The Love List Read Online Free PDF Page B

turned towards the massive walnut desk.
    She paused.  Silence lay heavy in the room, broken only by the scratch of her father’s pen.  Such a tiny, ordinary sort of sound, yet it grew louder and more significant in Brynne’s mind as she considered all the many times in her life she’d given way before it.  A thousand incidents over the years, when a young girl’s fancy, her excitement, even her needs, had been supplanted by the quiet rasp of pen meeting paper.
    She hated that sound.
    Brynne cleared her throat.  “Father . . .”
    He held up a finger.  The scratching continued.
    She sighed.  Long experience had taught her the futility of doing anything but waiting.  In most cases she’d found it better to slip away, to put off her approach until the fever had passed and the latest flurry of political strategies and ideals had been safely birthed into the world.
    Not tonight.
    The minutes ticked by, agonizingly slow.  Nervous, anxious energy bubbled inside her.  Brynne merely pulled her cloak tighter about her and kept her pacing to the distant lengths of the room.  At last Lord Wilmott set aside his pen.  With a sigh of satisfaction he leaned back and began to look over what he’d written.
    She approached the desk.  “Father?”
    Startled, he looked up.  “Oh, yes.  Brynne.  What is it?”
    Now that the time had come, her pulse jumped.  She clasped her shaking hands together.  Could she bear to tell him?  But she must.  The consequences were not to be borne, did she not.
    “Father, something has happened.  The betrothal . . .” She faltered and had to steel herself once again.  “I cannot marry him, Father.”
    His pen shifted as he clutched it harder.  “Of course you can.”  He sounded impatient.  “And you will.”  Already his eyes had shifted back to the papers in front of him.
    She shook her head and held her ground.
    Her father let loose an exasperated sigh.  His gaze grew derisive as he ran an eye over her rich mantle and the costly shot silk of her gown peeking out below.  “Brynne, I understand that many girls are fond of dramatics, especially where weddings and betrothals are concerned, but really, I did not expect it of you.”  He set down the pen at last.  “Things have progressed rather too far to be bringing up doubts.  There can be no backing out now.”
    “There can be.  There will be.”  She stiffened her spine.  “Father, Lord Marstoke is . . . I fear that something is not right with him.”
    “What is it that you mean?” 
    Brynne had his full attention now.  He’d straightened in his chair and locked his gaze with hers.  Even now, with dread roiling in her belly and fear for her future setting her atremble, still a small part of her rejoiced at having captured his interest.  The realization made her feel sicker yet.
    She could not bring herself to start with the most horrifying parts of the evening.  She breathed deeply and began with the marquess’s comments on her charity work.
    Lord Wilmott sat back.  “You do tend toward vehemence on the subject—as do I, I fear.  Perhaps we should both try to speak more evenly when we are in company.”  He sighed.  “I know that Lord Marstoke is a good deal older than you, and perhaps he is not aware of social injustice in the way that you are.”  He gave her a little smile.  “Think of it as an opportunity to educate him.  And remember that you will be a marchioness!  Put that formidable intellect of yours to work and just imagine all that you will be able to accomplish in such a position.”  He scrubbed a hand across his brow.  “You have a duty to make this marriage, both to me and to your fellow countrymen.”
    Brynne swallowed.  “There’s more, Father.  He made no sense!  He was raving about our marriage being a game and fire and flame and his plans for turning me into a weapon.  He said he owned you and insisted that my duty was to obey his every command.”  Her gaze dropped