“Oh.” For the umpteenth time this evening her cheeks flamed.
“Don’t worry.” He tugged at the ribbons of her cloak, pushed the thick material from her shoulders. “I’ll need a comfortable bed when I claim your body. For now, I would like to test a theory.”
“What … what theory?”
He brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “That a raging passion lies beneath your prim exterior. That our wedding night will prove to be more than satisfactory.”
Chapter 3
A dull thud echoed through the study. Lord Callan banged the mahogany desk with such force the lids of the ink pots rattled on the hinges. The man's eyes bulged. His complexion resembled a rainbow of hues: pink, red, purple with a hint of blue.
“You have the nerve of the devil, sir!” Saliva bubbled at the corners of Lord Callan’s mouth. He stabbed his fat finger at Matthew, seated on the opposite side of the desk. “I’ll not agree to it. Do you hear me? I’ll not sentence the girl to a life with a scoundrel.”
Lord Callan was a blasted hypocrite. The man owed so much money his creditors were liable to tear the breeches from his bulbous behind to raise a shilling.
“Would you prefer to see her scrubbing floors in the workhouse?”
Lord Callan’s cheeks ballooned. “Workhouse! Good God, man, it will not come to that.”
“Then you possess the funds to pay your gambling debts?”
The man’s mouth opened and closed numerous times. “My … my private business is no concern of yours. Everything would have worked out perfectly had it not been for your untimely intervention. Lady Morford assured me her son would make my niece an offer of marriage.”
Suspicion flared.
Had Lord Callan approved of Lady Morford’s plan to force a betrothal? It certainly explained why he allowed Miss Smythe to roam the garden freely.
“I see.” Matthew narrowed his gaze. “You risked your niece’s reputation in the hope of settling your debts. Lord Morford is a generous man and would not allow his wife to suffer the shame of an uncle sent to debtors’ prison.”
The chair creaked under the pressure of the lord’s squirming buttocks. “You insult me with such a remark.”
“It is only an insult if it is not true. Desperation has a way of suppressing a man’s morals. Those with an addiction often justify abandoning their principles.”
“And you would know.” Lord Callan gave a contemptuous snort. “Condemn me if it satisfies you, but I’d rather my niece wed a respectable gentleman than a reckless rogue.”
Surely the lord was not naive enough to think Miss Smythe had a better option. Only a disreputable man would offer for a woman compromised in a garden.
“Reckless rogue?” Matthew scoffed. “Jibes don't offend me. I recognise there’s an element of truth to your words.”
The lord’s face flamed. “So you admit you’re a libertine?”
“I find restraint is not a word in my vocabulary. But we digress. I am assured Lord Morford will not offer for your niece. The lady will tell you so herself. I, on the other hand—”
“I’ll rot in hell before I let you ruin the girl.”
Matthew put his fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. “It is a little late to worry about her virtue. I ravished Priscilla in front of witnesses.”
“God damn you. How dare you speak of it so blatantly. Have you no shame?”
Shame? After his father’s dishonourable conduct, shame had been his constant companion. But he was a man now not a boy. He’d let the devil damn him before he gave the emotion merit.
“Weak men feel shame, my lord.” And cowards who chose to run away from their problems.
“Dishonourable men feel indifference, Mr Chandler.”
Matthew gave a weary sigh. There was only one way to bring an end to the gentleman’s mindless rants.
“I fear there is not an ounce of sense in your addled brain.” Matthew stood. “I bid you a good day, my lord.” With a curt nod, Matthew turned and made for the door.