The Devil Is a Marquess (Rescued from Ruin Book 4) by Elisa Braden Read Free Book Online Page B

over her hip. “Isn’t it splendid? My modiste is one of the greatest talents in the city. She is Italian, but I suspect even a Frenchwoman could not compare. Of course, one must pay for quality, would you not agree?”
    “Hmmph,” came his answer before he waved to a velvet-upholstered chair facing his desk. “Sit, girl. We have much to discuss.”
    Again, she grinned up at him and did as he bid, sinking onto velvet and glancing toward the window. The sun had gone below the horizon, leaving a dim twilight sky and three candles to cast a shallow glow around the desk. It felt warm and cozy, the fire crackling merrily behind her, the prospect of freedom beckoning.
    She met her father’s gaze. He did not seem to be enjoying the ambience. “Mr. Pryor mentioned you have a proposition.”
    “Charlotte, you know I wish for you to marry.”
    She nodded, resisting the urge to offer a sarcastic reply. She would hardly be in her fifth season otherwise.
    “Unfortunately, it has become obvious that attracting the sort of match I desire is not within your capabilities.”
    She raised a finger. “I did warn you, Papa.”
    He continued as though she had said nothing. “Therefore, I have arranged a match for you.”
    Waiting a full minute for him to elaborate, she listened to the crackle of the fire and slowly blinked. “A—a match?”
    “The gentleman in question has agreed to my terms—”
    She shook her head, her stomach first cramping then sinking like a stone to the bottom of a pond. “No.”
    “He will marry you, and you will live with him for at least a year.”
    “No.”
    A scowl settled upon her father’s bushy red brows, pushing them down low over hard eyes. “You will do this, or I will put a stop to your allowance.”
    “Should that trouble me? It will be a blessing to be rid of the harness—”
    “All payments to your aunt and uncle will likewise end.”
    This time, the “no” was a whimper inside her head. She attempted to regulate her breathing, struggling to keep it even and steady. She wanted to leap up and shout that he could not do this, that Aunt Fanny and Uncle Frederick had been loving parents to her when he had abdicated the position. That he owed them far more than the funds he gave them for her upkeep, and so did she. That Andrew and the twins would need those funds for their grand tours and their education. But she knew her father. He would not be persuaded by pleading or emotional entreaties.
    Carefully, she laced her fingers together in her lap. She wished she had kept her gloves on. Of a sudden, the chill of the room settled beneath her skin, making her hands mottle with cold. “In that case, perhaps you would care to explain your … demands in greater detail,” she said smoothly, proud of herself for the evenness of her tone.
    “You must have known this was coming, Charlotte. We discussed the possibility when I arrived weeks ago.”
    Yes, they had. Her father had visited Brook Street a fortnight after docking in Liverpool and promptly announced that her friendship with a certain eligible earl signaled that she’d been actively resisting his aims for her. She had argued that Lord Tannenbrook was simply a kind man who had defended her honor on a previous occasion, and that they had become friends, nothing more. He had not believed her. In fact, he had approached Tannenbrook and all but threatened the man’s life to take her hand in marriage.
    In yet another humiliation to add to her endless stack, James had staunchly refused, saying he would not be bought and advising Rowland Lancaster to allow his daughter the dignity of making her own choices. Her father had not taken it well.
    Now, she could see that the rejection of his offer had not, in fact, dissuaded her father from his goal, but had further fueled his determination. He must have returned to Tannenbrook and offered him a sum too great to refuse. She happened to know that James had spent a decade rebuilding the ramshackle estate