“No,” he said.
One word. Simple and succinct. And yet, she was not certain what it meant. Whathemeant.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“No, I do not agree to this stipulation,” he elaborated.
The weight of dread filled her belly. If he denied her this wish, she would proceed with the marriage anyway. But she could not afford to allow him to know that.
“Why not?” she returned calmly.
“This is a most irregular conversation,” Father interrupted, his voice weak as it was whenever he found himself in an untenable position.
Father had never been one to enjoy society or the company of others beyond his intimate coterie of family and close friends. Conflict vexed him mightily, as did any subject he found disconcerting.
“I hardly think the subject irregular,” Wycombe countered smoothly. “Such dialogue must be the stuff of marriage contracts, surely.”
“The lady is not customarily present for the discussion,” Father elaborated, wincing. “Moreover, I do not suppose… That is to say, Lady Elysande’s request is rather unusual.”
Unusual.Yes, she supposed it was that. But hearing her father concede as much aloud was dismaying. Most definitely, the admission would not aid her cause.
“Perhaps this is a matter best deliberated between myself and Lady Elysande,” Wycombe offered.
His tone was calm, as if they were discussing something of no greater import than the malfunctioning fountain at Brinton Manor. Was he truly as emotionless as he appeared?
“Excellent,” Father said, relief coloring his voice. “Lady Elysande, why do you not seek some air on the portico? The two of you may consider the amendment further and reach a compromise.”
Elysande longed to shout at her father. Why was he not aiding her in this interminable business? All she wanted was to settle the question of her nuptials so she could return to her work and Izzy could finally be wed to Mr. Penhurst. Now she was going to have to suffer another unwanted interview with New Wycombe.
“But…why can we not simply decide now?” she ventured, wishing Father would be more of an ally than a foe in this instance.
Was it not terrible enough she had to marry in the first place? Could he not ameliorate the sting by managing the marriage contract without her involvement? But then, she supposed this was all the fault of the duke at her side. For he was the one who had invited her to remain. And she had been foolish enough to accept his offer.
Father remained unmoved by her plea, however. He had been stern with her about the amendment and clear on his position.In marriage, providing an heir will be your duty. Do not expect Wycombe to agree to this provision. No man would.
He shook his head at her, a silent reprimand. “Go now, daughter. Lady Leydon will be in her salon at this time, with an excellent view of the southern façade.”
Likely, Mama would be too busy sketching or reading a book to take note of what Elysande and New Wycombe were about. But Elysande kept that to herself and rose from her chair, seeing no alternative but to accede to her father’s directive. The duke did the same, and with little fanfare, the two of them left her father’s study. In silence, she led her would-be betrothed down the corridor, which led like a vein to the entrance hall.
“Rather a great lot of marble,” Wycombe said as they traversed the massive chamber.
Elysande was not certain if he was speaking to her or to himself. Talleyrand Park was an immense structure built in the Palladian style in the early eighteenth century. Having spent so much time within its walls, she often found herself inured to its grandeur. But she saw it now through the eyes of the man at her side. His country seat could hardly compare in size and magnificence. But then, she supposed that for a man who had not been born to be a duke’s heir, even the dilapidated, shabby home he currently inhabited must be a marvel.
“It is alabaster,” she corrected, for the two were commonly confused. “From Derbyshire.”
“Rather a great lot of alabaster,” he drawled.
She cast a searching glance in his direction as they passed from the entrance hall into the grand salon. His expression remained serious, tinged with that same brooding air he possessed. She could not discern if it was a natural state or the result of the burdens which had fallen upon his shoulders.
“Yes,” she said, guiding him through the large salon with its startlingly vibrant red caffoy wall hangings. “The architect patterned it after a Roman basilica.”
“I fancy the architect of Brinton Manor patterned it after a crumbling heap of rock.” His low voice was laced with wry amusement.
It was pleasantly deep. No denying the effect it had on her, though quite against her will. It sent an unexpected trill of…well, she refused to contemplate preciselywhatit was, bolting straight through her. What was this? First, she had found him handsome, and now she admired the way he spoke?
“Are you attempting to distract me with humor?” she asked, feeling prickly and forgetting all about her decision to remain sweet and biddable in an effort to persuade him to agree to her every demand.
“I am guilty of trying to lighten the moment. The conversation awaiting us seems as if it could be rather unpleasant.”
