Nathanial had proposed.
Theo considered her nerves relatively steady, but now she felt as though her entire body was trembling, hot and cold all at once. She wasn’t sure if she was more shocked that he had asked her to marry him, or that he had given her such liberties for when they were married.
She, Theodosia Beaumont, was going to marry one of the most eligible men in London. A man she had heard more than one young lady compose sonnets about. And, if she was honest with herself, she could understand why. It was not his features alone that compelled—though he was by no means unhandsome—but the way he held himself. With the confidence that came from a man born to wealth and privilege.
Annabelle shut her bedroom door behind her and turned to face Theo. “Is it true?” she demanded.
“If by that, do you mean am I engaged, then yes.” Theo climbed onto the window seat and stared at the condensation still blurring the outside world from her view. “To Nathanial.”
“Theo.Nathanial.” Annabelle’s voice was a hushed whisper. “He’s the Duke of Norfolk.”
“Believe it or not, Anna, that had occurred to me.”
“Be serious.” Annabelle placed herself in Theo’s line of view. “He told Papa of anexisting attachment.”
“Of course he did,” Theo said impatiently, although her stomach coiled at the thought. Nerves and perhaps something else. Although she knew she was not, the idea of being the object of Nathanial’s affections wasn’t totally abhorrent. “He had to say something to convince Papa to relinquish the Earl of Whitstable’s claim.”
“But you’re not attached to him, are you?”
Theo gave a scornful snort. “Lord, no. It’s a—a marriage of convenience.”
“So you aren’t in love with him,” Annabelle mused, returning to the bed and curling up on the pillows, legs drawn up before her. She wrapped her arms around them. “And he isn’t in love with you.”
He was not, as he made more than amply plain in his proposal—if it could be called a proposal. He had outrightly said she could not expect loyalty from him.
It was a fact well known that gentlemen often strayed from their wives; even the happiest of marriages involved infidelity as a matter of course. But hearing his intentions stated so baldly had been a trifle unpleasant. Crude, even.
Nathanial was at liberty to do as he chose, but she did not have to know, or even think, about it.
“I would not expect him to be,” Theo said calmly, “considering we have not often seen each other this past year, and even less before then. But Annabelle, you can’t tell anyone it’s not true.”
“Of course not.” Annabelle tossed her blonde head before putting her mind to her next consideration. “You must be happy not to marry the Earl, of course, but what happened to your knight in shining armour?”
Theo sighed. “He wears a waistcoat, I suppose. And he is not so much a romantic figure as an oldfriend. But when you consider it was Nate or Lord Whitstable, there was no competition. I would have married just aboutanyonewho wasn’t him.”
And, now she had time to think about it, Nathanial’s intention of leaving her to her own devices meant she might find her hero in a perhaps less conventional way.
“Did Nathanial . . .” Her sister paused delicately, looking a little wary at the prospect of asking the question. “If he doesn’t love you, what reason did he give for marrying you?”
“His mother wants him to marry, and I suppose he would rather marry someone he knows than a stranger.” Her stomach swooped with . . . nerves? “And he doesn’t want a traditional marriage, I think. With a wife that adores him or wants to use his money.”
“Youwant to use his money,” Annabelle pointed out.
“No, Papa wants to use his money, which is very different.AndI warned him in advance. I said the Earl of Whitstable had offered to pay Papa’s debts, or at least some of them, and put Oliver through school, and hestillsaid he would marry me.”
“Hemustlove you then.”
“No,” Theo said, with only the hint of a sigh. She traced her initials on the condensation—as they were, not as they were going to be. “I can say with perfect confidence that he doesn’t love me. And,” she added hastily, “I don’t want him to.”
Annabelle gave her a long, considering look, her fingers bunched in her skirts. “What about his mama?” she asked at last, with no little trepidation. “The Duchess is . . . what if she doesn’t like you?”
“Oh tosh! She has known me since birth, and what could be better than Nathanial marrying an old friend? I’m sure she’d much rather me than some unknown.”
“You cannot be serious!”
Nathanial looked at his mother with resignation. Elinor, present for one of her dutiful visits, stared at him in what he could only presume was mute horror.
“I am perfectly serious,” he said. “I asked her to marry me this morning and I have her father’s permission.”
