Page 43 of The Duke’s Hidden Runaway Bride

“He sent word to me this morning. He says his debts are irrelevant and that any interference with his creditors will be treated as further evidence of conspiracy against him.”

“He is frightened.”

“He is angry,” Josiah said, beginning to pace. His great hands opened and closed at his sides. “That may be worse.”

“He can still be stopped. If Sir Hugh and Bellamy...”

Josiah did not let her finish. “And if he lets the matter go into court out of spite? If the creditors panic before Calder can secure the debts? If my partners decide that the James Company cannot meet its obligations?”

Each question found a place already bruised.

Her father stopped before her. The fire in the grate cracked and settled, indifferent to what was about to be asked in front of it. Then, slowly and stiffly, Josiah James went down on one knee.

“Papa, do not.”

He took her hands. “Marry him and it stops. The proceedings stop. The talk dies. My credit steadies, and you become a viscountess with a husband’s name between you and the world.”

She tried to draw back, but he held on. His eyes were wet.

“I know what I did before,” he continued. “I know I was wrong. I have heard what manner of man he is, and I shall carry the shame of giving you to him until I die. But let me mend it. Let me save what remains.”

“By giving me to him again?”

“By ending this before it destroys us both.”

The love in his face was real. That was the cruelty of it.

Markham she could refuse. Her father’s terror was harder. Josiah had wronged her, but he had not chosen to place his business, his name, and the labour of his life in danger when she fled. Ophelia had claimed freedom for herself. She had not understood then what that choice might cost him.

“No,” she said, but the word came weakly.

Her father heard it. He released her hands and rose.

“I will not press you now. Only think what is being spent and who must pay it.”

He gathered the letters and left the notice on the table. Ophelia remained where she was after the door closed, staring at the place where he had knelt.

Lady Elise entered a few minutes later. One glance at Ophelia’s face told her enough.

“You will not listen to him.”

“He is frightened.”

“He has been frightened since your mother died, and fear has made him cruel to you in the name of love. It does not become wisdom merely because he weeps while he speaks it.”

“His business may fail.”

“And marrying Markham may not save it. You know better than anyone what his promises are worth.”

Ophelia did know. Fear did not care what she knew.

Lady Daventry received Ophelia at noon.

She and Elise entered Daventry House through rooms in magnificent disorder as servants prepared for the evening’s party. Chandeliers had been lowered and polished. Fresh greenery replaced what had browned. Footmen carried chairs and musicians’ stands through the corridors, while the kitchens sent up waves of heat and the scent of sugar. Beeswax and hothouse hyacinth threaded beneath it all, the particular scent of a house dressing itself for scrutiny.

The Marchioness awaited them in her morning room. She was a handsome woman, still striking, with Adrian’s dark eyes and none of his careless ease. She greeted Elise with restrained affection and Ophelia with exact courtesy.

“Miss James.”