A Most Sinful Proposal (The Husband Hunters Club 2)

An owl called from the gatehouse. He turned to follow it, a black shape against the sky, as it flew through the arched gateway and over the stone bridge that spanned the moat and disappeared into the park. Valentine wondered if Baron Von Hautt was out there, spying, and then dismissed the thought. What was the point now they both had the list? One thing Valentine knew with cold, hard certainty; he would never let Von Hautt beat him to the Crusader’s Rose.

And what about Marissa? his inner voice mocked. Will you protect her just as fervently?

He knew in his heart that he would.

She was good and beautiful and honorable, everything he could ask for in a woman, but she was also set against the life he led, with his obsession with roses and his library full of dusty botanical tomes. Her childhood had driven her to look for another life. And then there was George. Valentine felt a twinge of guilt, but he suppressed it. George had had his chance and he’d preferred a boxing match to wooing Marissa.

Is that what I’m doing? Wooing her?

Out in the park the owl called again—perhaps it had a mate—and then there was silence. Suddenly the whole world felt empty and he was very much alone. Was this how he would feel without Marissa? Or would he be able to lose himself once more in his search for his rose, burying his emotions and pretending he didn’t care? Would his feelings for her turn out to be an illusion, an infatuation, and like a summer cold would pass as swiftly as they had come.

“I’m not good enough for her,” he said aloud. “No matter what she thinks now, I’ll never be good enough for her. How can we be happy?”

It was what he’d learned from Vanessa and now the words were like a well-worn path in his head. It did not occur to him to question them.

With a sigh he lifted his face to the stars, then turned to go inside, and ran straight into a figure standing a mere yard away from him.

“What the hell…” Valentine began, struggling with the loose-limbed body clinging to him. The overpowering smell of ale engulfed him and he swore again, pushing George hard. His brother fell into the privet hedge, struggling to escape its scratchy clutches.

“No—no n-need to be like that,” he slurred.

“What are you doing here?” Valentine said furiously. “And in that state?”

George had got himself back on his feet and was peering at his brother in the starlight. “Who w-were you talkin’ to?” he demanded. “Thesh no one here.”

“I was talking to myself, if it’s any of your business.” Valentine strode off through the walled garden, but George followed him, stumbling every now and then and muttering curses.

“I—I was in Ma-agna Mi’combe,” he said at last, catching Valentine’s sleeve and attaching himself to it, trying to stay upright.

After trying to shake himself free, Valentine gave up and let his brother use him as a crutch as they made their unsteady way to the door and into the lamplit manor. Somehow he pulled George up the stairs after him, into the long gallery.

Moonlight washed through the windows, illuminating the family portraits gazing down upon them, generations of de Fevres and Kents and everything in between. Usually Valentine was inured to the faces, not even seeing them, but now he remembered Marissa’s words about how lucky he was and how the past mattered, and he viewed them in a new light.

He could give Marissa that stability, that sense of belonging. He could make her Lady Kent and carry on the family line for another generation. And just as all these people had lived and loved and wept within the walls of Abbey Thorne Manor, then so would they. Well, live and love, hopefully, with less of the weeping.

“You’re at it again.” George was digging a finger into his chest, pressing it painfully through his clothing. “Talkin’ to yourself.”

Valentine frowned—he hadn’t been aware of speaking his thoughts aloud.

“Firsh sign, you know,” George announced wisely.

“Of what?” Valentine muttered, as he moved toward the library.

“Insan-insan…madness.”

George had followed him and he shoved his brother none too gently down into one of the leather chairs. George sprang up again like a jack-in-a-box.

Valentine poured himself a drink, uncomfortable with the events that had taken place in here only a short while ago—Marissa’s face, lifted to his, the tears in her eyes as she fought against what she perceived as his rejection of her most precious gift.

“I have something to tell you,” George said importantly.

“And what is that?”

“I saw Von Hautt.” His pronunciation of the name left much to be desired. “In Mi’combe. I came to tell you. Important.”

“You saw Von Hautt in Magna Midcombe?”

“I juss said so, didn’ I?” George waved his arms furiously, and lost his balance, stumbling backward and falling into the chair. He went on as if nothing had happened. “Rode home as quick—quick…as fass as I could.”