An Improper Proposal by Patricia Cabot

Islands, and said, “Well, I don’t think there’s much anyone can do, of course, except lobby for reforms—”
    “Not about that, you little fool!” Lady Bisson rapped her cane upon the floor. “About the fact that my grandson is marrying a woman whom you, as you put it, hate.”
    “Oh,” Payton said, taken aback. “Well, nothing.”
    “Nothing?” Lady Bisson looked significantly surprised. Leaning’ on her cane, she watched as Payton came all the way down the stairs, then stood looking down at her—Drake had obviously inherited his height from his grandmother, who, despite her age and infirmity, was quite an imposing figure. “That’s hardly the answer I expected to hear from a woman who has been around the world not once, not even twice, but, I understand, seven times.”
    “There’s nothing I can do.” Payton remembered not to shrug. “He chose her.” Quite suddenly, it was all she could do to keep her voice from throbbing. “He loves her.”
    “Does he?” Lady Bisson’s voice did not throb, or even tremble. It was as even and cool as ice. “Do you believe that, Miss Dixon? Do you really believe that?”
    Payton, confused, looked about the hall for help. None was forthcoming. A few of the servants were pushing the suits of armor closer to the walls, to make way for the dancing to come later, and in the corner, the orchestra was tuning up, but no one offered Payton any answers.
    What was wrong with this woman? Why did she keep pestering Payton about her grandson? It was Miss Whitby she ought to be bothering about it, not Payton. Miss Whitby was the one Drake was marrying. Payton tried to remember if Drake had ever mentioned a grandmother before, and dimly revealed a conversation in which he’d admitted he had one, but that she lived in Sussex and seemed to favor his brother over him. This had to be the Sussex grandmother, then, his mother’s mother. Now that Drake’s brother was dead, she seemed to be concentrating the full of her attentions on her only remaining grandchild.
    “If he doesn’t love her,” Payton said finally, “then why is he marrying her?”
    “The very question I ask myself,” Lady Bisson said, giving the marble floor a rap with her cane. “Connor Drake is a man of independent means. A virile man, in his prime. Why should he marry a woman he doesn’t love, or even seem to like? She hasn’t anything at all to recommend her—”
    “Oh,” Payton interrupted. “But she’s very beautiful.”
    “Nonsense!” Now Lady Bisson revealed she didn’t need the cane at all, by raising it and waving it in Payton’s direction, so violently that Payton ducked, and just in time, too. The stick came perilously close to her head. “You’re just as pretty, and you’ve got money! Twenty thousand pounds your father’s settled on you for the day you marry, that’s what I heard. And five thousand a year, after he passes. And you inherit an equal share in the business with your brothers.” Payton raised her eyebrows. Lady Bisson had heard a lot for someone she hadn’t met until a few hours earlier. “So why isn’t he marrying you? That’s what I want to know. Why isn’t he marrying you?”
    Since that was so very close to what Payton had been asking herself all evening, she could only murmur, “I really think we ought to be getting back to the table, my lady—”
    “What kind of answer is that? That’s no answer! It’s up to you, you know. You’re the only one who can put a stop to it.”
    That did it. Payton had had enough. She stamped her foot hard on the marble step and said, not caring a bit if Lady Bisson thought her impertinent, “I shall do nothing of the sort! He wouldn’t be marrying her if he didn’t want her. And since he wants her, I, for one, will do nothing to stop him from having her. In fact, I’ll do everything I can to see that he gets her.”
    “Oh, my.” Lady Bisson’s voice dripped unpleasantly with sarcasm. “You mean you love him too much