A Risk Worth Taking (8 page)

He presented a striking air, strong, powerful, the type that made women overlook any obvious flaws he might have. Anne did not need to be told Griffin Blackmoor’s flaw. She recognized it.

He was a drunkard.

Although he was not overly inebriated at the moment, she still could tell he’d had more than his share of liquor. She would always recognize the signs: the look, the smell, the speech. She’d lived with it her whole life.

“Are you unharmed, my lady?” His question brought her back to the present.

“Y-yes,” she stuttered, trying to make her voice work. “Thank you.”

“Just what proposal was the marquess speaking of?”

She took a deep breath. “A marriage proposal.”

“Do you need to think over your answer?”

“No. Even if I were looking for a husband, which I’m not, the marquess would be the last man I would consider. No offense, sir, but deferring to any man would be impossible for me.”

He paused for a moment as if to think about her words, and when he spoke, her blood turned to ice.

“Then I’m afraid you are not going to like my proposition any better.”

Anne had to remind herself to breathe. When she did, she was filled with a fury that made her tremble. She marched around the sofa and stood before him with her hands on her hips. “I’m not interested in finding a husband, Mr. Blackmoor. In fact, I am adamantly against it. My sister and I will get along just fine without either of us being tied to a man.”

“Your sister and you will not get along fine, and you know it. How much longer do you think Brentwood is going to let you stay here? Especially if forcing you to leave means you will become more dependent on him?”

She blanched. How did he know?

“How long do you think you are going to be able to put food on your table when you don’t have the money to buy it? Freddie hasn’t even been gone four months and you’ve already pawned the first of your mother’s jewels to get by.”

She took a step backward. “How did you know?”

He didn’t answer but raked his fingers through hair the color of deep, rich coffee. Before the waves fell back into place, he rubbed his head at his temples as if he did not feel well.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

“I have come to help you. Freddie was my best friend. I owe him.”

“No, you don’t. Becca and I will find a way to survive without your help.”

“I wish that were true.” He turned his head and focused his dark gaze on her. “Unless, of course, you intend to accept Lord Brentwood’s proposal?”

“Not even as a last resort. I will take care of Becca on my own.”

“There is only one way for you to accomplish that. Whether you want to or not, Lady Anne, you are going to have to marry in order to support your sister.”

“No!” She pounded her fist against her skirt. “It seems I just had this same conversation with Lord Brentwood. I will tell you exactly what I told him. I have no intention of ever marrying. And I for certain have no intention of marrying you.”

He arched his brows. “As I have no intention of marrying you, either.”

Anne stopped. Her surprise was too great for her to continue.

“No offense intended, my lady, but I would rather face a firing squad than take a wife. Even you.”

His words could have offended her, if she didn’t feel the same. “Then what are you talking about?”

“I am talking about taking you to London for a Season, and letting you select someone with whom to spend the rest of your life. Someone who can give you all the advantages that come with titled wealth. Someone of your own choosing.”

She laughed. “Mr. Blackmoor, if I can’t afford to put food on our table without pawning some of our inheritance, I can assure you, I would have an even greater difficulty outfitting myself to attend months of endless balls and parties.”

“I will provide whatever you need. I am not without funds—substantial funds. I will cover all your expenses while you are in London.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “Why?”

“Because it’s what Freddie would have wanted.”

His words contained no emotion. They were issued with a definite lack of gentleness that shocked her. And yet there was a softness about him. Something special about the way he seemed. She’d noticed it when he walked into the room the day of Freddie’s funeral.

There was something about the strength of his carriage, his hooded blue eyes, and the haunting depth of his sadness. Everything about him drew her to him, pulled at her. She wanted to comfort him, as if he hurt as much as she.

“I do not want to marry.”

“You said as much.”

“Then why are you forcing this?”

“Because you have no choice. At least my option gives you the opportunity to choose your own mate, perhaps even someone you will eventually come to love. Choosing your own husband will give you a chance at happiness.”

“And if I am not willing to take the risk?”

“You have to. Your sister cannot afford for you to be a coward. Even if you can be satisfied with a life so barren and lacking, are you willing to condemn Lady Rebecca to the same fate?”

A piercing sharpness stabbed through her chest. “How dare you.”

“I dare because I care what happens to you and your sister. Just as Freddie would care if he were here.” He fisted his hands at his side, then wiped the fingers of one hand across his brow to take away a thin film of perspiration.

His complexion seemed paler than when he’d arrived, and when he raised his hand, it shook noticeably.

“Are you all right?” she asked, fighting the urge to touch his forehead to check for fever.

“I’m fine.” He stood beside her. “Brentwood will not stop his advances. Today was just the first.”

She shook her head but knew he was right.

“You are alone and unprotected here. Let me help you.”

“Why?”

“Because I owe Freddie. His last thoughts were of you. His last words were a plea for me to take care of you.”

“And you feel obligated?” When he didn’t answer, she turned away from him and looked out the window. She saw nothing but Freddie’s handsome face staring back at her in the glass panes. “You are not obligated to do anything, Mr. Blackmoor. You can go away from here with a free conscience. I will not accept anything from you.”

“If you want to do what’s best for your sister, you will.”

A thousand thoughts raced through her mind. She searched for an answer, but there wasn’t one—at least, not one she thought she could live with.

Nor was she able to look into Blackmoor’s face when she spoke. “When they brought Freddie’s body home, I tried to hate you. When I heard a robber had killed Freddie, but you had lived, I asked myself, why? Why would God take Freddie from us when we need him so desperately, and spare you?”

“Did you come up with an answer?”

“No. Except that there is a reason for everything, and some of the answers God keeps only to Himself.”

He smiled—the first smile she’d seen on his face. “I doubt God had a hand in any of this, my lady. I doubt God has noticed my existence for a long time. As I have not noticed His.”

She looked at him and could not help but wonder what had happened to make him so bitter. Perhaps she was better off not knowing.

“I don’t want to marry like this,” she said with all the conviction she felt deep in her soul.

“I know.”

“Do you see any other way for me to provide for Becca? Any way at all?”

“One. You could put Lady Rebecca in your place, put her on the marriage mart. Even though she is just fifteen, I am sure you could find some wealthy nobleman whose preference runs toward the very young. Then you would be spared the trials of taking a husband, and could live off your sister’s generosity for the rest of your life. From what I remember, Lady Rebecca shows promise of becoming quite a beauty. It would be easy for her to make a wealthy match.”

The air caught in Anne’s throat and she took a step backward in shock. He smiled again, a thin forced smile she did not want to look at.

“I didn’t think so.” He paced the room as if the four walls were suddenly too confining.

She clenched her hands until they hurt. “What is your plan, sir?”

He stopped. “As you know, my brother is the Earl of Covington. Being neighbors, he also considered Freddie a friend, and has agreed to help you. He and his wife have extended an invitation for you to be a guest at their London town house. They have agreed to introduce you to Society. You have until the middle of June, until the Queen’s birthday celebration, to make your choice. Then my brother
and his wife plan to leave for the summer months and go to the country.”

“But that is barely three months away.”

“Do you see that as a problem? I would think three months more than ample time to find a suitable husband who meets your qualifications. Unless, of course, one of those qualifications happens to be love.”

She swallowed hard and fought the painful pressure against her chest. “No, Mr. Blackmoor. I would never be foolish enough to make love a qualification. The only suitable husband would be one who makes no demands of me, does not notice or care if I am in attendance, and is wealthy enough to provide Becca a handsome enough dowry so she can afford the luxury of choosing a husband she imagines she can love.”

“As you wish. I’m certain there is someone out there who will fit your order to perfection.”

She closed her eyes and fought the sinking dread already swelling inside her.

“How soon can you be ready to leave?”

“Becca leaves for school tomorrow. She has missed enough of the term already.” She swallowed hard. “I can be ready the day after.”

“Very well. I suggest you say your good-byes tonight. The sooner you are away from Brentwood, the safer you will be. I will bring some carts and men in two days to move your belongings. I will also send a carriage and a chaperone to escort your sister back to school. They will arrive midmorning.”

She opened her mouth to say something more, then realized there was nothing more to say. Freddie’s death
left her with no other choice but to marry. It was the only way to provide for Becca.

“I will be ready.”

With a curt nod, Blackmoor turned, then walked to the door. Twice on his way out he reached out his hand to steady himself against the wall. When he reached his horse, he lifted himself into the saddle with an ease that belied his large stature, and rode away.

From the drawing-room window, Anne watched him leave. Midway down the lane, he stopped, then again a little farther. Both times he reached into his jacket pocket and removed a flask. He lifted the container to his lips and took a drink.

She shook her head. An overwhelming sense of regret and sadness filled her. She’d hoped and prayed she’d been wrong. She’d hoped she’d misinterpreted his nervousness, his perspiration, and his trembling hands for something other than what she feared it meant. But she hadn’t.

Griffin Blackmoor was a drunkard.

Just like her father.

A
nne stared out the window of the carriage Griffin Blackmoor had brought for her, and tried to calm her taut nerves. The voice that controlled her fear screamed to have the driver stop so she could go home. Until she remembered—she no longer had a home.

She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Each London town house they passed meant they were that much closer to their destination. That much closer to beginning her search for the husband she didn’t want. She thought of Becca, already back at Lady Agnes’s School for Young Women, and realized she had no choice. Her sister’s future depended on her.

Their good-bye had been teary and filled with trepidation, but the look of excitement on Becca’s face when she climbed aboard the carriage showed how eager she was to return to her friends. It would be a relief to leave behind the gloom that had blanketed them since Freddie’s death.

Anne’s carriage slowed, then turned another corner and slowed even more. They must be near their destination. Anne looked out the window again, not at the grand houses but at the man riding beside her carriage—the man whose offer had saved her, even if his motives consisted
mostly of fulfilling Freddie’s dying request and easing the guilt she saw eating away at him.

A strange warmth settled in the pit of her stomach, a confusing emotion she’d first experienced the day of Freddie’s funeral. Something she refused to put much thought to. She attributed it to Griffin Blackmoor’s physical features.

He was inordinately handsome. He sat a horse with magnificent grace, his powerful arms and legs guiding the large beast with seemingly little effort. The chiseled planes of his face only added to an underlying strength she couldn’t help but notice, while his dark hair and sky-blue eyes gave him an even more pronounced air of mystery and unapproachability.

There was a firm set to his features, a look of stern determination. As unwavering as the expression she imagined on soldiers before a battle, a look that matched the hollow emptiness in his gaze. A look she only expected to see on a man facing the gallows.

He lifted the flask she’d seen him drink from often on their journey, and tipped it high. It must be empty. With a painful expression, almost one of regret, he stared at the container, then threw it into the bushes.