LITMIR.BIZ

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was her cousin’s good will, and no careless jest was about to jeopardise that! Lord Look-Down-His-Nose would soon learn that one person at least was not prepared to have her life wrecked for a mere lordly whim!

      She found him in the downstairs parlour, idly leafing through a freshly ironed newspaper, lately arrived from London. Fortunately he was alone for a change.

      ‘Lord d’Arenville,’ she began, shutting the door firmly behind her. ‘I have just been speaking with my cousin Laetitia, and she seems to be under the impression that you…’

      He laid the paper courteously aside, stood up and came towards her. Tallie’s voice dwindled away. Heavens, but he was so very tall. She’d noticed it earlier, of course, but now, when he was standing so close, looming over her…

      ‘Ah, Miss Robinson. Good morning. Is it not a pleasant day? Will you be seated?’

      Miss Robinson? He remembered her name? She could have sworn he hadn’t taken a whit of notice of her the day they were introduced. Or since.

      ‘Er, thank you.’ Tallie allowed herself to be led to a low divan. He drew up a chair opposite, a look of faint enquiry lifting his dark brows.

      ‘You wished to speak with me?’

      To her great discomfort Tallie felt a blush rising. It was one thing to storm out of her cousin’s boudoir, declaring she would soon clear up this whole silly mistake, and quite another to confront this immaculate, gravely polite aristocrat with a wholly impossible tale.

      ‘Laetitia seems to be under the impression…?’ he prompted.

      Tallie felt her blush intensify. The whole thing was too ridiculous. She had to escape. She could not ask this man whether there was any truth in the rumour that he wished to marry her. It was obviously a mistake. She knew she was being cowardly, but she could not imagine this coldly serious creature considering her—even for a jest—as an eligible bride. On the other hand, Tallie would not put it past her cousin to set her up for a humiliating fall. In fact, it would be very like her…

      Tallie could just imagine Laetitia entertaining her London friends with the joke…Imagine, that plain, foolish lump of a girl actually believing that Magnus wanted to marry her! When he has the pick of the ton at his fingertips! Oh, my dears, I laughed until the tears ran down my cheeks! But there, ’tis not kind to laugh at one’s inferiors…but really, if you could have seen Magnus’s face when the girl confronted him, Lord, he thought he was being pursued by a lunatic! And gales of laughter would follow.

      ‘Er…Cousin Laetitia was under the impression…’ Tallie’s eye fell on the newspaper ‘…that the maids might have forgotten to press the paper for you, but I see they have, so I will go at once and tell her that everything is…organised.’ She stood up to leave. Lord d’Arenville rose also.

      Heavens! He was looming again, standing so close she could just smell the faint tang of a masculine cologne. Tallie took a step backwards and stumbled against the divan. A strong hand shot out and caught her by the arm, holding her until she steadied, then releasing her.

      ‘Thank you…So clumsy…’ she muttered, flustered, and annoyed with herself for being so.

      ‘Stay a moment, Miss Robinson. I wish to speak to you.’ His hand touched her arm again, a light touch this time, not the firm, warm grip of before.

      Tallie looked up, puzzled. A faint warning bell sounded in her mind as she saw the purposeful look in his cold grey eyes, but she quashed it immediately. No doubt he had some complaint about a servant, or a message he wished her to carry to her cousin. Outwardly calm, she allowed herself to be seated a second time, folded her hands demurely in her lap and waited.

      Magnus noted the quiet way she folded her hands. It seemed to him a pleasantly womanly gesture. Her whole demeanour pleased him. Clearly Laetitia had told her of his decision, and, whilst he wished she had not, this girl’s reactions bore out the soundness of his choice. She was neither filled with vulgar excitement nor coy flutterings. Yes, she would do nicely. He took a deep breath, surprised at how unexpectedly nervous he suddenly felt.

      ‘You said you had spoken with Laetitia?’

      The cold knot in the pit of Tallie’s stomach grew. Wordlessly she nodded.

      ‘Yes, I should have expected she could not keep it to herself.’ Without waiting for her reply, Lord d’Arenville began to explain. ‘It would be best if the wedding took place almost immediately—it takes three weeks for the banns to be called. We would be married from this house and my cousin’s husband George would give you away. I would prefer a small affair, just my immediate family—Laetitia and her husband—and of course any friends or relations you wish to invite…’

      It could not be true. She was not sitting here listening to this cold, proud man elaborate on the arrangements for his wedding. Her wedding! His wedding to Tallie Robinson! A girl to whom he had scarcely spoken two words.

      But his cool, indifferent demeanour, his very seriousness convinced her. It was not a joke, not a malicious trick to make sport of the poor relation.

      But he hadn’t even asked her if she wanted to marry him!

      After a time, Tallie’s shock wore off, and she realised she was furious. And utterly mortified. She had known the likelihood of her ever marrying was slim. Living in the country as Laetitia’s unpaid governess, she came into contact with few eligible men, and with neither looks nor fortune to recommend her, her prospects were few and far between. But it was one thing to face the prospect of a lonely and loveless future, and another to be so little regarded that she did not even merit the appearance of a courtship. Were her feelings and desires of so little significance to him?

      Tallie stared down at her knees, flushed and fuming, biting her lip to prevent her rage from spilling out. Her hands shook, itching to slap the smug condescension off his face. She clenched them into fists, dwelling on how pleasant it would be to box his arrogant ears! She took in very little of what he was saying!

      Lord d’Arenville rose from his seat and paced up and down before her, explaining the arrangements. He noted his bride’s delicate blush, her modestly bowed head, and congratulated himself again on the excellent choice he had made. No pampered miss, this. She sat there, meekly listening to his plans for her future. Quiet, submissive, delightful!

      How could he ever have been so foolish as to consider a sophisticated woman of the ton as the mother of his children? Laetitia’s candidates had been self-centred, selfish, and far too sure of themselves. Much better to have chosen this sweetly shy girl with her modest, downcast eyes. Thalia Robinson would be grateful for his offer—she had no worldly ambition, no highly strung temperament.

      His eyes ran over her figure. It was difficult to tell in that frightful dress she wore, but she seemed sturdy—certainly robust enough to survive the rigours of childbirth. And this girl, he believed, had the capacity to love, and he needed that—for his children. He recalled the tender way her hands had caressed young Georgie. He wanted that for his child…yes, for his child…

      Her hands were trembling, he realised. Magnus watched approvingly as she clenched her fingers tightly together in an effort to control her emotions. Excellent. Self-control was a good thing in a wife.

      He gentled his voice. Doubtless such disparity in their respective stations in life made her a little nervous, a little eager to oblige. The thought did not displease Magnus. He intended to treat her kindly—her nervousness would pass with time and she would no doubt be grateful for his forbearance. It would be a start…She would find him a good husband, he hoped. He would look after her, protect her, take care of all her needs. He continued to pace the floor, describing d’Arenville, the family seat, and how much she would like living there.

      Tallie fumed silently, letting his words wash over her. So she was to be his quiet, compliant little brood mare, was she? The wife he intended to keep immured in his beastly d’Arenville for ten years or more!

      In a pig’s eye she was!

      The nerve, the arrogance, the presumption of

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