“My dear Biddy, you need not apologize. In truth, I should be apologizing to you for placing you in such a predicament.”
“No, M’Lady, I?—”
“Perhaps it is best if we move on from that?” Dahlia said, sincerity in her eyes.
“Yes, if it pleases you, M’Lady.”
Dahlia smiled warmly at her maid. “Thank you, Biddy.”
Alone, she started on her breakfast. Dalia looked out the window, afraid to open the newspaper that lay beside her tray.
What’s the use? I already know what is written in it.
Impulsively, she took hold of the newspaper, walked to the fireplace, and before she could change her mind, she threw it into the hearth.
For my peace of mind! What will be, will be, but I am determined to weather this!
Her friends’ visit yesterday showed her that her world had not ended. It had definitely altered, but she was determined to have some say in it.
I refuse to be a mere spectator!
When she finished her breakfast, she rang for Biddy. Dahlia was ready to commit to the day. But much sooner than she had expected, her maid knocked urgently on her door and burst into the room.
“M’Lady must get dressed! His Grace is here!”
Before any of her morning dresses could be brought out, her mother appeared at her door as well, bursting with the same energy as her maid’s.
“Make haste, Dahlia! The Duke has just been shown into your father’s study. You are still in your dressing gown!”
“But why is he here so early in the day, Mama? Perhaps he has changed his mind!”
Her mother sent her a look.
“Stop your nonsense, daughter, and make haste!” Her mother looked her in the eye. “You must be very civil to the Duke, Dahlia. It is important to your father and me. You must do this for us for the family.”
Have I not always done everything that both of you wanted?
“Of course, Mama.”
Her mother sighed.
“Dahlia, it shall be fine.”
“Yes, mother.”
As she dressed, Dalia looked at herself in the mirror.
“I can do this; I can do this for my family. I can do this!”
Peter heard the footsteps that echoed outside the open door of the sitting room. He put the paper that he had been reading down and stood up.
“I know the hour is too early for a social call,” Peter had said earlier to the Marquess of Bolton when asked into the older man’s study, “but I have come to speak to you about a date for the wedding.”
Peter was not a man to waste time; indeed, once his mind was made up, he acted swiftly and efficiently. The decision to marry Dahlia Hill was no different. He had thought out the best way to solve their problem, and that, of course, was marriage. So efficient was he that his solicitors were now in the process of securing a special license for the wedding, and this news he had relayed to the Marquess.
The Marchioness of Bolton entered the sitting room followed by her daughter.
His reaction was not unlike the time he opened her carriage door and really saw her. Peter was aware that he was staring, his eyes absorbed in Dahlia’s appearance. Clad in a simple morning gown of a pale green, she looked sleepy and disconcerted—and unnervingly attractive. Her red hair gleamed in the morning light that streamed through the windows. Recovering his control, he bowed curtly.
