Chapter Six

July 15, 1812

"N o," said William Chance, the Duke of Cothrom, calmly. "No, I don't believe it."

John stared. "What do you mean, you don't believe it?"

"I don't believe it," repeated his older brother with a frown. "And there is absolutely nothing you can say to me that will make me believe it, either."

This was not the auspicious start John had hoped for.

When his older brother had invited him over to Cothrom House in London for tea, John had seen it for what it was: an excuse to check up on him, to ensure the second Chance brother hadn't caused any mischief.

And he hadn't. Much.

He had waited, patiently, too— well, mostly patiently —for an opportunity in the conversation to share his news. His new sister-in-law, Alice, had been a most gracious presence in the room while Cothrom complained about the antics of the third Chance brother, the Earl of Lindow, and John had listened, nodding in all the right places. He had earned the opportunity to share his good news. And now Cothrom was saying he wouldn't believe it?

"Well, it's true," said John, perhaps more testily than he should. "And you can go on disbelieving it as long as you wish, but that doesn't make it any less true. And—Alice, what is this tea?"

Cothrom rolled his eyes as John beamed at his wife. "You always were one to get distracted."

"Only by the best things in life, and this tea is sublime," said John, gesturing with his teacup at his hostess. "Wherever did you find such an exquisite blend?"

"I make it myself," said Alice with a teasing look at her husband. "William found it so refreshing, when I was sent to—when I went to the Dower House, I mean, he got rid of my entire stock due to missing me. I had to make a fresh batch, and I must say, I am quite delighted with it."

"There's assam in there, am I right?" asked John with a smile.

He nodded as Alice spoke about the careful blend of tea. He was only doing this to annoy Cothrom, which was perhaps bad form. But really! Here he came with the best possible news—the sort of news Cothrom had been demanding for months now—and the man did not even wish to give him the benefit of the doubt?

"—and just a tablespoon of—"

"Hang the tea!" exploded Cothrom. "My apologies, my dear," he said swiftly to Alice, flushing at his own rudeness. "But you know my idiot brother is only—"

"That was a low blow, don't you think?" protested John, leaning back in his chair and grinning.

"—only asking you about the tea so he can avoid the topic," his brother persisted.

He wasn't wrong. But John wasn't going to tell him that.

"You turn up here," said Cothrom, violently pointing a teaspoon at him, "at my home—"

"William," said Alice calmly.

"—and you try to make us believe—"

"You were the one who invited me to tea!" countered John.

He shouldn't be enjoying this. He really shouldn't. He could see the pressure building in the oldest Chance brother, knew it was irritating him beyond belief. And Cothrom had just gone through a rather stressful experience of his own already this year. Marriage to a woman who turned out to be not quite what you thought was very taxing on a man who always had to have things just so.

But that didn't mean Cothrom could berate him for this!

"—make us believe," continued Cothrom stoically, a dark gleam in his eye, "you are going to be married!"

John grinned. "Yes."

"Married."

"Yes."

"To a woman."

"Yes."

"And she has consented?"

"On purpose and everything," John said cheerfully.

He should have done this years ago. He hadn't had this much fun aggravating his brother in ages, and it was markedly entertaining. He should have made sure Lindow would be here. The man would have loved it.

"Married," Cothrom repeated in a monotone.

John threw his free hand up in the air in mock exasperation. "Married, yes. As in, a wedding. To a woman who will then be a wife. I think you are familiar with the concept?"

He chanced a glance at his new sister-in-law and saw to his delight she was stifling a giggle.

Oh, it would do the old man good to have a wife who could, and would, laugh at him. If there was one thing that Cothrom needed more than anything, it was taking the large stick out of his—

"I don't believe it," said Cothrom flatly.

"We're going around in circles," Alice said, putting a placatory hand on her husband's arm. "I understand your astonishment, William, truly. I never would have thought any woman would agree to—"

"That's a bit harsh," interrupted John with a wink. "After all, you agreed to marry this brute!"

Cothrom actually went to rise from his chair, which was not something John had anticipated, but the tightening of his wife's fingers on his arm steadied him.

John watched the two of them in barely hidden wonder.

It was astonishing. You thought you knew a man. The same parents, the same household, raised by the same nanny then governess. They had both gone to Eton—all three Chance brothers had—and had attended the same college at Cambridge, though taken very different degrees.

And then Cothrom could go and get married, and you saw an entirely different man from the one you'd known your entire life.

Well, nothing of the sort would happen to him , John thought impressively as he tried to hear the gentle words Alice murmured to her husband. He knew precisely what and who he was.

None of that was going to change.

John grinned as his older brother fixed him with a look. "Yes?"

"Married?" Cothrom said. "Ouch!" He rubbed at where his wife had jabbed him with her elbow. "Well! It's a perfectly reasonable—"

"Who is the fortunate woman?" asked Alice firmly. "I'm tired of going around in circles, it's like having a conversation with Maudy about what she wants for breakfast. Who is this woman you are marrying?"

John grinned. "How is Maudy?"

Discovering his brother had decided on a whim to marry a woman he had met once at a ball was one thing—finding out that she had a child already had been quite another.

Still. If he was going to have a niece, he'd want one like Maude. Bright, mischievous, and utterly in control of the Cothrom household.

"She is fine, and you are avoiding my question," Alice said with a smile.

Ah. And his sister-in-law was clever, too. More's the pity.

"I am getting married," John said enthusiastically, finishing his tea and placing the cup on its saucer on the console table beside him. "I am, Cothrom, really—and to a perfectly respectable woman with a good dowry." A stupendous dowry. "You've met her!"

"I sent you to that house party to behave yourself," Cothrom said with a sigh. "To get away from London and the gambling hells. Not to propose to random women!"

And a flicker of something unfamiliar curled around John's torso.

Possessiveness. No, that wasn't it. A need to defend. It was, in fact, an absolute fury that Cothrom had spoken so casually about the woman he—

Well. Probably best not to interrogate that thought any further.

"She is not a random woman," John said, discovering to his surprise that his response was more curt than he had meant it to be. "She is Miss Florence Bailey."

Cothrom stared. "Miss Bailey?"

"Yes," said John tightly.

For some reason, sharing the name of his betrothed felt exposing. As though he had revealed something of himself he had not intended. As though he were now... vulnerable.

His brother snorted. "I don't believe it."

"For God's sake, man!"

"Now, please," Alice said peacefully.

The two brothers halted immediately. John swallowed, trying to force down the anger that had just made him bellow across the little parlor. Cothrom crossed his arms like a petulant child, but managed to hold his tongue.

Good , John thought fiercely. He didn't even deserve to speak Florence's name.

Oh, and you do? The irritating little voice was back.

She asked me to marry her , John pointed out silently. Mostly.

"William," Alice was saying. "You have been saying ever since I met you—before that, I am sure—that you wished for your brothers to settle down. To marry, to—"

"Yes, but not like this," Cothrom said, cutting across her with an expression of exhaustion. "I hoped they'd put a little more thought into the choice!"

His wife grinned. "What, like you did with me?"

The two of them shared a moment John was not a participant in. He watched, though. Curious.

Because it was strange. Odd, to think of his brother as a spouse. It was not something he had ever truly considered. It was like a different part of Cothrom had blossomed. A part that John had known, sort of, but never seen grow. And he was happy, there was no denying it. No explaining away the look of deep affection that passed between the two of them. It was so intense, John felt awkward just being in the same room.

Cothrom turned back to him. "Miss Bailey."

John inclined his head. "The very same."

"You've known her for... for some time, haven't you?" came the stiff reply.

"Some time, yes." It wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the truth either.

Because how could he tell the whole truth? How could John admit that two years ago he had ended up falling into a courtship he had never intended, and then, when he realized just what matrimony would mean, he had... escaped?

Escaped was not the right word. Fled.

Just one kiss. That was all it had taken for John to realize, in that moment, just what he would lose by walking away.

And yet he had.

"Look," John said aloud, forcing the memories of that time away. Where they belonged, right at the back of his mind. "I have not lost my head or anything. This is not a love match."

Alice raised an eyebrow at the firmness of his last few words. "It isn't?"

"It isn't," John said steadfastly.

"It isn't?" said Cothrom, mystified.

"Look, let's not construct a new circle for us to go round and round in," said his wife hastily. "You are not marrying for love—"

"Most definitely not," said John swiftly.

Far too swiftly. Why had those words tumbled out of his mouth? What was he afraid of—being presumed to be such a ridiculous man that he had actually permitted his feelings to get involved?

Ludicrous!

"Which means," said Cothrom darkly, "you're marrying for money. The poor woman, does she have any idea—"

"The marriage was her idea in the first place," John interrupted, hating that he had to reveal this but knowing it would be the only thing his brother would listen to. "Florence—Miss Bailey. It was her idea."

A marriage of convenience.

He hadn't said the words aloud, yet John was astonished to find that sadness rushed over him now even as he thought them.

A marriage of convenience.

Well, it was convenient. She wished for solitude, an escape from the unrelenting calendar of Society. He needed money—respectability, that was. It was a match made... well, not in heaven.

John looked up from his hands, hardly aware of when his head had dropped to them. It was difficult to tell what made him more morose: Alice's clear sadness, or Cothrom's relief.

"Oh, well, that's different," said Cothrom with a brief smile. "A marriage of convenience, between two acquaintances. Yes, that makes far more sense—ouch!"

"Are you certain that's all this is?" asked Alice, ignoring her husband after her elbow had delivered its blow.

"She is a wallflower looking for an escape, and I need money," John said, repeating—or at least, paraphrasing—the hurried discussion he and Florence had shared behind her carriage. "That's all there is to it."

"All?"

"Of course," he said dismissively. "Look—I'll prove it to you."

Striding over to the little writing desk Alice had brought to Cothrom House when she had married, John pulled out a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the ink pot, and wrote a few hurried lines on the paper. He signed it with a flourish, waved the paper about to dry it as he returned to his seat, then grinned as he handed it over to Alice.

She looked at the paper with a hint of disapproval. "I see."

"What is it?" Cothrom asked.

Alice handed him the note.

John's brother read it aloud. "I promise that I am only marrying Florence Bailey for her money, for her stupendous dowry and nothing else. John Chance, Aylesbury."

"Really, John, is that necess—"

"I'm not sure what else I could do to persuade you," John said cheerfully to his sister-in-law. "There it is, in black and white."

It had felt odd, writing such a thing. But it was true, John reassured himself silently. Florence knew it, he knew it—it was as simple as that. Everyone was going into this with their eyes wide open.

Mostly. Florence—Miss Bailey—believed he wished for respectability, an end to the mamas of Society chasing after him. In truth, her dowry had not been mentioned between them at all.

Not that it was any of his brother's business.

Cothrom sighed heavily. "Dash it all, Aylesbury, but... well, this isn't what I meant."

"Well, you will simply have to think about what you did mean, and tell me at our next meeting," said John, hearing the chime of a clock somewhere about the place. "I am afraid I have another appointment."

"What, with your lady love?" Alice teased as the three of them rose.

John grinned. "Goodness, certainly not. I'm off to woo the mother!"

It had been Florence's suggestion. Her mother, apparently, was elated with the news that her daughter had finally—Florence's word—managed to snag a suitor. Her elation had become a thrill when she discovered that he was a nobleman.

What Mrs. Bailey had said when Florence had revealed he was a marquess, John did not know.

Apparently, the best way to guarantee everything went smoothly was for John to meet her—the mother, that was—at his earliest convenience. John suspected, though he would never suggest such a thing, that Florence was worried her mother did not believe he existed. A late-afternoon tea had been arranged, and he was not going to be late.

John grinned at the world as he left his brother and sister-in-law behind and strode down the busy London streets. It was foolish, really. This joy brimming in him, it couldn't be because he was going to be seeing Florence in a few minutes.

Miss Bailey. He must remember to call her Miss Bailey before her mother.

Or could he call her Florence now, now that they were engaged to be married?

The thought was a rather pleasant one.

A marriage of convenience. John could see easily how it benefited him—forty-five thousand pounds would be more than a convenience. A careful conversation with a solicitor friend who could find these things out, and he had discovered just how convenienced he would be by marrying Florence. But he hadn't quite understood Florence's eagerness to tie herself down to a man. To any man, let alone him.

It had something to do with her mother, apparently.

John could not understand it, but then it would surely all become clear once he arrived.

Ten minutes later, seated beside Florence on a sofa far too small for two people, and opposite a severe-looking woman who was all frowns and prickles, he could indeed see why.

"Ah," he said weakly as the interrogation which had begun six minutes ago continued. "Let's see. My father was the Duke of Cothrom before my brother, naturally—"

"And just how old is that family lineage?" interrupted Mrs. Bailey, a glare surfacing as though he were trying to avoid the question. "I asked how far back your nobility went, young man, not who your father was! That's the sort of thing a mother wishes to know. Certainly it's what my mother would have wished to know."

John stared in amazement at the woman. He had never been spoken to before with such... such enmity. He was here to marry her daughter—to make her the Marchioness of Aylesbury. And the woman wanted to quiz him about history?

As John consumed two cups of tea, three biscuits, and a slice of dry cake that tasted as though it had been left out for some time, he endured question after question. It was more an interview than a first meeting with one's future mother-in-law.

And throughout the torment, Florence sat beside him. Silent. Her eyes cast down, her fingers gripping the cold cup of tea she had not so much as sipped from the moment her mother had thrust it into her hands.

Two painful hours later, John could see perfectly plainly why Florence would wish to escape her mother.

The damned woman was a harpy!

"And I do not think your tailor has done your collar points justice," said Mrs. Bailey with great authority. "I would have thought you, as a nobleman, let alone a gentleman, would have spoken to your valet about such a thing. If you have a valet, of course."

The prickles of irritation which had grown larger and larger with every passing moment threatened to overcome his good manners once again. But once again, John swallowed the cutting remark he wished to make and smiled painfully at the woman.

"I will have a word with my tailor and my valet," he said in an understated tone. "Though this is the latest fashion, Mrs. Bailey."

"I am glad to hear you will be taking care of it," Mrs. Bailey struck back. "Collar points of a certain angle and fabric were good enough for my husband, and I can't think why these fashions should change so quickly, can you?"

Just for a moment, John glanced at the woman beside him. Was this truly what her mother was like all the time? Did she honestly wish to transform him into some sort of replica of her husband?

Florence remained silent. Her cheeks were red, the painful sort of blotchy that John knew meant she had reached the epitome of her embarrassment. If he were to make a guess, he would estimate that it was now physically impossible for Florence to speak.

And even if she could, what would she say? This harpy— this woman , John corrected himself mentally—was her mother. She had evidently been ground down by a lifetime of the constant rudeness of Mrs. Bailey.

No wonder Florence would accept any marriage, any man, to escape her.

The thought was most unpleasant. Was it possible Florence had attended the house party in order to choose a rescuer, John thought with a start, and the choices were himself, Mr. Lister, and a viscount?

Was he only a better choice than Mr. Lister?

"Tell me," said Mrs. Bailey without a hint of embarrassment, "just what happened between your brother and that woman of his?"

John turned back to face his future mother-in-law and tried to smile. "You may have to be a tad more exact, Mrs. Bailey. Lindow has many—"

"Not that rascal," interrupted Mrs. Bailey. "I meant your elder brother, Cothrom, and that woman he married."

And that was the final straw.

John was not a particularly proud man. There were many topics of his personal life that almost anyone could critique without him raising even a hair of an eyebrow. In fact, now he came to think about it, he had frequently accepted rudeness from ignorant individuals and had weathered it without a care.

But not Cothrom. Not Alice.

Not his family.

Before he knew what he was doing, before he could stop himself, the words he had been wishing to say within five minutes of entering the Bailey house poured from him without pause or self-censure.

"You should perhaps mind your words more carefully!" John snapped. "It is none of your business what happened between those who have absolutely nothing to do with you—and I would thank you to speak of the Duke and Duchess of Cothrom with a little more respect!"

Mrs. Bailey's mouth was open, and she was now giving a passable impression of her daughter. "I-I... n-never before have I—"

"Then it's time that someone spoke to you in the manner in which you deserve," said John, an angry heat suffusing through him. "This poor woman beside me may have chosen to endure your insolence and nosiness, but I do not have to. I am to be your son-in-law, Mrs. Bailey, and I refuse to permit you to speak to me like that, and if I hear that you have done so to Florence, then you shall be very sorry indeed!"

"John!" gasped Florence beside him.

It was the first thing she had said to him since he had arrived, and John was heartened by it. The thought that his Florence—that Florence had suffered through years of this...

It did not bear thinking about.

"We are leaving," he said stiffly.

"W-We are—"

He did not permit Florence to continue speaking. Grabbing her hand and ignoring the splutters of Mrs. Bailey, John pulled his betrothed out of the drawing room, through the hall, and out of the front door. Only after he had dragged her along the street and taken a left, finally pulling her into a garden in the center of the square, did John pause.

And then he let go.

And then he thought about what he'd said.

"Oh, hell," John said weakly.

His temper was already cooling, regret already starting to grow in his mind.

He looked at Florence, whose eyes were wide. "I... damn it. I hope you don't mind. I'm not usually so—"

"I know," said Florence quietly. "But I remember how you spoke to that man who beat his footman unnecessarily. You can't bear injustice."

John stared.

Not just because she had remembered. Dear God, he hadn't even known she'd seen that. He'd pulled the whip out of the man's hands and berated him soundly. The idea of violence had always repelled him, but to see it enacted on a young lad—

No, it was because Florence had spoken. Spoken clearly. Without a single stutter.

It appeared she had just realized the same thing. Dropping her head and twisting her hands before her, Florence said, "A-Anyway, I-I don't m-mind. The r-rudeness, I mean. I've wanted to s-say that for y-y-years."

John's pulse skipped a beat as she glanced up with a wry expression.

Dear God. If she looked at him like that again, he might just do... do anything.

"You have a dowry of five and forty thousand pounds," he blurted out.

Regret immediately poured through him. Damn it to hell, what on earth had he said that for?

Florence was flushing, gazing at her feet. "Y-Yes."

John swallowed. "You could have suggested this... this marriage of convenience to anyone and been accepted. Why me?"

Why the answer to this question mattered so much, he could not explain—but it did.

Florence did not look up as she replied. "I-I d-don't want vultures circling me for my m-money. Ignoring me, happy to m-marry anyone attached to the numbers. I d-don't want to be w-wed for my b-bank balance. You need respectability. You aren't c-cruel. I chose you."

There was a moment of silence between them.

And John could have spoken. He could have admitted that he needed that money, and that he was most definitely wedding her for her bank balance. That he was out of money, in debt, and trying desperately to keep away from the card tables.

But he couldn't.

"In that case," he said aloud, hoping to goodness she hadn't seen the look of devotion he had shot her. Just for a moment. Just when his guard was down. "Let us take a walk about the park, and you can tell me what else you have wanted to say for years."

Florence went scarlet. Then she placed her hand in John's arm. "N-Not all of it."

"Not today," John countered with a grin, his stomach lurching. "No. Not today."