. Unless one wanted to marry a wealthy Cit. No woman of good birth wanted to marry an impoverished title. Olivia de Pugh had reminded him quite coldly of that axiom when she’d broken off their pending betrothal right after his father’s death when Conall had gone to her in good faith with the financial details his death had revealed. She had not been impressed with his honesty.
Weddings were also reminders that marriage was the greatest business risk of all, one that came with no safety net, as his mother had discovered. Her lifetime of security had been an illusion maintained only as long as his father had lived. Even his death proved that forever was for ever—the choices made in that marriage would follow his mother always. When it came to matrimony, there was no getting out of it, there was only tolerating it.
Conall took his seat five rows back from the Cowden family pew and looked around St George’s. There were plenty of people here who were doing just that—tolerating it. Behind him sat Lord and Lady Fairchild, who both gambled copiously, but never together, perhaps to recoup the excitement their marriage lacked; to his left was Lord Duchaine, who had come alone as he usually did. Lady Duchaine was in Paris, staying longer with each annual trip to the Continent. There were rumours she kept a lover in a grand apartment in the Faubourg, a lover ardent enough to override the pleasures of the London Season.
There were others, too. All decked out in high fashion, all with false smiles and similar stories. Duchaine and the Fairchilds were by no means anomalies. How ironic they’d all come to celebrate another couple being consigned to their ranks. Conall thought it more appropriate if they’d come to mourn or at least warn the couple. It seemed hypocritical for the noble masses that filled St. George’s to smile and shed a ‘happy tear’ when they knew from experience just how elusive marital happiness was.
Across the aisle, Olivia de Pugh, golden and lovely in a pale-yellow gown specked with tiny primrose flowers, entered with her family and the very wealthy Baron Crossfield. She spied Conall and gave the slightest of nods and an I-told-you-so smile. Another time, he might have felt the intended sting of her gesture, but today, Olivia’s traditional English beauty left him empty. Perhaps he’d had a narrow escape, after all. What man wanted to be loved for his income or title alone? Wasn’t this room full of people who were testament to how unsatisfying that premise ultimately was? And yet the practice of matching title to fortune persisted as if by doing it over and over again, it would suddenly come out aright.
Or maybe the room was full of people, like him, who’d once hoped they’d be different, that for them, marriage might work out. After all, it had worked out for the Treshams. That family was renowned for their love matches. Conall focused his gaze on the Cowden pew, where there sat two generations of exceptions. The Duke and Duchess of Cowden were already in place, hands linked, heads bent towards one another. Beside them sat their two daughters-in-law—Helena valiantly hiding a six-month pregnancy beneath crinolines to avoid