Morgan lifted his brows in a silent question, apparently not rude enough to ask it bluntly.
She had never intended to have children. She couldn’t abide the little beasts. Immediately after her grandmother’s death, though, she had changed her mind. She would suffer the agony of pregnancy and childbirth for that money. It was a small price to pay. So, she had continued having affairs with any and all gentlemen who crossed her path, simply dropping her vigilance about avoiding pregnancy. Unfortunately, she had not become with child even once in the past nine years.
Louisa turned her back on Morgan and spoke to the fireplace. “Believe me, I have tried. Not with Browne, of course.” Theirs was a marriage in name only and her husband had never set foot inside her bedchamber. “But my efforts, and trust me, there have been many, have failed to produce a child.”
“And yet you don’t seem nearly as upset as the situation would appear to warrant. Your cousin is a mere three and twenty. Surely she has many years ahead of her to produce this child,” Morgan supplied helpfully.
“Oh, she certainly does,” Louisa replied slyly as she turned around again. “And I hope the dear little nuisance is blessed with a dozen—after my thirtieth birthday!”
Morgan nodded sagely. “Ah, the caveat.”
“Yes, indeed. If neither of us produces a child by my next birthday—which falls exactly one year from this month—then I inherit by default.”
“Does the girl know?”
“Good God, no. Do you take me for an idiot? I met with my grandmother’s solicitor privately and assured him Browne and I, as her guardians, would inform Victoria of the unusual terms of the will.” She dropped into the chaise facing the fireplace.
“And Mr. Browne himself?” Morgan absurdly still deferred to the man’s position.
Louisa cut her sharp gaze to the butler’s face. “He doesn’t know either. This is my money. However,” she said while twirling a ribbon on her dressing gown, “if you are willing to help me, I might be persuaded to part with some of it.”
“Couldn’t you have postponed her Season one more year?”
“Ha! As if I didn’t try my damnedest. Browne is so oblivious, he has never before realized how old Victoria is. I assumed nothing would change. But I have had things well in hand these last few weeks. I have made the mouse look as ridiculous as possible and I do not introduce her to anyone of consequence—or under the age of sixty.” Louisa popped up from the chaise and began to stalk around the room again.
“Yet the Marchioness of Northfield called upon her today,” Morgan interjected, while drawing up into a sitting position on the edge of the bed.
His words stopped her in her tracks. “What?”
The bastard shrugged. “She stayed for about twenty minutes.”
“Bloody hell! Somehow she’s caught the eye of the Duke of Taviston as well.” She noted the widening of Morgan’s eyes. “I am shocked as well, but I do not mistake the look in his eye. I have received that look from countless men. Taviston wants her.” She caught the disappointed expression adorning her lover’s face. “Oh, I seriously doubt Taviston has any ideas about marrying Victoria. I know the man” —though not carnally, as she would have liked— “and he wants someone polished, someone regal, someone exactly like his mother, to be his duchess.”
“Then, what is the problem?”
“Passion has a way of making people do stupid things. I certainly don’t mind if the duke does something stupid, as long as it doesn’t result in marriage to my cousin. I am doing my best to ruin her ragged little reputation, in the eyes of not only the duke, but all of society. Nothing would please me more than to see her returning to Lincolnshire with her tail between her legs, all hope of marriage vanquished.”
Morgan rose and began pulling on his clothes. “How do you expect me to help?”
Louisa yanked the trousers from his hand. “You may support me emotionally for now and be ready to assist me in any capacity later, should the need arise. I will not allow her to marry anyone, let alone the duke.” She entwined her arms around the butler’s neck and dragged him back to the bed.
Chapter Eleven
Victoria attempted, with little enthusiasm and no expertise, to embroider a flower on a linen handkerchief in a small, dark sitting room on the third floor. Facing the street, the two narrow windows didn’t let in much light, but noise from outside was another matter. Decorated in a dark shade of yellow, the room made Louisa feel putrid, hence she never used it. Despite its dubious charms, Victoria did, often hiding herself away, enjoying the solitude.
She was surprised when Morgan knocked on the door and disturbed her.
“Yes?”
“A package has been delivered for you.” He breathed heavily from the climb up and she was certain he intentionally failed to address her. He held a brown paper-wrapped package in his hands.
Victoria held back asking who it was from, for why else would the butler himself ascend to the third floor except out of curiosity? Arising from her window seat without disturbing Arthur, she said peremptorily, “Thank you, Morgan.”
The duke had taught her much about attitude.
Morgan reluctantly let go of the package and left the room with a look of sheer annoyance on his face.
Victoria ripped the paper off the package and found the two books she had selected at Hookham’s yesterday. Puzzled, she opened the cover of the top book and saw a note folded inside.