Chapter Three
THE ROOM ERUPTED in a cacophony of protests and questions.
“You want me to marry Ina?” Gavin asked dumbfounded as Ina’s aunt reared back and gasped. “But surely you can’t be serious?”
But Mrs. Sullivan didn’t look at either of them. She was focused solely on Ina, who in turn stared at the matchmaker, stunned.
“You said you couldn’t marry a man who doesn’t understand how important your art is to you,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “What better man to marry, then, than your friend who already supports your work?”
Gavin. Mrs. Sullivan thought she should marry Gavin?
She couldn’t marry him. He was her friend. Her best friend. Best friends did not marry, and he certainly would never consider asking her to be his wife. Lord, she didn’t even know the kind of woman he might want to marry—or if he was even looking to end his bachelorhood. All she knew was that if he’d ever given a thought to the woman who would one day stand at the altar with him, she was certain the lady wouldn’t have been her.
“They can’t marry,” said Mrs. Coleman, giving voice to Ina’s doubts.
“Why not?” asked Mrs. Sullivan, tilting her head to one side.
“It’s simply not possible,” said Ina’s aunt.
“He’s an unmarried gentleman. She’s an unmarried lady. There are no other legal or spiritual impediments as far as I can tell,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
Mrs. Coleman’s mouth gaped open like that of a fish floundering on a riverbank. Finally she managed to say, “Mr. Barrett is entirely unsuitable for my niece.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to be a little more explicit, Mrs. Coleman,” said the matchmaker.
“He lacks some of the qualities a young lady such as Ina would want in a husband,” said her aunt primly.
“She means that I don’t have any money.” Gavin’s voice cut through the room sharp and clear.
“Well . . .” Her aunt shifted uncomfortably. “I would never presume—”
“She’s right. I have an allowance of one hundred pounds a year from my father, with an additional fifty from an annuity left to me by my father’s mother,” said Gavin, his voice flat. “I can rely on a few pounds a year in royalties from my novel, as well as a few other articles I manage to pick up here and there. That might give me another fifty during any given year, but the amount is varied, as you might expect.”
“I’m given to understand that Miss Duncan is not without means,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
It was true, her marriage settlement would be enough to support a husband and herself comfortably in a house in Edinburgh. They’d never own a country estate, but Ina had no desire to leave the city she loved.
“Arthur will never agree to your marrying Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman.
“When I explain the situation to Mr. Duncan, I’m sure we’ll come to a mutual understanding,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“As my niece’s chaperone—”
“I’d be careful how quickly you claim that title given what happened tonight,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
Ina’s aunt smacked her fan on the arm of her chair. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life.”
“I find that very hard to believe,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
“If you think for one moment . . .”
As her aunt worked herself up into a tizzy, Ina stole a surreptitious glance at Gavin. He was sitting there, staring but not seeing. Anyone else might have believed he was lost in peaceful thought, but the white lines across his knuckles where he gripped the arms of his chair told her otherwise.
“Gavin,” she said softly. Her voice was swallowed up by the sound of her aunt’s rant. She tried again. “Gavin.”
His panicked eyes darted over to meet hers.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
He blinked, and the panic was gone. In its place was . . . regret? Sorrow? She couldn’t quite pinpoint it, but it made her want to slither under the sofa and hide.
“You did nothing wrong,” he said.
“But I did. I left, just as you told me not to.”
He frowned. “I didn’t tell you not to go.”
“But you thought it. I know you know me well enough that you would have thought, ‘Don’t go look at the painting, Ina.’ ”
His jaw clamped shut and he breathed deep through his nose as though trying to calm himself.
“Gavin,” she said tentatively, “you can be angry with me.”
He shook his head.
“I promise I can take it,” she pushed.
“Not. Angry. With. You.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth.
“But how can you not be? I was the one who—”
Gavin shot to his feet. “Mrs. Sullivan, would you be so kind as to give Ina and me use of the room?”
If the matchmaker was surprised at the abrupt request, she didn’t show it. Instead she rose. “Certainly. I imagine there are things you’d like to discuss in private.”
“But they can’t be alone together,” said Mrs. Coleman, hand to her chest.
“Mrs. Coleman, please,” said Gavin.
“I can’t allow it,” said her aunt.
Enough. Ina was tired of people talking over her. About her. Half an hour ago, her greatest worry had been settling on a subject for the Royal Sculpture Society’s exhibition. Now her aunt and Mrs. Sullivan were arguing over whether she should marry her best friend to save her reputation from ruin, and no one had stopped to ask either her or Gavin what they wanted.
“Gavin has been visiting my studio without a chaperone present for years,” she said. “And given the events of the evening, I hardly think our speaking together in Mrs. Sullivan’s library will compromise my virtue further.”
“But the kitchen is just down the corridor from your studio, and the servants are always so nearby,” said Mrs. Coleman, sounding not entirely convinced of her own argument.
“My late husband’s study connects to this room,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “If we retire there, we will be right next door.”
Her aunt relented, and the matchmaker hustled Mrs. Coleman out of the room, her long train of indigo silk sweeping the floor behind her. The door shut with a click, and then it was just Ina and Gavin. Alone.
She squared her shoulders and faced him, ready for whatever displeasure he wished to throw at her. She could take it. She was a woman of twenty-three—old enough to know the rules, yet young enough to be punished for breaking them.
“Don’t look at me like that,” said Gavin.
“How am I looking at you?” she asked.
“As though you expect me to blame you for everything that’s happened.”
She tilted her chin up. “I suppose I am.”
He let out a long breath in a whoosh and shoved his hand through his hair. “The only person I blame is myself. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
She placed her hands firmly on her hips. “Are you my governess?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Answer it,” she said.
“No, I’m not.”
“Then it isn’t your responsibility to monitor me at all times. I knew there was risk in slipping out of the drawing room. I never could have guessed that horrid man would be here, but I was the one who walked out.”
“I could’ve stopped you,” he said.
She scoffed. “When have you ever been able to stop me from doing exactly as I please?”
If she’d thought her words would reassure him, she was sorely mistaken. Instead he set about pacing in front of her, his face red and a vein on his forehead standing out.
“I should’ve been there,” he muttered.
“You couldn’t have known,” she said.
He turned on his heel and passed by her again.
“Gavin . . .”
He whirled around, stopping just inches from her. “Don’t you understand what it was like running into that room and seeing you in a torn dress with blood all over you?”
Oh. He’d been worried about her. He was angry because he was scared.
“It wasn’t my blood,” she said softly.
“I didn’t know that!” he shouted.
She shrank back a step, unfamiliar with his rage. He rubbed a hand over his now-weary eyes. “I should know better than to tower over you like that after that brute attacked you. Forgive me.”
Cautiously, she laid her hand on his forearm. “I know you’d never hurt me, Gavin.”
He gave her a weak smile. “Perhaps I shouldn’t worry so much. From the looks of it you can take care of yourself.”
“Only because you taught me.”
“How did you hit him?”
“With the flat of my palm,” she said, holding out her hand to show him. “I know you said a good knock across the jaw can be just as effective, but I didn’t want to risk breaking a finger. It’s hard to sculpt with a broken finger.”
He squeezed her hand. “I’d never want you to compromise your sculpting career.”
The mention of her art sobered her, and she let go of him so she could settle on the sofa. She toed off her slippers and tucked her feet under her as best she could in her full evening gown.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered.
Rather than take the chair across from her, he settled on the floor, his back propped against a low, heavy table piled with books. Sitting like this he looked more like a boy of eight than a man of twenty-eight. A lock of his hair had come loose and hung in a curl over his forehead creased with worry lines. She hated that she was the source of his troubles.
“Tell me what you’d want with your life if none of this had happened,” he said.
“To sculpt,” she said without hesitation.
He nodded. “What else?”
Oh, there were so many things, but she wasn’t ready to tell him or anyone else about them. How could she admit that she dreamed of the day when she could walk into a museum and see one of her sculptures on display? She wanted to be written up in journals and studied by critics. She wanted to be approached for commissions and for people to proudly say, “That’s one of Ina Duncan’s statues,” when they went to church or walked around the city.
The Royal Sculpture Society would be her first step—an anonymous test to see if she really could stack up against all of the other artists who would submit. Then, if it was a success, she might begin to show people she was more than a lady who dabbled in art to fill her days.
“All I want is to be left alone to sculpt,” she said.
He pursed his lips and then nodded again. “Mrs. Sullivan is right.”
Her brow crinkled. “What do you mean?”
“You need to marry, and it’ll need to be quick. The world judges you more harshly than it does others. I’ve seen you bear that burden for a long time.”
He didn’t need to list all of the things working against her. She was acutely aware of them all. Daughter of a recluse and a flirt. Granddaughter of a shipbuilder. She might have a dowry, but her money was too new for society to forgive the fact that her family’s wealth had been made in trade. She’d always been the subject of speculation, acceptable enough, but not one of the inner circle of ladies who made up Edinburgh society.
Her gaze dropped to her hands, which lay folded in her lap. “I don’t know how to do anything but pretend not to hear all of them and ignore them as they watch me.”
“Then marry me.”
She looked up, half expecting him to burst out into laughter at tricking her, but his expression was earnest.
“Listen to me,” he said. “Mrs. Sullivan’s right. You need the protection of a husband or you risk your reputation being irreparably damaged, perhaps not today but at some point in the future. If there’s anything I can do to stop that from happening, I have to do it.”
She shook her head. “It’s impossible.”
And it was. It was unfathomable that they could go in an instant from being friends to fiancés when there’d never been an ounce of interest on either side.
They’d known each other for too long. She’d been sixteen when they’d met, and he twenty-one. He took her work seriously, asking her in great detail about her sketches and the small works she carved in marble. From his spot in the corner of her studio, he’d managed to outlast every single one of her teachers. By the time she’d debuted in society at eighteen she hadn’t been able to imagine a life without him, and he’d become her escort to balls and dinners, always ready with a dance, a joke, or a hand of whist.
Wasn’t that what he was offering her now? A life lived together full of that same friendship and respect? Teasing and support? Comfort and caring?
But still, this was Gavin. Her friend. Not her lover.
“It would never work,” she said with a shake of her head.
“Why not? Marriages have been built on less. I could be marrying you to acquire an ox and three bushels of corn.”
“I don’t have an ox,” she grumbled.
“What a shame. I’m in need of one.”
She shot him a look. When a grin split his face, she couldn’t help smiling too.
She knew she should stop them both before this could go further, but Mrs. Sullivan was right. Without a husband, she’d lose everything in one fell swoop. Gavin needed to make her Mrs. Barrett.
Mrs. Barrett. After all these years of friendship, it was incredible to think it could be her new name. But it wouldn’t just be her name that changed. She’d be living with Gavin. As his wife. With that came expectations, ones that were certain to change the very nature of their relationship.
That was what scared her more than anything.
“There’d have to be rules,” she blurted out.
He cocked his head and she stuck her hands beneath her legs, fighting the urge to fidget under his scrutiny.
“What sort of rules?” he asked. A slow, amused grin slid across his face.
“You know,” she said, her voice high and rushed. “Rules.”
“You’ve never been very good at rules.”
“Gavin, be serious. We’re talking about getting married,” she said.
“I am taking this seriously,” he said as he hitched his knee up and rested his arm on it. He was the perfect picture of a gentleman at ease. Ina could have strangled him for it.
“You’re not. If we botch this marriage, it won’t just be a bad marriage. It’ll ruin our friendship too,” she said.
His fingers stopped tapping out a rhythm against his leg. “I know.” He sighed. “You’re right—it’s best to know the rules of the game before we play it. Lay out your guidelines.”
She chewed on her lip. Where to even start? There were so many things a couple should discuss before an engagement, yet they wouldn’t have the luxury of time. The only advantage they had was that they knew each other better than anyone else knew them.
“I don’t want to leave Edinburgh,” she said. There. That was an easy place to start.
“Ever?” he asked.
“To travel, yes,” she conceded, “but I don’t wish to live anywhere else. I’ve no desire to lease a house in London or build in the country. I don’t care about house parties and the season.”
He let out a breath. “Given that I don’t have the funds to take a house suitable for married life in any city, let alone a London season, that’s a condition I can readily agree upon. We’ll be at the mercy of your father’s marriage settlement.”
She knew speaking of money irked him. Gavin was brilliant, but while modest recognition had come with the publication of his book, the money hadn’t followed. If she’d had any sway, she’d have battered down the door of every journal and publishing house in London to get them to print his work.
“Wherever we live, we’ll decide on it together,” she said. “It’ll be our house here in Edinburgh.”
“I promise you, I’ve no desire to return to England,” he said.
“Even to your family home?” she asked.
His smile was back. “There’s no place for me at Oak Park Manor. Not with the years my father’s spent grooming Richard to inherit.”
The mention of his older brother tugged at her curiosity. He spoke of his family so rarely, she hardly thought of him as having a family. But now was not the time to probe for more information. They had an engagement to negotiate.
“I also think we should agree to both continue our work,” she said.
“That’s easy,” he said. “I’ll never stand in the way of what you love.”
She swallowed. Now for the hard part.
“And what of the particulars?”
His brows shot up. “Particulars?”
“Yes,” she said, waving her hand helplessly in front of her. All she was managing to do was churn awkwardness through the air.
“What particulars would those be?” he asked.
“We’d live together.”
“Yes?”
“And we’d share a home . . .” She let her words trail off.
“And?”
Her eyes narrowed as a fierce blush rushed to her cheeks.
“You’re the most wretched man. Are you really going to make me spell this out for you?”
“Given how amusing it is to watch you try, yes,” he said.
“Will we share a bed?”
The words came out in a rush, and she had to fight the urge to squirm in her seat as he gazed at her.
“I thought young ladies weren’t supposed to be aware of such things,” he said after a moment.
She rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you just say I’m not very good at rules?”
He conceded with a tilt of his head.
“Before we discuss that matter, there’s one thing I wish to know,” he said. “Is there anyone you’d rather be married to?”
“No,” she said immediately.
“Anyone you love?” he pushed. “Because if there is, I don’t want to be the man who stands in your way.”
“There’s no one,” she said.
After a pause she asked, “And you?”
She should know this, and yet they’d never spoken of any of the ladies who threw him sly glances as he walked across a ballroom. The subject just hadn’t come up, almost as though Gavin was oblivious to them.
Then again, not wanting to delve into her proposals, she hadn’t exactly forced the issue.
“My opportunity for love came and went a long time ago,” he said. “It’s in the past.”
Her curiosity was piqued. He’d never spoken of a past love before and she wanted badly to pry, but his guarded expression told her now was not the time.
“Then both of us enter into this with a clear conscience,” she said.
“And that’s the way it should stay,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“No dalliances. No affairs.”
“No dalliances. No affairs,” she repeated. Sex. Intimacy. Passion. The three things society forbade unmarried ladies to engage in would be the three things she’d have to give up when they exchanged vows.
He looked straight at the ceiling, avoiding her eyes. “I know what that’s asking of you. You deserve a full life in every way.”
“I can’t miss what I don’t know,” she said with a shrug.
“What of children?” he asked.
She scrunched up her brow in thought. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “As I never thought I would marry, I never thought I’d have children. It isn’t as though it’s necessary. There’s no entailed property to hand down to a first son or anything ghastly like that. Unless you want to have them, of course,” she added quickly.
“That would rather negate the decision not to sleep together, wouldn’t it?” he asked.
She pursed her lips and waited for him to answer for his part.
“I’ll be guided by you,” he said. “If you don’t want children, we won’t have children.”
It wasn’t a real answer. He hadn’t come down on one side of the issue or the other, but instead deferred to what she wanted. Perhaps she should’ve been happy he wasn’t demanding the thing she couldn’t deliver, but something about it made her uncomfortable. This might be a marriage of convenience, but his opinion mattered too.
“You’re sure?” she asked.
His laugh was almost bitter. “Of course not. Are you sure about anything this evening?”
“No,” she said quietly. This evening had gone from mundane to disastrous in the space of minutes. She wished that she could take a step back or even slow time a little to allow her to catch her breath, but wishes like that were foolish. They had to handle the situation they found themselves in right now.
A long, awkward silence stretched between them. Finally he lifted his head and held her gaze. “Then I suppose it’s settled.”
“Actually, there’s one more matter to take care of,” she said.
Careful of her elaborate skirts, she slid to the floor as best she could. Surrounded by a mountain of silk, she took up his hand in hers, schooled her face into an earnest expression, and asked, “Gavin Barrett, would you take my hand in marriage?”
He snorted a laugh. “I thought you’d never ask.”