She was clever and opinionated, whoever she was.
“I am Brantingham,” he said by way of introduction.
Miss Goldsworthy dipped a graceful curtsey.“I’m Aurelia Goldsworthy.”
“Ah,” he said.As for her curtsey, he noted, “That was splendidly done.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.I’ve had years to practice.”She smiled expectantly.“Five years, in fact.”
“Forgive me, but I don’t understand.”Her smile faltered, and he was sorry.Miss Goldsworthy was an intelligent, attractive young woman, and he hated to disappoint her.“You told my butler that we were engaged, that we had corresponded.I’m afraid I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
She stepped away from him, puzzled, and began to peel off her green leather glove.For a moment, Selwyn feared she might slap him in the face with it, yet she held her left hand out to him, presenting the golden band she wore on that all too important finger.
“When I was sixteen, your mother selected me to become your future duchess,” she explained.“Every year since then, you have sent me birthday gifts and Christmas cards, all of which I treasure.Don’t you recognize the betrothal ring, Your Grace?Is it not a family heirloom?What about this silver charm?”She pulled it from her neckline, offering the delicate chain for his inspection.“Do you mean to say thatImean nothing to you?”
He’d intended to let her down gently, yet she looked frantic.Her hazel eyes, which caught the gaslight in a gleam of amber and jade, appeared close to tears.Selwyn had little experience with weeping women, and didn’t intend to start now.
“You have brought these letters with you, Miss Goldsworthy?You’ve proof of whatever it is you claim to have received from me?”
She nodded.“I’ve never parted with any of them.I have no family, you see.No one has ever written to me or sent me a card except for you.For the last five years, Your Grace, you have been everything to me.”
Noblemen were no strangers to extortion plots and schemings.It wasn’t uncommon to receive threats of broken engagements and breaches of promise, but Selwyn had always been careful.He enjoyed women, certainly, though he never toyed with them.He sought to treat everyone with respect, as he’d been brought up to do.
“I think we had better go upstairs to the drawing room and look these things over,” he told her, taking her arm and guiding her away from the gallery.The last thing he needed was a scorned woman blackening his family’s reputation to anyone who’d listen.
She resisted his pull, asking, “What about my trunks?”
“Your trunks?”Selwyn blinked down at her.Surely, she hadn’t come with baggage!
“I had them follow me from Paddington Station,” she explained.“You see, I caught the train from Cheltenham, where I attended the Ladies College since I was a little girl.Now, I rent a suite of rooms overlooking the Promenade.”Miss Goldsworthy searched his face, looking for any trace of recognition.“Do you really know nothing about me?”
He frowned and thought for a moment that she looked vaguely familiar, but he would’ve remembered meeting such a pretty, copper-haired lady.He would have rememberedherif he knew anything at all about her.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” he said.This time, he took her hand in earnest, enveloping her warm, bare flesh between his.He knew how it felt to be lonely, to feel starved for affection, and to hold fast onto anything that brought comfort in a tempest.If Mama were here, she’d know what to do.
Of course, there was only one decent solution to their predicament—he couldn’t throw Miss Goldsworthy out on her ear when she’d traveled so far from home.“Your luggage will be looked after.In the meantime, let’s have a cup of tea and get to the bottom of this.”
CHAPTER THREE
Her hands shook so badly that she had to set the delicate Sèvres cup and saucer aside.Although she appreciated the gesture, what sane person dared to sip tea while their world collapsed around them?
Aurelia perched upon a large, tufted sofa adorned with many fringed and embroidered pillows.A warm fire crackled in the carved marble chimneypiece, yet she felt chilled all over.The high, ornamental ceiling of Brantingham House’s formal drawing room towered above her head, and she imagined the gods of Mount Olympus condescending to look upon her from their unreachable peak, laughing at her misfortune.
This was a beautiful house—the home of her dreams, and yet the site of her downfall.
The Duke of Brantingham sat across from her, drinking from his cup, and eying her curiously.He suspected her of being a scheming adventuress, but there wasn’t a mercenary bone in her body.She’d come to him, fully believing that he was her fiancé.Aurelia only wanted what she believed to be hers.
His Grace was a handsome man.A brown-haired, brawny Yorkshireman, yet also elegant and refined.She’d seen photographs of him, of course, for sale in the postcard shops alongside those of the peers of the realm, idols of the stage, and professional beauties.He was attractive enough to make a living off of his looks, though he was far beyond ever needing to consider an occupation.
He was a duke.
He was supposed to beherduke.
The grey sack coat he wore fit him perfectly, though it was meant to lend an aura of casual comfort.He wasn’t a clotheshorse, she realized, but he took care of his appearance.He might also have been a very nice man—indeed, he treated her with every courtesy—yet he was dangerously close to breaking her heart.
Aurelia longed to level the playing field between them.
“I was sorry to hear of your mother’s death, Your Grace.I sent flowers to her funeral, though I understand if they were overlooked in the commotion of the day.It must’ve been awful losing someone you love.”
