Free Mary Balogh by A Counterfeit Betrothal; The Notorious Rake

darkness he had seen the horror and revulsion on her face. She had said nothing as they stood and stared at each other, his hand stretched out to her.
    And then she had turned and fled. Both her bedchamber and dressing room doors were locked by the time he had gone staggering after her.
    She had refused to forgive him. And she had kept on refusing until he had been forced to believe that she never would.
    She set the carnation down on the stone beside her.
    “You think I should have a talk with Sutton, then,” he said, “and find out what his intentions and prospects and plans are? You think I should give our consent if his answers are satisfactory, if it appears that he is in earnest and intends to be good to Sophia? Is that what you think I should do, Olivia?”
    “I don’t know,” she said, looking up again. “We have to make the most important decision concerning her that we have made in her life, Marcus, and reason and good sense no longer seem good enough guidelines. What is the reasonable or sensible thing to do? Mama and Papa and your parents did not stop us from marrying when they saw that our hearts were set upon doing so.”
    “No,” he said.
    She spread her hands palm up on her lap and looked down at them. “Perhaps they should have,” she said.
    “Yes.”
    “But does that mean that we should stop Sophia?” she said. “Perhaps it will turn out to be a happy marriage.”
    “Yes.”
    “Oh, Marcus,” she said, lifting her face to him, “what do you think? I would so like you to make this decision because you are her father. But I know that is not fair.”
    “It strikes me,” he said, “that in six months’ time or a year or two years we will be going through this all over again, Olivia, if we say no this time. And I believe Sophia will always be too young and there will always be something wrong with the young man.”
    “Yes.” She smiled ruefully.
    “I think I had better hear what Sutton has to say for himself,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “I will not make it easy for him,” he said.
    She smiled. “I remember your saying that Papa was a veritable ogre,” she said. “Though he was normally the mildest of men.”
    “You were seventeen,” he said, “and his only daughter.”
    “Yes.”
    “You will be prepared to live with this betrothal, then?” he asked.
    “I suppose so,” she said. “Sophia said that they will want the banns read immediately, Marcus. They wish for a summer wedding at the village church.”
    “Do they?” he asked. And he had the sudden memory of Olivia, her face raised to his, its expression tender and wondering and utterly vulnerable as the rector pronounced them man and wife. It was a memory all mixed up with organ music and the smell of flowers and the pealing of bells. “You would stay until after the wedding, then?”
    The color deepened in her cheeks. “If there is a wedding,” she said. “Yes, if I may.”
    “This is your home,” he said.
    She shook her head. “No,” she said. “Rushton is my home.”
    “Are you happy, Olivia?” he asked and wished he had not turned the conversation to such a personal matter.
    She did not answer for a moment. “Contented,” she said. “I have my home and my garden and my books and music. And the church and my charitable works and my friends.”
    “Clarence?” he said. “Is he still your friend? I rarely see him in town.”
    “He does not often go,” she said. “He prefers to remain in the country. Yes, he is still my friend, Marcus. So are a dozen other people and more.”
    “I am glad,” he said. “You have never been willing to use the house in London, even when I have assured you that I would not be there.”
    “No,” she said. “I am happier at home.”
    “I always loved the place,” he said. “I am glad you are contented there.”
    “Yes,” she said.
    He straightened up and lowered his foot to the grass. “Are you coming back to the house with me?” he asked. “Or would you rather stay