Page 46 of The Earl’s Marriage of Convenience

Where Carver was cold, measured, and calculating—Eliza was perceptive, yes, but warm. Attentive.

There were traces of resemblance—the darker shade of his hair, the structure of his features, the thickness of his lashes—but where those traits in him felt severe, even clinical, in her they softened into something altogether different. Something alive.

“One cannot help but be curious,” Hawthorne began, “as to the nature of your correspondence.”

Carver’s expression did not shift. “I was unaware my daughter’s correspondence was subject to review.”

“And that,” Hawthorne replied, reclining slightly, “only serves to illustrate how little you understand Lady Eliza.”

Edwin could not suppress the faintest nod of approval—both at the accuracy of the statement and at Hawthorne’s refusal to grant Carver the privilege of that title.

He flicked his gaze to Henley, who was watching the exchange with focused attention, then returned it to Carver.

With an ease that should not have been present, Carver took a seat in a wingback chair beside Hawthorne.

“We are not enemies here,” he began. “In fact, some might say we are almost family.”

He offered an oily grin—one that made Edwin recoil inwardly. How had his mother ever found such a man appealing? He could not fathom it.

Hawthorne lifted his teacup and took a slow, measured sip, as though ensuring he remained entirely in control of the conversation. He would speak when he chose, and not a moment sooner.

As if sensing it, Carver tightened his jaw.

Hawthorne did not react. Not outwardly.

At last, he spoke. “Family is not a term I would think you are overly familiar with, so I will not trust your definition of it.”

Edwin very nearly smiled. Instead, he cast a brief glance at Henley, who gave the slightest nod of approval in return.

“Why don’t you explain the nature of your intentions toward Lady Eliza?” Edwin said, unable to remain silent any longer.

“Intentions,” Carver repeated lightly. “Such a harsh word. Can a father not wish to spend a little time with his daughter?”

Henley leaned forward slightly. “A father who had nearly twenty years to do so and declined tends to cast his motives into question—far more than any claim of benevolence might repair.”

Carver gave a small chuckle. “Very well. I have taken an interest in the girl’s season. She is expected to marry Langshire—a fellow I highly approve of. However, I feel that, as her father, I ought to have some say in who carries on the bloodline.”

Edwin opened his mouth to respond, but Hawthorne spoke first—swift, precise. “One might argue that you abdicated all such authority the moment you disowned her.” He set his teacup aside. “So I will ask again—what are your intentions? Why do you wish to speak with her? Until I am satisfied that you do not intend harm to a member of my family—as you have done to others represented in this room—you will not be granted an audience.”

Carver’s lips twisted slightly as he reconsidered his approach.

After a moment, he gave a small shrug. “I merely wish to remind her of our familial connection. Should she become the Countess of Langshire.” He leaned back, steepling his fingers.

Understanding settled coldly in Edwin’s mind.

It was about money.

If Eliza married well—as she very likely would—Carver intended to benefit from it.

Hawthorne gave a low, humorless chuckle. “I had heard your coffers were running thin, but I had not realized you were prepared to leverage a relationship you have never acknowledged in order to replenish them.”

Carver did not appear the least bit ashamed. “One must do what one must. I have grown accustomed to a certain standard of living. When that is threatened, I take measures.”

Henley let out a sharp breath. “You took measures with her mother as well.”

Carver brushed an imaginary speck from his coat. “That was merely social entertainment.”

Edwin’s jaw tightened. For a moment, he considered abandoning restraint altogether—but instead, he exchanged a look of shared disgust with Henley, then with Hawthorne.