Her sister’s eyebrows rose. “Oh,” she said with feeling.
Bo scowled. “Do not look at me in that manner.”
“In what manner?” Cleo blinked and pursed her lips, keeping her expression carefully bland.
“As if you pity me.” Her head, previously calmed of its day-long thumping, took up the megrims with renewed persistence. Yet another fault she could lay at Bainbridge’s door. “I cannot bear another drop of pity, Cleopatra. I’ve endured enough of it to make me have a headache even greater than all the abominable shades of yellow in this chamber and a fall from a horse combined.”
“Why should I pity you, other than that you’ve obviously done yourself harm in your ill-advised race on Bainbridge’s prized mount?” Cleo’s tone was tart. “If it seems as if you’re developing tender feelings for the duke, I would never dare to comment upon it.”
“Tender feelings,” she all but spat, as though the phrase left a bitter taste in her mouth. As if it was the last thing she would be induced to feel for the Duke of Bainbridge. Because it was, of course. She didn’t even like the man. Why, he had mockingly referred to her asprincessbefore quitting the chamber earlier, and she hadn’t forgotten, even if the husky quality of his voice had settled somewhere in the vicinity of her core. “I am not developing anything for the Duke of Bainbridge, save for a hearty amount of dislike. The man is arrogant and haughty and overbearing, and if I hadn’t kissed him in the name of restoring my book to me, I should never even have noticed his existence.”
That was a horrid lie, of course. How could anyone fail to notice a man of his stature, so tall and lean and brooding and handsome? The Duke of Bainbridge didn’t grace a room with his presence. He owned it with his dark, smoldering elegance. She could not look upon him without wanting to throw her arms around his neck and yank his sinfully knowing mouth down upon hers.
No. That was her addled mind playing tricks upon her. For there was no earthly way she was so drawn to the Duke of Disdain after three days, a few kisses, and a disproportionate quantity of insults.
“Of course not.” Her sister’s placating tone was not lost upon her. Cleo gave her a knowing look as she released Bo’s hands after one final, tender squeeze. “I am so grateful you didn’t break your foolish neck on that horse this morning. Promise me you will not be so reckless in the future, if for no other reason than that I cannot bear to face our family if anything ill befalls you whilst you’re in my charge.”
It was Bo’s turn to raise a brow. “Anything worse than being trapped into marrying the Duke of Bainbridge, do you mean?”
“Surely there are worse fates.” Cleo studied her in that searching way she had, seeing far more than Bo wanted her to see, no doubt, as sisters did. “For all that he is a cold man with a troubled past, he remains a duke, from one of the finest families. And while he did compromise you, his every action since has been one of honor. He offered for you immediately, and following your fall this morning he brought you to the chamber that would provide you greatest comfort.”
Bo rolled her eyes heavenward. “A virtual paragon. I’m sure Lady Lydia Trollop continued to slaver all over him at dinner tonight, in spite of the betrothal announcement. I would also wager that he did not discourage her. He has been inordinately kind to her, smiling and listening to her nonsensical chatter. Everyone knows she hasn’t the brain God gave a chicken, but to hear Bainbridge, you would suppose her the next Socrates.”
Cleo frowned. “Oh dear, did I not tell you?”
“Tell me what?” Bo’s mind whirled. If that insipid chit had thrown herself at Bainbridge, she would hunt her down this hour and let her know the lay of the land. Like it or not, want it or not, the Duke of Disdain was hers. No one else’s. And in the words she’d learned in one of the bawdy books she’d pilfered from her brother, Lady Lydia could sod off.
“Lady Lydia is gone, Bo,” her sister said, dispersing Bo’s unkind thoughts. “Bainbridge sent everyone home today. He was determined that you would get the rest the doctor said you require for your recovery.”
Cleo’s words sank into her mind slowly, almost as if they had been spoken in a language she didn’t know. “He sent everyone home? On my account?”
“Yes.” Her sister paused, seemingly weighing what she wanted to say next before sighing. “I know you are not pleased at this match, Bo, but Bainbridge seemed concerned for your welfare this morning. He quite put the dowager in her place, and that was no easy feat. He has even moved from his ducal apartments to another wing of the house to preserve your reputation.”
He had given up his bed.
For her.
Comprehension stole into her mind then. She had taken his prized broodmare without his consent, ridden her hell for leather across his lands, putting the mount at risk of injury or worse. Yet when Bo had been thrown thanks to her own foolishness, he had gathered her up in his arms and carried her as if she were fashioned of the most precious Sèvres. He had taken her back to Boswell Manor, called for his doctor, brought her to the best chamber in the entire edifice. He had inquired after her welfare, had been alarmingly unlike her impression of himself—concerned and almost warm. And he had dispersed his house party and taken new rooms, all on her account.
But he had also called her princess, and he had bowed when he’d left, and his face had been wrought from the same impassible lines as always. Had he made these moves for the sake of propriety, in an effort to salvage his already tottering respectability? Or did he actually…care?
She didn’t know. What she did know about anything, anyway? Precious little, it seemed.
“I cannot remain in this chamber, Cleo,” she announced then. And she meant it, wholeheartedly. “I cannot abide by it. I refuse to spend the night here.”
Cleo made a sound of exasperation. “It is the best-appointed chamber in all Boswell Manor. I should consider myself fortunate to stay here.”
“You are staying in a lovely, sunlit bedroom that overlooks the beautiful gardens, with the man you love at your side,” Bo pointed out. “Forgive me if I think that trumps being assigned to the chamber of a dead woman, with said chamber being rife with the stylings of a lady who was born before our queen took the throne. A lady, who I might add, holds me in contempt and wishes she had never allowed my unwanted presence to grace the hallowed halls of her home.”
“Thornton’s mother continues to disapprove of me on a daily basis.” Her sister’s smile commiserated. “Neither time, nor love, nor heirs have seemed to disabuse her of the notion that I did not deserve to marry her darling son. Sometimes, the mothers of the men we marry are beasts, and sometimes they are angels.”
How fortunate for Bo’s sake that the dowager Duchess of Bainbridge fell into the former category rather than the latter. “It stands to reason that only a beast could have spawned the beast I am about to marry.”
“He did not seem so beastly today,” Cleo chided.
“That is because you are madly in love with Thornton and it has addled your mind,” Bo grumbled. “As your sister, I insist you must take up the cudgel for me. You are not, under any circumstances, to consider the Duke of Disdain anything less than Beelzebub himself.”
“Pray keep your heart open, sister darling.” Cleo’s gaze probed hers. “I know that this match is not what you hoped for—”
