Bound by Duty. Diane Gaston

      He grabbed his waistcoat and coat and quickly put them on. He shoved his feet into his boots. ‘We must leave now.’

      She nodded.

      They opened the door and walked out into the cold morning air.

      * * *

      Within an hour Marc and Miss Summerfield stood in front of a wizened old man in spectacles who nonetheless had a commanding bearing.

      From his large wing-back chair, he glared at Miss Summerfield. ‘You have caused your sister great worry, young lady.’

      ‘It was quite unintended, sir.’ At least she kept her voice strong.

      Lord Tinmore, old and wrinkled, wielded his cane like a sceptre, obviously accustomed to authority.

      Marc spoke up. ‘We may dispense with this matter quickly if you will listen to what we have to say.’ Men of strength usually respected strength.

      Lord Tinmore glared at him over his spectacles. ‘I want your name, sir.’

      Marc bowed. ‘Glenville.’

      Tinmore tapped his temple. ‘Glenville?’

      ‘My father is Viscount Northdon. He was a schoolmate of your son’s.’ Maybe that connection would help them.

      Pain edged the man’s eyes, but the look vanished quickly. ‘Northdon,’ he scoffed. ‘I know of him.’

      Of course. Everyone, except perhaps Miss Summerfield, knew of his father.

      Tinmore scowled at him.

      Marc continued. ‘Sir. Who I am, who my father is, has no bearing on this matter. I found Miss Summerfield near freezing in the storm. We took shelter in the cabin and it was impossible to leave until morning.’

      ‘That is the truth!’ Miss Summerfield added, with a bit too much emotion.

      Tinmore’s attention swung to her. ‘The truth! The truth is you went gallivanting around the countryside without a chaperone, in bad weather, and wound up spending the night with a man!’

      ‘We had no choice,’ Miss Summerfield protested, still shivering and wrapping her arms around herself to try to stay warm.

      Tinmore wagged a finger at her. ‘You are a reckless scapegrace, girl! A discredit to your sister! And to me!’

      ‘Enough!’ Marc shouted. ‘Miss Summerfield is still cold. And hungry. She needs dry clothing and food, not an undeserved scolding.’

      ‘Do not dictate to me, young man!’ Tinmore countered.

      Marc glared at him. ‘Give her leave to change into warm, dry clothes.’

      Lord Tinmore glared back, but Marc refused to waver.

      Marc lowered his voice to a firm, dangerous tone. ‘Let her go.’

      ‘Oh, very well.’ Tinmore waved a hand at Miss Summerfield. ‘Leave now, girl. But I am not finished with you.’

      Miss Summerfield curtsied and started for the door. Before she reached it, she turned back. ‘My lord, Mr Glenville is also cold and hungry—’

      Tinmore snapped at her, ‘I told you to leave. Do as I say.’

      She did not move. ‘That is little thanks for what he has done, sir. You could find him dry clothing.’

      ‘Leave!’ Tinmore shouted.

      She remained where she was.

      Marc spoke to her in a soothing tone. ‘Do not fret over me, Miss Summerfield. Go now. Change into warm clothes. Eat something.’

      She nodded and went out the door.

      He turned back to Tinmore. ‘That was poorly done of you, sir. She has been through an ordeal.’

      Tinmore’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘I’m out of patience with her. She caused her sister much worry and now more scandal. I will not have scandal in my house.’

      Did this man not have any heart? ‘She might have lost her life if I had not found her.’

      He pursed his lips. ‘Would have served her right.’

      By God, would he have preferred her to die? ‘She needs your help, sir. You have the power to stop any talk. If you stand by her, who would question it?’

      ‘Much you know, Glenville.’ Tinmore took off his spectacles and wiped them with a handkerchief. ‘Attison is a scandalmonger of the first rate. There is no stopping him.’

      ‘You invited him. And sent him on the search. You are more responsible for any scandal that results than Miss Summerfield. She should not have to pay.’

      ‘Yes, I invited him!’ Tinmore cried. ‘So he could see firsthand that I am not in my dotage and that my wife is not a fortune hunter who duped me into marriage.’

      Was he surprised that was what people would think?

      ‘This chit has made everything worse. I suppose you know what people say about their mother?’ He grimaced. ‘If she thinks I’m still giving her a Season and providing her a dowry, she has another think coming.’

      He would cut her off? ‘You are being unfair.’

      ‘It is my money to spend as I wish.’ He fixed his gaze on Marc again. ‘You are the one who wronged her, not me.’

      Marc had not wronged her. He’d rescued her and kept her safe. But Tinmore was right about one thing. None of that would matter in the eyes of polite society, not if Tinmore refused to stand by her.

      ‘If you will not protect her, I will.’ Marc stepped closer to the man and glared down at him. ‘I will marry her. That will silence the gossip. And she will need nothing from you.’

      Tinmore’s mouth quirked into a fleeting smile, but his scowl returned and he waved a hand. ‘Marry her, then. Get her out of my sight.’

      * * *

      Marc stood in the hallway, outside the closed door of the private sitting room where Lord Tinmore presumably still sat in his throne-like chair.

      He should be on his way to London, not offering marriage, but he’d had no choice, had he? It had been his duty.

      The honourable thing to do.

      Of all the reasons to marry, this must be the most foolish. Not out of passion. Not a love match. Not a well-considered decision.

      So much for his pragmatic choice of marrying Doria. So much for paying the debt he owed to Charles. No comfortable life for him. Lost was the serenity marriage to Doria would offer. Lost was the respectability of her family. He, the son of the scandalous Lord and Lady Northdon, would marry the daughter of scandalous Sir Hollis and Lady Summerfield.

      Tongues would wag.

      He would not save her from gossip, after all. Perhaps he’d not done her so large a favour.

      He must find her. Speak to her. Tell her what he’d done.

      She needed to make the choice. The discredit of marrying him or the ruin of crying off.

      But, if Tinmore made good his threat, she would also be impoverished.

      A footman approached him. ‘I am to show you to your room, sir.’

      ‘Never mind my room,’ he responded. ‘I need to speak to Miss Tess Summerfield.’

      The man’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘I cannot take you to Miss Summerfield.’

      ‘Deliver a message to her for me, then.’

      The footman shook his head. ‘I do not think Lord Tinmore would approve.’

      Marc gestured for him to lead the way. ‘Lord Tinmore will not mind. The lady and I are going to be married.’

      *