He didn’t want to consider that possibility. He hadn’t even mentioned it to Marianne, in the hope that if he didn’t voice it, it wouldn’t be true. Not talking about things was almost the same as them not having happened, a principle that had served Robin well for years. And surely if Hartlebury had seen he’d have spoken up at the time, exposed Robin in the act. Surely.
It couldn’t be that, Robin assured himself, but he felt a pulse of nerves at what awaited them at Mrs. Blaine’s house, where he and Marianne were heading for tea.
“You look like you’re off to your own execution,” Marianne remarked. “Cheer up. You need to approach this in the right spirit. Are you going to make a declaration?”
“Too soon, but I’ll make sure she’s amenable, get her hopes up. You could drop a hint I’ve spoken to you about it.”
“Of course, my best of brothers.”
Marianne’s presence on visits to Alice was window dressing: making sure his interest wasn’t too blatant, and showing himself a loving brother who could be trusted with a woman’s well-being. It helped Marianne too, since she made a point of treating other women as friends rather than rivals. Her behaviour proclaimed that she was not one of those beauties focused on the hunt for a husband, but rather a delightful woman who would make a very amiable daughter-in-law. That ought to undermine the competition nicely.
They arrived at Mrs. Blaine’s house a little chilly but refreshed by the walk. Robin gave his hat, coat, and stick to a fatherly and smiling butler—that was a good sign, since the staff seemed fond of Alice—and they were admitted to the drawing room, where Robin got an unwelcome shock because Hartlebury was there.
He stood in the corner of the room, a looming figure of disapproval. His clothing was almost aggressively drab, and though well-enough cut showed no great care in the dressing. If Robin had had thighs like that, he’d have made sure his pantaloons showed them to full advantage, but this was a man who dressed for functionality alone. The dun-coloured coat emphasised his breadth of shoulder in an intimidating sort of way, not helped by that beaky nose and of course the eyebrows. They were thick, dark, and set in a perpetual scowl over enviably blue eyes. Robin would have liked blue eyes himself. He’d also have liked Hartlebury not to be here.
“Ah, Mr. Loxleigh, Miss Loxleigh. My brother, Sir John Hartlebury,” Mrs. Blaine said. “Have you met?”
Robin said they had, and produced a sincere and charming smile as he bowed. Hartlebury simply nodded in response.
Tea proceeded rather awkwardly, given his grim and silent presence. Robin tried asking about the man’s business, hoping to draw him out, and received monosyllabic replies. He switched his attentions to Mrs. Blaine, who seemed rather conscious of her ungracious brother. Marianne did her best, always smiling, speaking to Hartlebury without a hint of flirtation, and suggesting various ideas for excursions to Alice.
“And would your brother accompany you as escort?” Hartlebury asked, finally breaking his silence when Marianne proposed a shopping trip to Clark and Debenham on Wigmore Street.
“If Alice wishes it,” Marianne replied calmly. “Robin is the best of brothers, always ready to give up his own pleasures to squire me around.”
“I thought you had plenty of squires.”
That could have been a poorly phrased compliment. Robin was pretty sure it wasn’t. Marianne inclined her head as modestly as if it were blatant flattery. “We’ve been fortunate to make a wide acquaintance in our short time here, but I prefer my brother’s company to any other. We were orphaned quite young and it has always been the two of us. That is very important to me.”
“Aren’t you looking to change your state?” Hartlebury’s blue eyes flicked to Robin. “Either of you?”
Marianne smiled. “To marry? I don’t feel any great urgency.”
“Not at your age?”
“Hart!” Mrs. Blaine almost shrieked. “Good heavens!”
“I’m twenty-one,” Marianne lied, smile pinned on her face. “Perhaps that is on the shelf by London standards, but not, I assure you, as a countrywoman. Marry in haste, repent at leisure, we say back home. Well, I believe you are a bachelor, Sir John, so I assume you agree.”
Hartlebury’s cold eyes flicked to Robin. “Do you always let your sister do the talking?”
Mrs. Blaine interjected forcefully at this point, with an account of the respective lengths of her two courtships that carried them through the rest of the teapot. Hartlebury sat silently, his eyes on Robin’s face.
It was staggeringly uncomfortable. The hostility was a palpable thing, and Robin could feel his cheeks heating. He set himself to ignore it and speak pleasantly to Alice, trying to ease her evident discomfort. It was almost a relief when Hartlebury said, “A word in private with you, Loxleigh.”
They went into a study, the desk littered with papers. Hartlebury took the chair without offering Robin one, leaving him standing in front of the desk like a boy in the headmaster’s presence. The devil with that. He spotted a chair against a wall and carried it over, putting it at the side of the desk rather than in front of it. “May I sit?”
Hartlebury looked like he wanted to say no, but waved his hand irritably. Robin seated himself, crossing his legs. “You seem concerned, Sir John. Perhaps you’d tell me what your concern is.”
“What are your intentions toward my niece?”
That was to the point. Robin put on a little frown. “Miss Fenwick is a delightful young lady. I enjoy her company, and she and my sister have struck up a close friendship—”
“I didn’t ask for an assessment. I asked your intentions.”
“My intentions are to pursue the acquaintance of one of the pleasantest women I have ever been privileged to know. Let me be quite honest—”
“If you would.”
Prick. “I have wondered if my suit would be acceptable to her, and of course Mrs. Blaine, but I am well aware she hasn’t known me long, and I have to consider my and my sister’s situation, and my responsibilities. If I were a wealthy man, able to indulge my wishes—”
“You would sweep Alice away on a white charger?” Hartlebury said drily. “I suppose you received a leveller at the sight of her? Bowled off your feet?”
Robin clenched his fist, in full view, and let a little of his annoyance leak into his voice. “I suppose I understand your implication. It is an unworthy one from a man who ought to be her protector.”
Hartlebury’s heavy eyebrows went up. It was more sarcasm than surprise, but it still made those vivid blue eyes stand out. “Are you telling me how I should speak of my niece?”
“You should speak of her as she deserves. Miss Fenwick has good sense, a good heart, and a good wit,” Robin said swiftly and angrily, the picture of an outraged defender. “Those are the qualities for which I love Marianne and which I want in my own wife.”
“Good heart, good sense, good wit, and twenty thousand pounds.”
Robin widened his eyes and went still with shock. He had a knack for that. “I beg your pardon?”
“You were not aware of the extent of her fortune?”
“I knew she had an inheritance from her father. She didn’t say— I had no idea.”