He closed his eyes for a moment, and then lowered his mouth to hers for a slow, soft kiss that was over before it had even begun. And then he released her, taking a step back. “You do not want to be ruined, Lady Frederica.”
But she did. Only by him. Only if he wished to. Here was her answer, however unwanted; he did not wish it. She stood before him, hair falling to her waist, clad in her brother’s thieved clothes, and the pain inside her chest was so fierce and unexpected, she nearly doubled over. He was telling her goodbye. She was a burden he did not wish to bear, and how could she blame him?
“I must go,” she said, blinking back the tears threatening to fall and humiliate her.
He startled her then by taking her hand and bringing it to his lips for a kiss. “My carriage will deliver you safely home.”
His voice was flat. Final.
She nodded, feeling as emotionally drained as he sounded. “Goodbye, Duncan.”
He released her and bowed with an elegant formality that would have been at home in any ballroom or drawing room. “Goodbye, my lady. I’ll not forget you.”
Chapter Eleven
The Earl ofWillingham had sent her a bouquet of lustrous white lilies.
They did not bear a scent, being solely for viewing pleasure, and when Frederica gazed upon them, she was struck not by their beauty but by their transience. Groomed for cutting, the hothouse flowers had been tended to and raised in their isolated world, fit only for a display. Trapped in a vase before they wilted, their petals falling.
She saw herself in those lilies, and she wanted to have them removed.
She wanted them cast away before they had the opportunity to wilt and die. She wanted to escape before the same happened to her. One day soon, she would be culled, sold, and kept, much like the lilies. The thought of being the earl’s inanimate object of beauty, his to display or ill use, made her shiver with revulsion as she looked upon the flowers.
Predictably, her mother thought they were glorious, for she adored anything new. “Such a beautiful token of his lordship’s affections,” she had clucked upon their arrival. “How fortunate you are, Frederica, to be the recipient of an earl’s attentions so many years after your comeout.”
Frederica narrowly resisted the urge to crush one of the blossoms in her fist, or to send the entire affair flying to the floor with one vicious swipe of her arm.
She pressed her lips together, staring at the immense white blossoms, which somehow seemed garish despite their lack of color. “It seems such a shame they do not bear a scent. What is the result of merely being beautiful to look upon for a handful of days before fading?”
“The result is being admired, for however long a span of time that may be,” her mother said. “You do not look as if you have been getting enough rest, dearest. Your eyes appear tired. I shall get you a pot of cream whilst I am shopping later. It will not do for Lord Willingham to think his bridemature.”
In Frederica’s mind, it would not do for Lord Willingham to think of her as his bride.Ever.She shivered, wishing the lilies would disappear. Wishing she could return to The Duke’s Bastard the night before and take the reins into her own hands.
She did not bother to feign a smile. “That would not do at all.”
“Three pots,” her mother decided, smiling. “One can never have too many. Perhaps a new fan as well? When Lord Willingham asks your father for your hand tomorrow, we will go immediately to Madame Ormonde for your trousseau. Oh! It shall be wonderful.”
Wonderfully awful.
Sickness coiled in Frederica’s stomach. Though he had informed her himself he wished to speak to her father, she had somehow been hoping he would delay. “How do you know the earl will ask for my hand tomorrow?”
Her mother traced the delicate shape of one petal admiringly. She was a lovely woman, though lines marred her visage. With white streaks shooting through her raven tresses, she often tucked them beneath a turban, and today’s choice was deep red, ornamented with pearls. “Lord Willingham was good enough to indicate his intentions to Benedict in order that His Grace may make haste back to town.”
One day remaining.
Tomorrow she would be betrothed to Lord Willingham when all she could think about was his illegitimate half brother. How cruel was fate? Icy tendrils closed over her heart. “What if I do not wish to wed the earl, Mother?”
Her mother turned her attention back to her. “Dear heavens, Frederica do not be silly. You will make a fine countess.”
“But I do not wish to be a countess,” she persisted, pressing the matter as she had never before dared. The last few days had left her feeling liberated. “I want to write novels.”
Her mother shook her head, an expression of ill-concealed disgust pinching her features. “Nonsense. You are the daughter of a duke, and you shall be a countess. In time, you will forget your childish yearning for ink-stained fingers.”
Her mother’s careless dismissal of Frederica’s writing never failed to hurt her, regardless of how many times it was issued. “It is not a childish yearning, Mother.”
“Ladies do not waste their talents in needless endeavors,” said her mother with a sniff.
“Such as shopping?” she could not resist asking.
