“What if I agree to your proposal but choose never to consummate our alliance?”
His mocking snort echoed through the chamber. “You want the truth, Lillian, and so I shall refrain from spouting flowery words of sentiment. The only hope I have of controlling Vane is through you. If we’re married, and I mean in every sense that makes our partnership legal, he cannot take you away from here.”
Her bruised heart screamed for her to run from Fabian Darcy, as far away as her tired legs could carry her. What good could come from a loveless marriage? But her logical brain saw the sense in forming an alliance. Though Vane swore otherwise, she was a burden to him. A guilty reminder of every mistake he’d ever made. The passage of time made matters worse. His need to atone meant he rarely let her out of his sight. If either of them had any chance of finding happiness, something had to change.
Marrying Fabian might not save her, but it would give Vane his freedom. She would just have to hope and pray her brother forgave her.
“If I’m to remain here, I have a list of demands.”
“I expected nothing less.”
Lillian folded her arms across her chest. “I have no use for frames and threads. To secure my co-operation, I want a rapier, sharpened, preferably with a bowl hilt. I want a pair of silver-mounted duelling pistols, preferably John Twigg and in a mahogany case.”
For the first time in their long history, Fabian appeared shocked. “You don’t need an armoury to protect yourself from me. I only take willing women to my bed.”
The thought of him carousing and frolicking with tavern wenches caused an odd tightening in her chest. “If I’m to live amongst seafaring men, I insist on having a means of protection.”
“It is one thing to own weapons, quite another to use them effectively. I would be foolish to grant such a request.”
Lillian suppressed a smirk. She could shoot a target from a hundred yards, fence with skill, too. After the incident with Lord Martin, Vane insisted upon it. “Then I’m thankful my betrothed has granted me the freedom to make my own choices.”
“Does that mean you accept my proposal?”
Lillian closed her eyes briefly and said a silent prayer. “If it means we might find Estelle alive, then yes, Fabian, I’ll marry you.”
“Is that the only reason?”
She didn’t want to acknowledge the odd fluttering in her chest whenever he came near. This was a marriage of necessity … a marriage of minds, nothing more.
“Yes
, that’s the only reason,” she whispered, hoping he'd failed to detect the hitch in her voice, the telltale sound that said she was lying.
Chapter Four
Fabian left Lillian in her bedchamber, closed the door and paused in the dimly lit corridor. He resisted the urge to punch the air triumphantly. Events were proceeding as planned. Once they were wed, he’d make sure Vane knew where to find them. The marquess would do anything to secure his sister’s happiness. He would agree to help in the search for Estelle, and they stood a better chance of finding her if they worked together.
The need to save Estelle had forced him to harden his heart to all emotion. Marriage was nothing more than a business transaction — a case of bartering and exchanging commodities. So why was his pulse racing? Why did every nerve in his body spark to life at the thought of making Lillian Sandford his wife?
In his dreams, he’d asked her to marry him once before. He’d taken her to the orangery at Prescott Hall, proposed amid exotic flowers, promised to show her the world — not kidnap and blackmail her into submission. She’d smiled at him, not the scornful smirk she’d given tonight, but an expression of affection and respect. And the rightness of it all had penetrated deep into his soul.
But Fate had other plans.
Her father’s greed and her brother’s selfish pride had helped to dampen his desire. But while her acceptance to partake in his plan brought a sense of relief, it reawakened feelings long since buried. The powerful tug in his gut upon seeing her again was a testament to that.
Damn.
Sleep would elude him tonight. How could he rest knowing Lillian lay but a few feet beyond his bedchamber door? With a huff of frustration, he made his way to the kitchen. A man with Mackenzie’s appetite and size would be filling his face.
“You’ll find him in the brewery, my lord.” Mrs Bell wiped her hands on her apron. “He treats those kegs like they’re his children. Happen he’s covering them with a blanket and singing a sweet lullaby.”
Fabian laughed. “If I find him pushing one around in a perambulator, then I’ll worry.”
Mackenzie wasn’t singing to the beer barrels, but Fabian found him sitting on a milking stool, one arm draped over a keg while he supped from a tankard.
“After a night out in the cold, I thought you'd be in the kitchen or nestled in a chair in front of a roaring fire.”
“It’s a matter of priorities, my lord.” Mackenzie came to his feet. “This stuff needs drinking before it turns sour. Can I interest you in a mug of ale?”