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Raven's Vow. Gayle Wilson
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“Mr. Raven,” she interrupted, more strongly than before.
He stopped. The small depression at the corner of his lips deepened, but his expression was otherwise under perfect control, the blue eyes resting on her face with polite interest.
“I can’t marry you,” she said softly.
He glanced down briefly at the toe of his evening shoe, which gleamed softly at the bottom of his impeccably cut formal trousers, and she saw the breath he took before he spoke.
“Then perhaps I should show you the second thing I brought you here to see,” Raven said.
“Perhaps that would be wise,” Catherine agreed. “And then you promised to have me returned to my father’s house. I can only hope that he hasn’t already found that I’m not there.”
“Your father won’t be home for at least another hour.”
“How can you possibly…” The realization was as startling as the idea that he could simply bribe her father’s trusted servant to do whatever he wished. “You arranged for my father to be called away. So you could bring me here.”
“If things don’t turn out tonight as I hope they will, it seemed the safest way for you. No one will know that you’ve been here. Tom will take you home, and nothing will ever be said about your visit. If you decide that’s what you want.”
“If I decide?” she questioned.
“After you’ve seen what I would like to show you now.”
There seemed to be nothing to do but let him play out this fantasy, whatever else he had in mind. Whatever else he had to show her. Jewelry? she wondered, trying to think what he had mentioned in the original offer.
Turning, he chose a paper from the clutter on the desk and held it out to her.
Catherine had hesitated in the doorway, somehow reluctant to enter the suddenly too small confines of the room, which he seemed to dominate simply by standing, completely unmoving, waiting for her to take the paper he offered. In the dimness, his eyes shone in the spare, rugged beauty of his face.
Beauty? She repeated that incredible thought, wondering at her own description.
Shaking her head slightly to break the spell he always cast over her senses, she walked forward, laid her gloves and reticule on the desk and took the proffered sheet. She looked down at what she held, expecting a deed or some bill of sale, some added inducement to all that he had already offered. Something to sweeten the pot. And yet… he had never offered her the one thing she was beginning to realize she really wanted from him, the one thing that she knew would affect her decision.
She started to read, scanning what was written on the paper. One more obstacle to be overcome, and then he had promised to have her conveyed home…. She stopped suddenly, some sense of what she held finally dawning, and her eyes flew back to the top of the page to carefully peruse what she had only glanced at before: “… His Grace, the seventh Duke of Montfort, is pleased to announce the forthcoming marriage of his daughter, Lady Catherine Montfort, to Gerald Blaine, third Viscount Amberton.”
“That’s to appear in thePost and theGazette tomorrow,” Raven said.
“How did you get this?”
“Most things are for sale—given enough money. I was afraid your father might try something like this, so I took precautions against it.” Raven had offered her freedom, the only thing she did not have, and he could only pray that she would desire it enough to escape the trap they had devised for her.
Catherine felt the sickness growing in the pit of her stomach. Her father had broken a promise to her for the first time in her life. He was going to give her to Amberton without in any way considering her own wishes. And then, even more disturbing than that betrayal, came the remembrance of Gerald’s behavior on the dance floor. As if he were already certain of his control over her. As, of course, he had been, she realized—assured of that control through her father’s treachery.
Unconsciously she flexed the bruised fingers the viscount had gripped so painfully earlier tonight. “But he promised,” she whispered, fighting the urge to give in to the tears that she so seldom shed. Her own father had forsaken her.
“I’m sorry. I believe my proposal probably played a part in his decision, at least in the timing. Youdid try to warn me.”
She looked up at the unexpected confession, surprised to find what appeared to be a look of concern on his face. It was almost immediately replaced by the controlled expression John Raven’s features always bore. So quickly did the change occur that she was forced to doubt her identification of the emotion she had seen. How could he possibly know what she was feeling—this sense of betrayal and despair over the fate her father had arranged?
“It’s not your fault,” she admitted, because in all fairness it wasn’t. “I suppose I’ve always known this was inevitable. And Gerald…” she began, again remembering his actions tonight. She had held to the illusion that if she were forced to choose from the men she knew, Gerald at least offered some possibility of rapport. Until tonight. Tonight he had seemed almost a stranger, determined to force her to his will.
“There is another option,” Raven said, interrupting her despondency.
She glanced up from the announcement her father had had composed. An option. Freedom and wealth.Rich as Croesus. At least she would never have to wonder if John Raven had wanted her for her father’s money. No, she remembered suddenly, he wanted her for a far different reason. His promise of noninterference in her life was to be in exchange for her becoming his hostess, for arranging his entry into the ton. A business arrangement. If only he had offered…
She banished that ridiculous thought, trying to decide if accepting Raven’s proposal could possibly provide a way out of the trap Amberton and her father had so blithely created. A marriage trap—weighed against the promise of freedom.
“Freedom?” she questioned aloud. And as if he had been following the convoluted path of her reasoning, he nodded.
“You have my word. Within the constraints of our contract. You invite to this house those men who would certainly not come otherwise, entertain them so well that the invitations to dine here become the most fashionable in London, and you refrain from taking lovers. Other than those responsibilities, you may do entirely as you wish. I promise that I will never censure you,” he vowed, and again she found herself believing him.
“You must know my father will disinherit me,” she warned.
“The fewer ties you have with your father, the better pleased I shall be,” Raven admitted. His gut twisted at the remembrance of what the old man had said. That insult had cut far more deeply than the gash across his face.
Catherine hoped that, like her father’s coachman, she was a good judge of character. “All right,” she agreed softly.
Raven said nothing, relief and exultation blocking his throat, a reaction as automatic and uncontrollable as that which tightened his stomach muscles and stirred painfully in his groin. She had just agreed to become his wife. Against everyone’s assurance that she never would.
Because he didn’t respond, Catherine was unsure that he had heard her whisper. She looked up and said it again. “All right, Mr. Raven. I accept. And now, how do you intend to bring this off, in light of the announcement tomorrow of my betrothal to Lord Amberton?” Somehow she had no doubt he had already devised a plan to handle the practical aspects of their wedding.
“I had thought…” Raven paused, trying to gauge her mood. There had been too much pain in those beautiful eyes. Pain quickly hidden beneath her pride.
She met his searching gaze with her face deliberately cleared of emotion and her chin unconsciously raised. Once committed, she was prepared to burn her bridges spectacularly.
“You intend to let my