The Husband Plot Read online

  Mary had never shown any interest in Lord Brabourne. She’d never shown any interest in anyone since her first fiancé, poor old Ned, had died on the battlefield.

  And now their father had decided to offer her up like some sort of gambling chip to win a business deal.

  Adrian could have roared with anger.

  “I suppose I should go make the proposal myself, to win the fair lady’s favor.” Rising, Lord Brabourne headed for the door.

  Adrian threw himself across the room to block the man. He took one breath, to rein his reaction to something reasonable. “There are proper ways to go about this, my lord. Let me discuss it with Her Grace to prepare Mary for your courtship.”

  Brabourne smirked. For a moment, Adrian thought he was going to insist, just because he knew he could.

  But Lord Gresham spoke first. “That’s the way of it, Brabourne. If I may speak from the wisdom of marriage, one mustn’t upset a woman’s delicate nature by rushing one’s fences. Let her family suggest the idea first, and then you’ll have her undying favors.”

  Brabourne’s lips thinned in frustration. Then he retreated. “I suppose you’d know, since somehow you won Lady Gresham’s hand when there’s no rhyme or reason why she’d care for the likes of you.”

  The two of them laughed. Adrian could barely focus on why. He only knew his father had sacrificed his sister, and he had no idea how to make the situation right.

  It was only later, after the lords had left, that Adrian read what remained of the letter:

  The Assembly has seen fit to approve the privilege bill. You are now to inherit my full fortune and property. Come home after Mary’s wedding.

  I rest easy knowing that whether or not I live to see you again, you are both promised a bright future.

  Your loving father

  Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Lisbeth’s nerves buzzed pleasantly as she changed for dinner, her mind folding over the events of the afternoon as neatly as a pair of winter gloves being tucked away for the summer. It had been a day of surprises: first Annabelle and Bernard, then Adrian, and thirdly Lord Brabourne strutting into her drawing room. Lisbeth had been visiting with Annabelle regularly, but she hadn’t expected any of the three males to grace her with their presence. She wasn’t sure whether she had been more surprised by Bernard’s red hock of hair or the gleam of territorial prejudice in Adrian’s eyes as he crossed to claim his spot behind her.

  Mary had smirked with her about it, when all the other visitors had left. “From the look on Adrian’s face, I’m rather surprised he didn’t challenge Lord Gresham to a duel at first sight.”

  “That would be the most ridiculous story to grace the gossip rags in a century.” Lisbeth couldn’t help giggling at the thought. It was safe to imagine Adrian fighting for her honor when she knew it would never happen – and when the picture of him parrying was so delicious. For whatever reason, she conjured him in nothing but breeches, torso gleaming in the sun as his arm muscles flexed with each jab of sword.

  It was the type of fantasy best pinned to the back of her mind until her sister-in-law was safely out the door.

  “I hope the two of them put Lord Brabourne in his place,” Mary had continued, thankfully ignoring the blush that had crept across Lisbeth’s cheeks. “One might think he owned Hathorne Shipping from the way he carried on.”

  Lisbeth had noticed that, too; she may even have spoken too sharply to try to muzzle the man. She hoped Adrian wouldn’t scold her for it. They’d been getting on so well since their last spat, that she hated to earn his ire.

  Suzy, Mary’s maid, had curtsied into the room then, curtailing Lisbeth’s thoughts as she presented Mary’s cloak and gloves. “You asked me to make sure you left by quarter to five, Miss.”

  Mary visited enough that Lisbeth had grown accustomed to this dynamic of the maid shepherding the mistress to and fro. She knew by heart the way Mary beamed up at Suzy, the murmur of thanks that came from a voice Mary used on no one else: “You’re too good for me, Suzy.”

  It wasn’t something Mary felt the need to hide from Lisbeth, and therefore it wasn’t something Lisbeth felt the need to interrogate. She simply enjoyed watching the glow spread across Mary’s face whenever Suzy entered the room.

  And here Lisbeth was again, lost in her thoughts as she changed for dinner. They were due for their weekly meal at Frampton Square, and Lady Cecilia had sent Lisbeth word that the poet Mr. Walter Scott had accepted the invitation as well. A promising evening to cap off an interesting afternoon. Lisbeth couldn’t have imagined a happier spring for herself if she tried.

  When she descended to the parlor, Ford informed her Adrian was still in the study. “If you don’t mind me saying, madam, I don’t believe Sir has changed for the evening yet.”

  Lisbeth knocked lightly at the door but didn’t wait for permission before pushing inside. She’d grown to admire this room, even though she sometimes envied the hours Adrian spent holed up there instead of tracing kisses down her spine. Its simple decorations didn’t proclaim so much as complement Adrian’s personality: a sturdy oak desk, bookshelves lined with leathery economics and ship logs, a Turkish rug with yellow flowers dancing across an orange field of silk. Best of all, Adrian himself, always sitting behind that desk, one hand bracing his scalp as the other raced across the page penning whatever brilliant missive he currently worked on.

  At the moment, however, he wasn’t writing anything. He bent as if napping across the surface of the desk, his forehead cushioned by his palms, and when he heard the door open, he barked, “I’m not to be disturbed.”

  Lisbeth hesitated. “What of dinner? We’ll be late if we don’t leave soon.”

  Adrian raised his head, revealing creases across his cheeks and forehead from where his face had pressed against his hands and desk. “I didn’t know it was you.”

  A small part of her was gratified that his harsh tone hadn’t been directed specifically at her. The larger part of her, however, prickled with anxiety at what could so utterly ruffle her husband.

  “Did The Rebecca bring bad news?”

  Adrian sighed. It was more of a heave, as if he thought he could expunge whatever bothered him with a simple exhale. Yet he didn’t form any words.

  Lisbeth moved closer, rounding the desk to place a hand on the nape of his neck. His skin was hot to the touch, almost feverish. “Demons are worse when we refuse to name them.”

  “It’s not that I refuse. I hate to say it aloud.” Adrian leaned backwards, his head resting against her stomach. “However, it must be said. The sum of it is that my father has decided my sister should marry Lord Brabourne.”

  For a moment, the words didn’t make any sense to Lisbeth. “Your sister Mary?”

  “She is the only sister I am aware of.”

  “But –” Lisbeth stopped herself from finishing the thought aloud. Mary would not be the first woman who loved someone other than her husband. There was no need to call Adrian’s attention to it, especially if that was what he had already been brooding over. Instead, she said, “I wasn’t aware that such a match was under consideration. Is Mary amenable?”

  “I don’t believe she has any more idea than you do. I’m to arrange a formal call with the assistance of my grandmother.” Adrian pressed his mouth into her skirts, as if that would make his words false. “Brabourne knew what the letter would say. He struck the bargain with my father without so much as looking at Mary.”

  He didn’t mean it literally, of course, but Lisbeth used it as an opportunity to look for a bright side. “We married without so much as a look, and it has worked out for us. Perhaps this will be best for Mary.”

  She wished she could believe it.

  “Perhaps,” Adrian said. He stood. “There’s no use moping about it, I suppose. I’ll go tomorrow to Berkwell House to inform my grandparents. I’m sorry, I have delayed us. Let me change, and we’ll be off to dinner.”

  In the shadow of the news, however,
Lisbeth couldn’t quite summon any excitement for dinner, not even for meeting Mr. Scott. “I’ll go with you tomorrow.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Adrian said absently, straightening the papers on his desk. “It’s a family affair.”

  “Am I not family?”

  He looked up at her tone, as well he should. Lisbeth’s stomach fizzled with tension. She didn’t want to upset him further, but neither could she let such a comment settle between them, not when they had been doing so well at making their marriage real.

  Adrian stepped backwards. “Of course you are. It is only that this will surprise everyone. My grandparents will want privacy. Mary will want privacy.”

  “Mary will want privacy, but she will need a friend. She will have so many reactions to sort through.” Lisbeth resisted the urge to frame her hands on her hips. She did not want this to turn into one of their arguments of old, where neither of them won. “I am her sister-in-law. I have faced two engagements to men whom I didn’t particularly want to marry. I can help her put this in perspective.”

  Adrian winced. Lisbeth wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t miss it. She couldn’t; it was as visible as a sneeze. He turned away. “As you wish.”

  What Lisbeth wished was that he would clasp his arms around her and claim a kiss to end their argument. She wanted to forget their dinner engagement and retreat upstairs, where nothing mattered except each other and the count of seconds until their clothes fell to the floor.

  But Adrian turned the opposite corner of the desk. He didn’t look at her again, not even when he said, “The privilege bill was approved. I am to return to Inglewilde Plantation after Mary’s wedding.”

  He said it so easily. As if he were announcing he was off to Carroway’s. As if the consequence of his words were not that he would leave her in a matter of weeks.

  Lisbeth bunched her fingers into fists. If he wanted to be so cavalier about it, then she certainly wouldn’t show how it made her feel. So she simply responded with, “We will be late for dinner.”

  Adrian hesitated at his desk for one more, long moment. He still didn’t look at her. Lisbeth thought he might say something else. But then he disappeared upstairs, and she was left standing by the embers of his fire, trembling.

  Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Adrian knew he should be worried about Mary. Whatever fairy stories Lisbeth tried to spin, their father’s decision would devastate Mary, both for how it sold her off in marriage and for the fact that their own father had done it without so much as a letter to her.

  His sister deserved better. Every woman, for that matter, deserved better than to be sold off in marriage.

  But the more he dwelt on Mary’s fate, the more he remembered the fire in Lisbeth’s eyes as she declared she hadn’t wanted to marry him.

  He had thought they had moved past such feelings. He had even dared hope she held some affection for him in her heart.

  Well, now he knew better. Lisbeth still viewed him as the pawn in her plan for an independent life. Their sex, then, fulfilled her desire for life’s experiences; it was not, as he had begun to think of it, lovemaking.

  She didn’t even care that he had finally been ordered back to Jamaica.

  We will be late for dinner.

  If she had been the one with the news, Adrian could never have responded so coldly. He would have fallen to his knees. Or broken into tears. Or said, Don’t leave me.

  Apparently, Lisbeth didn’t feel the same way.

  It was best to know these things, he reminded himself, but it didn’t feel anything close to good, his heart hanging heavy as the hackney delivered them to Berkwell House in a grim morning drizzle.

  Lisbeth didn’t quite look at him from her seat opposite him. They had only exchanged the slightest conversation since returning from dinner the night before, when Adrian had begged exhaustion rather than face her any longer. It was the first night they had slept apart since Lord Everly’s ball. He had mostly spent it staring at the canopy, alternating between convincing himself he had misunderstood her and recasting every moment they’d spent together from the perspective of a woman who could never love her husband.

  Which meant on this morning when Mary needed him most, Adrian was showing up exhausted and heartbroken.

  Some brother he was.

  They arrived at half past eleven, far too early for a social call, yet they were shown to the formal drawing room, done up in rose pink with elaborate gilt furniture and sparkling glass windows overlooking the square. Lisbeth walked slowly across the room as if evaluating every seat before taking the chair in the farthest corner. Making do on her promise of lending the family privacy, he supposed.

  Adrian wished he didn’t admire her so much. If he only thought of her as the generic English wife who secured his fortune, then he wouldn’t feel so deeply the absence of her affection.

  They waited a quarter of an hour before anyone from the family greeted them, and then it was Mary. Adrian’s heart sank even further as she waltzed into the room, all rosy cheeks and smiles of delight. “We didn’t expect you today. What good luck. I am dying to hear how you found Walter Scott.”

  She made it all the way to Lisbeth’s far chair before picking up on the gloom of their moods.

  “What is the matter?”

  Adrian locked his hands behind his back, lest he reach out and hug his sister in a fit of helplessness. “I’ve something to discuss with Their Graces, I’m afraid.”

  Mary turned to Lisbeth with a raised eyebrow. “That sounds ominous. I should hate to have something to discuss with Their Graces. Must you stay, or shall we go for a walk in the garden?”

  Lisbeth looked at him briefly before assenting. Adrian didn’t know what to make of it: was she asking for permission? Attempting to whisper something with the sole power of a gaze? Or simply reminding him that she and Mary were sisters in this terrible venture of marrying a man they could never want?

  He shook himself when the women had glided out of the room. He was being maudlin. He’d never planned on loving his wife; this would simply make it easier to say goodbye when the time came to leave Lisbeth in London.

  And he thought of a bright side of Mary’s betrothal: she could live in Jamaica, just one estate away from him. She could visit him endlessly. He could watch her children grow, dote on them as only an uncle can.

  The prospect cheered Adrian. Mary had always been his closest companion. They had borne the terror of the trans-Atlantic crossing together; they had recoiled together at the cold English weather; and even as adults, when Adrian was at home with his grandparents, he and Mary spent the quiet hours of the day together. To have her with him in Jamaica, even ten miles away, would make living without Lisbeth that much more bearable.

  Mary might even be able to help him transition Inglewilde Plantation into a free man’s land. At the very least, she could mitigate Brabourne’s reaction.

  Their Graces finally descended to the drawing room. They walked in together, the duchess’s arm looped through the duke’s as if they were entering a formal dinner. Adrian’s stomach turned again with uneasiness.

  He greeted them, as he always did, with a bow, and even once they sat, he remained standing. He was there as a messenger, after all. For once, he wished he were only a servant, and not someone responsible for the mess at hand.

  Their Graces took the news well. The duke didn’t seem surprised. “Mary has to marry sooner or later,” was his only comment. For her part, the duchess lifted her chin. “I’ll tell Mary, and we shall invite Lord Brabourne to dinner tomorrow night to formally offer for her hand.”

  They took it so well, in fact, that Adrian felt compelled to say, “I do not think Mary will welcome this match.”

  His grandmother braced her lips. “Unfortunately, what is done is done.”

  “Surely she has the right to refuse,” Adrian pursued. “She cannot be forced to marry a man she does not choose for herself.”

  “She h
as had plenty of time to select a husband for herself, and she has not done so. Lord Brabourne is wealthy, close to the family, and titled. Mary will see the wisdom in the match.” His grandmother looked at him with soft, fond eyes. “We women are prepared for our lot. You’ll see.”

  Her words echoed Lisbeth’s. She had agreed to two marriages without caring for the man. Did his wife believe in love? Did he even believe in love, or had he confused endless lust with some fairy story?

  He pushed the thoughts away. “Lisbeth is with Mary in the gardens right now. She would like to stay with Mary this afternoon, if that is amenable to Your Graces.”

  His grandmother grinned. “You see, you have to look no further than your own home to see how marriage works out. Already, they are more like sisters than sisters-in-law.”

  “Leave it to the women,” the duke said, rising shakily against his cane. The man was showing his age, from the white of his hair to the constant tremble in his legs. “If you have a spare moment, come along and tell me the news of Hathorne Shipping.”

  Adrian followed his grandfather to the smoking room tucked in the back of the house. He took the offered cigar, obliged the duke with minute details of business, all the while trying not to listen to the triple beat of his heart. Trying not to strain his ears to catch Mary’s cries of distress. Trying not to hope for Lisbeth’s footfall to interrupt them.

  He had placed the matter in Their Graces’ hands now. He knew he should be relieved. He should set aside the strange fear churning his stomach and focus again on business. There was no room for guilt or doubt or longing in a life such as his. There was only doing what needed to be done.

  Yet when he took his leave, Adrian couldn’t remember what he had just discussed with his grandfather. Lisbeth leaned over the bannister of the second landing to call, “Go ahead without me. I’ll be home before dark.” And still, he lingered. As if his presence might make a difference. As if someone might tell him what he could do to help.