The duchess glared at him. “You are a blackguard, sir.”
Gerald tried not to look like one. He’d do anything to bring this uncomfortable interview to a swift conclusion.
“He doesn’t mean it! You do not mean it, do you Gerald?” Elizabeth’s eyes were swimming with tears. “You are joking, are you not? Why, I have ordered several new gowns and already I have made arrangements for a new carriage!”
“I must insist. If you insist on going forward, I have to inform you I will not be at the church waiting for you.” If it meant his ruin, he would do this.
His sisters had reminded him of the fact he preferred to ignore. He was an earl. Furthermore, he was a wealthy earl. If he ensured he fulfilled his duties, a broken engagement would not ruin him. Women might avoid him for a while, but he could live with that.
“Be assured we will take you to court for breach of promise,” the duchess said, holding her sobbing daughter in her arms.
He’d expected that argument. “We have not yet signed the marriage contract. Any promises were made have been informal. Would that not serve to hold Lady Elizabeth up to ridicule? It would be sure to damage her future promise, and that of their sisters.”
After that followed an hour Gerald preferred to forget. With Elizabeth sobbing on her shoulder, the duchess resorted to pleas. That was when Gerald began to wonder if there was something other than her eagerness to become a duchess to the swift betrothal.
Thanking his lucky stars he had not yet committed anything to paper, Gerald and the duchess concocted a plan. In public, they would say they had never planned to marry. The duchess and Lady Elizabeth were just helping Gerald and his sisters out of the goodness of their hearts. Where the gossip of marriage had come from, they had not the faintest idea.
Of course the people who had seen them together would know they had called off the wedding, but if they both denied it entirely, and continued to do so, society would forget.
It took twice as long as Gerald had assessed, and by the end of the session, he was exhausted.
He spent the rest of the day getting comprehensively drunk, which made him feel much better, at least for a few hours. He’d removed the burden oppressing him, and he felt himself again. Almost, that was. That vital piece was still missing, the one with her name on it.
The one he had to forget.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE NEXT DAY GERALD WALKED TO THE OFFICES of his man of business in the City, to take care of the practicalities. He almost skipped there. He put the carriage at the disposal of his delighted sisters, who were heading for the mantua-makers, to cancel half their order and find something that suited them better.
They agreed that Elizabeth’s influence was wrong for them, and they would promote Elizabeth’s match to whoever she discovered once the season began. “The sooner she is married,” Damaris opined, “the better it will be for the unsuspecting bachelors who are hurling themselves at the ballrooms.”
Today he took a few hours to himself. London’s weather had taken a turn for the better, although the smoking chimneys had all but obscured the blue sky as he strode through the crowded streets.
London was seething with people, all busy, all occupied. Life filled every niche of the place. Gerald missed this part of town. He’d only moved a couple of miles west, and Mayfair was not exactly devoid of activity, but this—this was different. People had moved around here since Roman times, perhaps even before. They had lived, and loved and all had made their mark, if one knew where to look.
He turned up the long street containing the offices of many men of business, their brass plaques shiny or tarnished, depending on the state of their businesses. He was passing an office with a particularly highly polished plate when he nearly collided with a man coming out. He stepped back and doffed his hat. “I beg your pardon—“
His apology stopped dead, because the man was helping someone down the steps. Annie Cathcart, to be precise.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
Because he had no choice, his rival faced him. That bastard Stephenson stood there, with Annie’s hand hooked through his arm, smiling. Annie’s eyes were wide with shock.
“Are you well?”
Annie swallowed, then nodded. “Perfectly, my lord.”
It was on the tip of his tongue to correct the honorific to “Gerald,” but perhaps he should not. He glanced at her hand, but she was wearing gloves, so he couldn’t see if there was a ring or not.
“You owe us your congratulations,” the bastard said.
Gerald pinned his smile in place. He was getting good at that. “Are you married now?”