“And so we must marry.”
“Indeed,” he said gravely, then shifted on his feet. “That is, unless you object.”
Marianne struggled to make sense of this conversation. Did she object? To marrying a handsome duke she’d met only just that evening? For a reason that sounded nonsensical?
“I…”
Her life flashed before her eyes. She’d been offered to the dregs of London’s bachelors, and here was the prize of his generation, suggesting they marry for what could only be considered a spurious reason. What was he thinking?
And then Marianne looked into his dark and warm eyes and saw hope. She didn’t yet know his motivations for marrying her; if they were nefarious, God save her. But he was by far the best prospect for marriage she’d ever met. And the first who looked upon her with genuine interest. More than interest; he’d proposed marriage!
Well, not so much proposed as ordered. That would need remedying.
“Thank you for the dance, Your Grace. Have a wonderful evening,” she said, turning to go. And still, after all that time, he didn’t release her hand.
The duke maneuvered to stand before her. “You have not answered my question.”
She liked this man, but he was certainly high in the instep!
“I did not hear a question,” she replied, trying to convey dignity but sounding sniffy, she feared.
Marianne thought she heard the man mutter something about “will make a grand duchess,” but she couldn’t be sure, as the wind in the trees was enormously noisy and distracting. She waited.
“Miss Marianne Vale.”
“Vyler.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“My surname is Vyler.”
“Apologies. Miss Vyler, will you give me the great honor of consenting to become my wife?”
“How can I consent to such a thing when you didn’t even know my surname a moment ago? We hardly know each other.”
“I hardly think it a problem,” he said with a touch of aristocratic hauteur.
“And why is that?”
“Because, should you accept my proposal, I’ll soon know your surname very well indeed.”
He was arrogant but not wrong.
And that is how Miss Marianne Vyler came to accept the Duke of FitzOsbern’s marriage proposal.
Chapter 4
“And so, I ammarried.”
Frederick Clare, Duke of FitzOsbern, had taken great care to secure his bride, the license, and the church with all haste. He now had his harpist. In fact, she was installed next door, in the duchess’s chambers. Because she was his duchess.
His exhale contained a shudder. Was he nervous? How would one know that?
“My staff alerted me thirty minutes ago that Miss…Marianne dressed for bed,” he murmured. “Is it too early to knock on our connecting door? If I wait, it might be too late. But I’d hate to burst in and disturb her before she’s ready. She might think me overeager.”
He nearly took a sip of the special vintage port he’d opened for the occasion, only to set the small glass aside. Perhaps she’d like a taste before they consummated their marriage? But that had the feeling of drugging an unwilling woman. He wanted his bride willing and wet — and just as consumed with lust for him as he was for her.
“I suppose things are easier where you live,” he said ruefully to his companion.
