As she sat at the instrument and began to play, she again pondered why Mr. Langdon had been in her uncle’s study. Could it have had something to do with what she heard Mr. Edgerton and her uncle talking about at the ball a week ago? Something about a diary. His excuse of getting lost looking for the retiring room did not ring true.
Soon after, Mr. Edgerton had claimed her attention. She very much disliked speaking to anyone who had been drinking as much as he had, and she was aware that she should not allow herself to be caught alone with him. Mr. Langdon’s presence had made her feel a bit safer. He was so gentlemanly, she imagined he had noticed Mr. Edgerton’s inebriated state and was keeping watch.
Mr. Edgerton had told her, when no one else was listening, that he was not the destitute debtor that society’s rumors had proclaimed him. “I am in a very fair way, or soon will be, to marry and purchase my own estate.”
Could the reports of his gaming debts have been so inflated? Where could he have attained a fortune? Perhaps it was only the brandy making him say such things.
“Julia, may I speak with you a moment?”
Her uncle’s voice brought her back to the present, and she stopped playing. He stood in the doorway, his brows lowered in a way that made her heart skip two beats.
“Of course.”
“Come into the study with me.”
She rose from the pianoforte and preceded her uncle.
Uncle Wilhern motioned for her to sit opposite his usual chair. Julia sat and forced her hands to stay still in her lap. Her uncle stared at her, unblinking. Normally he occupied himself with business when he was home, and he wasn’t home that often. When they were residing in London, he spent a lot of time at his club, and when they were in the country, he was often shooting with a party of men, riding, or going to town on business.
Julia had always believed her uncle loved her in his own way. But had he ever felt any tender feelings for her, the kind a father would feel for a child? He never expressed any affection for her, but he paid little attention to his own daughter, and yet no one doubted that he loved Phoebe. He had taken Julia in, as his wife’s brother’s child, giving her all the advantages of a good education and good society. But now, observing him as he was observing her, she saw a coldness in his eyes that she never saw when he looked at Phoebe.
His stare remained hard as he stated, “It is my pleasure to tell you, Julia, that a gentleman has asked to marry you.”
Julia sat still, trying to absorb the meaning of his words. “No one has declared himself to me.” She swallowed. “Forgive me, Uncle, but I am astonished.”
“Can you not guess the young man? Surely you have noticed his attentions to you.”
Mr. Dinklage first came to mind, but she couldn’t imagine him having the courage to speak to her uncle, and he was even less likely to brave his mother’s disapproval. Mr. Langdon came unbidden to her thoughts, but of course, it could not be. He had shown no preference for her. Mr. Edgerton . . . yes, it must be he, although she wished it weren’t. Oh, what could she say? Her uncle no doubt thought she would be foolish not to accept him. Her hands started to tremble.
“Since you will not venture a guess,” her uncle said, pacing slowly from one side of his desk to the other, his hands behind his back, “I shall tell you. Mr. Hugh Edgerton. He is a gentleman and will be able, in a few weeks, to support you very well. He will arrive soon in anticipation of your answer.”
“Uncle, I . . . I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you mean you don’t know what to say?” The hardness crept into his voice. “You will accept him.”
“I—I am sorry, Uncle. I am very sorry to disappoint anyone, but I cannot accept him.”
Her uncle stopped and scowled at her from across his desk. “What? Can’t accept him? You had better have a very good reason for refusing a gentleman whose interest in you is obviously earnest. He does you a great honor, as you have no fortune at all.” He leaned over his desk, his eyes wide, his jaw twitching.
A trickle of perspiration made its way down Julia’s back, between her shoulder blades. “I do not love Mr. Edgerton, and I have doubts about his character.”
“What doubts could you have about his character?” His lip curled as his tone turned biting. “You, who have no other prospects at all. What reasonable objections could you have to his character?”
She could not avoid answering the question without appearing to defy her uncle. Her heart beat hard and fast against her chest. The thin muslin of her dress clung to her back and shoulders, even though the fire in the study was small. “He has done nothing perverse that I can say with conviction or that I know of personally. It is only a feeling that I have when I look into his eyes, that his thoughts are not those of a gentleman. And there are rumors of his gambling and debts. I do not wish to criticize any gentleman, but he also drinks too much . . . on occasion.”
Was it her imagination, or had her uncle’s eyes suddenly become bloodshot?