Alcott Hall: Second Sons Book Three

Charles took in the new gentleman standing in the open doorway. He was familiar in the way one of two dozen faces in a ballroom might ring a bell. He’d certainly seen the man before. Given the lines of fury etched across his face—and the fact that Madeline’s cousin was also here—Charles had a pretty good idea as to his identity.

“Father, please,” said Madeline, immediately confirming his suspicions.

“Who are you, sir, that you are speaking to my daughter without a chaperone?” growled the viscount, his steely gaze leveled at Charles.

“Umm…I am standing just here, uncle,” her cousin protested.

“I meant a proper chaperone, you miserable lout,” the viscount replied. “It is clear you cannot be trusted to protect our family honor. I will personally never trust you to safeguard so much as an umbrella.”

The young man deflated somewhat under his uncle’s fury, but Madeline was having none of it. She placed herself slightly in front of her cousin, always quick to guard those she thought who needed protecting.

Her rebellion made Charles feel bold. He turned back to the viscount. “My name is Charles Bray, my lord.”

The viscount narrowed his eyes at him. “Bray? I don’t know the name.”

“Yes, well you wouldn’t,” he replied with a shrug. “We have no page in Debrett’s. I am a working man, sir. A curate. Soon to be a vicar.”

“And why was my idiot nephew talking of a proposal?”

Charles took a deep breath, glancing quickly at Madeline. Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked down, clearly embarrassed. There was surely a better way to do this, but Charles was quite literally up against it. “He was talking of the fact that Madeline and I are engaged.”

Behind him, her cousin gasped, while the viscount spluttered. “That is preposterous! When my daughter is engaged, her mother or I will inform her of the matter. You don’t even know her—”

“I do, my lord,” he countered. “We first met three years ago, and even then, I appreciated her kindness and cleverness, her creativity. We met again a fortnight ago and renewed our friendship. That friendship has grown into so much more. We are engaged, sir. I am in love with your daughter, and I mean to marry her just as soon as it can be arranged.”

Madeline positively bloomed to life at his words, his viola in winter seeking the first signs of the sun. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless, but her father was barreling down towards him.

“Who are you to dare propose to my daughter, sir? You would steal her away from her family without so much as a word to her father first? Where is your honor?”

“I was not aware I needed your permission, sir, seeing as it is Madeline I intend to marry—”

“You were not aware because you are not a peer!” the viscount bellowed. “If you had any manners, you would not dare be so flippant, proposing to ladies above your station without the permission of their families,” he huffed. “It is unheard of. It is—it’s—it’s ungentlemanly!”

“We clearly have very different definitions for the word,” he replied, his expression stoic.

“I imagine you must be a fortune hunter then,” the lord countered. “If you think I’ll be giving you a shilling of her dowry to squander on gambling or drink—”

“Careful, sir,” he called over him, channeling Warren’s tenacity. “I will accept one insult to my character, but not two. I am no fortune hunter. I am no great drinker, and I certainly never gamble. I care nothing for her dowry. You may keep every pence.”

“Well, then how do you expect to care for her, sir? How will you provide a living?”

“As I said, my lord, I am a curate. Soon I will be vicar. It comes with a house, a modest living—”

“Unthinkable,” the viscount cried. “You would so reduce my daughter’s circumstances? You expect to keep her on a curate’s meager wage?”

“Well, if you deny me use of her dowry, you are leaving me with little choice, are you not?” he countered, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Aha! So you are a fortune hunter!”

“I am merely stating the obvious. If you wish to keep your daughter living in her current standard of comfort, you will guarantee she gets her dowry. For I am just a lowly working man. And when Madeline and I wed, I will continue to work. I will provide for her in my way—”

“Like hell you will! No daughter of mine will marry a working man. She’ll marry a proper gentleman.”

Charles shook his head. “You may look down your nose and sneer at the working man, but I cannot change who I am. I will work.”

“And I want him to work,” said Madeline, coming to stand at his side, taking his hand. “Father, Charles is a brilliant curate. He’ll make a wonderful vicar too. He’s kind and innovative, and the people care for him so. He’s been offered a position here in Finchley.”

“Finchley?” Her father laughed. “That little rabbit hutch of a village we passed through? You cannot possibly mean to quit London for village life. Madeline, what are you thinking, you foolish girl?”

“That I love it here!” she cried. “I am thinking that I have never felt more myself. More-more settled. We will live here in the parsonage.”

“A parsonage,” her father muttered, shaking his head.

“And we both know Charles and I will want for nothing,” she added, her chin raised in defiance. “Not once Aunt Maude’s fortune is transferred to me. We will be set for life. Charles will work, and his income can be used for the good of the village. Every pound can be put back into helping the people here. We will not need it.”

Her father scoffed. “You think you’ll still get any of that money, ungrateful wretch?”

“There is absolutely nothing that will preclude me from claiming it once I marry,” she countered. “And I can have a signed marriage license for you as soon as the morning, sir. You may take it back to London when you go.”

“Preposterous,” he muttered. “It takes time to plan a wedding. The banns must be read.”

“Not for a commoner,” Madeline countered. “And Charles is as common as they come, sir.”

She said the words in such a way that Charles felt his chest puff out with pride. She was proud of him, of his work. She was proud and excited to become a lowly vicar’s wife.

“Unless you marry a peer, you cannot claim the money,” her father barked.

“That’s a boldfaced lie,” said her cousin from behind them. “I know the details as well as you, uncle. If she marries before the year ends, she will claim the Leary fortune. Nothing we do can stop her. Nothing in the will says she must marry a peer.”

To Charles’s surprise, the viscount’s shoulders seemed to slump as the man let out a heavy exhale. He looked sadly at his daughter, shaking his head. “This is never what I wanted for you. I had such high hopes.”

Charles squeezed her hand, hating to see the tears in her eyes.

“I was always going to disappoint you, sir,” she murmured, her bottom lip quivering. “I cannot be who you want me to be. I am not that grand lady. I cannot command ballrooms or host elegant soirees. I am a vicar’s wife.” She flashed a little smile up at Charles and he felt his heart burst with affection for her.

“I will live quietly in the countryside,” she went on. “And I will have a marriage full of love and tenderness with a man who truly cares for me. It will not be the grand business partnership of a society match, and I will be all the happier for it. I hope you can find it in your heart to be happy for me too.”

A muscle twitched in the man’s jaw as his eyes seemed to grow a little misty. “If you do this, I’m warning you Madeline.” He raised a finger, wagging it in her face. “Cross me in this, refuse to oblige me, and I will cut you off without a penny. You cannot expect I will give this grasping vicar any of our family’s hard-earned money. There will be no dowry for you. No support. And I will not bail you out when he has spent every last shilling of your fortune.”

Charles simmered with rage against this man, so willing to cut off his only daughter for daring to do something as innocent as fall in love. He saw the way his words cut at Madeline’s strength. She’d been holding out hope, Charles could see it in her eyes. Hope that her father might just prove to be a noble person and accept her choice of husband.

Clearly, her hope was in vain.

Charles bristled, determined to protect her. If Warren were here, he’d have already socked the man in the jaw.

The viscount sucked in a breath, claiming his second wind. “And if you think—”

“Enough!” Charles barked, one arm wrapping around Madeline’s shoulder.

The viscount glared at him.

“You have said quite enough, sir. I must now ask you to leave.” He pointed at the partially open door.

Viscount Raleigh huffed. “You cannot issue commands in this house, you shameless little—”

“I cannot order you out,” he called over his insults. “But I am younger than you, fitter than you, and most certainly faster than you. So, mark me, sir. If you ever speak to my wife again in the manner you have just done, I shall rend you to pieces. And we common folk do not need the help of our hunting dogs, my lord. I shall use my bare fucking hands.”

From behind them, Madeline’s cousin let out a little gasp. “Madeline, if you don’t marry him, I will.”