Panic shot through her. Scotland sounded like more of a prison sentence than a choice.
Perhaps she would discover she had more choices tomorrow after driving with the duke. He’d told her he’d liked the kiss.
Was it possible he had something else in mind altogether? Was he contemplating a less than honorable proposal?
But then why would he speak to her brother about it?
By the time dinner was over and the ladies rose to withdraw in order to allow the men to take their port, Collette’s mind had twisted itself up in knots.
One moment, she was contemplating teaching a class full of students in the far reaches of Scotland, the next, she was contemplating becoming a mistress. It had been good enough for her mother, surely it was something she ought to at least consider?
Or maybe she was wrong in imagining that. Lady Fiona had enjoyed learning Latin from her. And the duke wasn’t all that enamored with the idea of his sister attending Miss Primm’s.
Collette froze. Surely, that was it. He wanted to hire her to tutor his sister! Strolling along the corridor to the drawing room, she found herself feeling foolish. Likely this scenario had the most merit.
A moment after Collette stepped into the drawing room, Bethany met her gaze and then raised one brow, as though asking a question. Bethany had not missed the fact that the Duke of Bedwell’s hand had been on hers and her hand had been clutching his arm.
Collette merely shook her head and then shrugged.
Because she, herself, had more questions than answers.
Suitable Young Ladies
“Hera made dinner out of one of your new boots. I’ll order a new pair made up tomorrow,” Mr. Brown informed Addison with just the proper amount of consternation. Addison’s mother had hired Mr. Brown to valet for him six years ago. In fact, Brown had taken up his duties the day after Addison reached his majority—precisely two weeks before his father was killed in a duel. This was not the first pair of boots that had ended its usefulness in such a manner.
Doubtless, it would be the last.
“I’m sure she enjoyed them more than I did.” Addison much preferred his older pair, which had been broken in years ago and all but conformed to the shape of his foot. “How many pairs is that now, eh, Hera?” Addison addressed the smaller of his canine pals, who curled up beside Zeus on his bed where both of them watched his every move now that he’d returned home for the night.
“Four pairs now, Your Grace,” Brown answered for the energetic English Foxhound. “I shall save the remaining one for the next time you go out for the evening. Did you enjoy yourself tonight, Your Grace?”
“I did,” Addison said, turning to the side as his valet assisted him in removing his jacket. He attended most dinner parties out of duty but this one had been somewhat different, less stilted. And although he normally found comfort in observing the rules laid out for social interaction, he hadn’t minded the few breaches of etiquette that evening. Chaswick and his wife were more than affable, as had been their guests.
Collette, however, presented something of a conundrum.
She fit, and yet she didn’t.
Throughout the evening, he’d found his gaze landing on her more than was strictly proper. She dressed like a lady, she carried herself like a lady, she even spoke like a lady. But there was something in her eyes—a wariness. One he recognized because he’d seen it before in his brother.
As a youth, Addison had considered Rowan an equal member of their family, perhaps more than equal since he was older, and deserving of all the same rights and privileges bestowed upon himself. But at the age of six, when a tutor had been hired for the sole purpose of preparing Addison to one day become the duke, the relationship between the two brothers took a subtle shift.
Because Rowan had no need of such training.
When his tutor had refused to provide Addison with an adequate explanation for that, he had taken his questions to his father. The answers provided that day went on to shape much of his later outlook on life.
His father had explained that Rowan was a bastard, and as much as he’d like his older son to be his heir, it simply was not possible.
“Why can’t Rowan be your heir?” Addison had asked.
“Because I didn’t marry his mother.”
“Why not?”
“There are two categories of women, son.” It was rare for his father to shower such undivided attention on him, so, even at such a young age, Addison had taken careful note of his father’s words.
“Marriageable and unmarriageable.” His father had explained that Rowan’s mother fell into the second category. “As a duke, as a man with honor, if you compromise a woman who falls in the first category, you must marry her. But if you compromise a woman who falls in the second category, you must not. It’s a matter of honor.”
Untarnished debutantes from established, distinguished families were top of the marriageable list. Farther down were respectable widows and heiresses, and lastly came gently bred females forced to act as teachers, chaperones, and governesses.
