Bainbridge was first to react, his lip curling in what was either amusement or a sneer—she couldn’t be certain. “You must decline.”
She inclined her head. “Regrettably.” And then she smiled, her brightest and most entrancing smile, because the part of her that waved the flag of her tattered pride wanted him to know that she didn’t feel a single dram of regret at turning him down.
“Such cheek,” interrupted the dowager duchess, her voice as cold and cutting as a dagger buried in a winter’s snow bank. “How dare you insult the Duke of Bainbridge by refusing him?”
Bo couldn’t wrest her gaze from Bainbridge, whose emerald eyes glittered with something she couldn’t define. His jaw, however, was firmed into a harsh, unforgiving angle. “Don’t be a fool,” he said for her ears alone.
Presumptuous.
“I’d rather be ruined,” she whispered, fury making her hands shake as she clasped fistfuls of her silken skirts to hide them.
And it was true, anyway. She would far prefer to seclude herself in the countryside, or perhaps travel abroad. Why, she could venture to America. Her best friend Clara, the Countess of Ravenscroft, currently traveled there on her honeymoon, and her letters contained such rhapsodies of the land that Bo had longed to visit one day and take in the sights for herself.
Freedom could be within her grasp. Perhaps the Duke of Disdain had done her a favor.
“Lord and Lady Thornton will need to be informed,” the Duchess of Cartwright announced next.
Ah, yes. Her brother-in-law and sister served as her chaperones for this farce. How helpful of the duchess to suggest an audience with them. “I’ll inform them myself forthwith,” she returned, tearing her eyes away from Bainbridge’s disconcerting, intent regard. She met the duchess’s gaze without blinking. If the august lady thought to make her cower, she would have to think again. “I’m certain that when I offer my explanation, they shall understand that the duke was assisting me. Nothing untoward occurred.”
The elder woman’s gaze narrowed, her lips puckering into a displeased moue. “Your appearance at our arrival suggested otherwise, Lady Boadicea. However did your hair become so dislodged in your fall?”
“I cannot tolerate another scandal, Bainbridge,” snapped the dowager duchess to her son. “It will be the death of me, and then you’ll have the deaths of two duchesses on your conscience. Do what must be done.”
Another scandal. The deaths of two duchesses.
For some reason she could not fathom, Bo’s eyes returned to Bainbridge, noting the almost imperceptible way he tensed at his mother’s veiled insinuation that he had been responsible for his wife’s death. His mouth, so sensual and full, tightened into a grim line, strain furrowing his brow. Despite herself, she knew a pang of sympathy for him. While every effort had been made to quiet gossip following the duchess’s death, whispers followed Bainbridge everywhere. All thetonknew the former duchess had killed herself.
She’d shot herself in the head, as rumor had it. In the duke’s own presence. The Marlow family had done its part to attempt to keep the matter silent, but a scandal so paramount could not be contained.
Without doubt, he must know what was said about him behind closed doors, and his mother’s callousness could not help but smart. For all that he was arrogant and cool, he possessed an undeniable intelligence. He was not vapid as some peers were. Of course he knew. His reaction to her earlier words had more than confirmed that.
Bo had not even been presented at court yet when the duchess’s death had occurred, but she knew the tale as well as anyone. Lord Harry had never once spoken of the departed duchess, only of his brother. She would never have asked, knowing the common fame. Gossip was an ugly beast best left in hibernation. When riled, it could inflict all manner of havoc.
“These young people,” sniffed the Duchess of Cartwright, lip curled, “a generation going straight to the dogs, I say. What have we? What defines us from animal, if we have no standards, no proprieties, no proper course of order? This is an affront to every guest beneath your roof, Eloise.”
Bainbridge remained still, features hardened as if they were honed marble. The blood had drained from his face, and he’d gone alarmingly pale. Then she noted his breathing, shallow and rapid. The unflappable duke was falling apart before her, like a poorly sewn frock.
She shouldn’t take pity on him. He had been rude and callous. He had deemed her unworthy, and yet he would have taken her on the divan. She had no doubt that if the door hadn’t opened, if the duchesses hadn’t come upon them, he would have compromised her in the truest sense.
She would have let him. She would have enjoyed it.
Bainbridge wasn’t the sort of man she liked. He was not droll. He was not open and giving as Lord Harry was. Aside from his talent at kissing—unparalleled, in her estimation—and his fine face and form, he had nothing to recommend him, unless one was the sort of lady who was keen for a ducal coronet. Which she most definitely wasn’t.
Why, then, should she care when he appeared unable to speak or move? Why should she notice his upset? Why should she be so aware of a man who only deserved her contempt?
It didn’t matter. Her mind was settled. She was empathetic to a fault. Dear Lord, Cleo would have her hide for this. As would the rest of her sisters, should word reach them. Bo barely contained a wince as she made her next play.
“Very well. I accept the honor, Your Grace.” For the moment, she added silently, if only as a way to rescue the both of them from this untenable situation.
His eyes connected with hers, but he said nothing. He appeared neither relieved nor appreciative. And certainly not pleased. This man didn’t want her as his wife any more than she wanted to take him as her husband. The realization shouldn’t affect her, but somehow it nettled all the same.
To hell with him. She was doing him a favor, and he could sort the rest on his own.
She stalked across the chamber next, taking care to affect a limp in accordance with their nonsensical story. She stopped before the duchesses and pinned them with her most uncompromising stare.
She addressed the Duchess of Cartwright first. “Bainbridge was being gentlemanly and gallant, and he is undeserving of your scorn.” She looked then to his mother, who had blanched. One couldn’t determine whether it was from Bo’s sudden acceptance of Bainbridge’s suit or from Bo’s crass method of confrontation. “A mother ought to speak better to her son. I only hope that when next we meet, it will be under more favorable circumstances.”
The dowager stared, mouth open as if she meant to form a setdown, but none was forthcoming. Bo sailed forth, between the duchesses, over the threshold, and down the hall, feigning a halt in her gait as she went.
