Lucy cleared her throat. “That’s quite helpful, Your Grace. Thank you.”
Rowan did not soften. If anything, the air about him seemed to settle into something more immovable, as though the brief levity had merely been tolerated rather than invited.
“I will be plain with you, Miss Crampton,” he said at last. “I am cooperating with this arrangement, nothing more. I lend it no credence, nor do I place much faith in its success.” His gaze held hers. “Unless the woman you propose is… exceptional, this exercise will come to nothing.”
Lucy inclined her head, accepting the candor even as it troubled her. She understood him well enough. His words clarified what she had already suspected. He was not a man waiting to be persuaded. He had only agreed because of Anthony’s earnest plea.
Still, the enormity of it pressed in. The path she had agreed to tread suddenly appeared narrower, steeper, and far less forgiving than she had first imagined.
“If I am to do this properly,” she said after a moment, “I must also understand you, Your Grace. One cannot persuade a lady toward marriage armed only with a list of requirements. She will wish to know the man she is being asked to consider.”
Rowan’s gaze lifted slowly, amusement glinting with unmistakable intent. “How unfortunate for us both,” he replied. “I have never been much inclined toward being understood.”
Lucy exhaled a short laugh despite herself. “You see the difficulty already.”
“I see many difficulties,” he said calmly. “Most of them seated directly in front of me.”
She ignored the barb with admirable composure and reached for her quill pen again. “Then allow me to ask simpler questions. What do you enjoy? Music, perhaps? Riding? Travel?”
“Silence,” Rowan answered promptly.
Her quill pen paused. “That cannot be all.”
“It is remarkably versatile,” he said. “One may enjoy it alone, with company, indoors, outdoors...”
“And yet,” Lucy interrupted lightly, “you have sons. Three young and agile boys are living in this house. Surely, you cannot enjoy the luxury of silence that much.”
His mouth curved faintly. “You’d be surprised.”
She studied him for a moment, lips twitching. “Very well. What qualities do you value most in yourself?”
“That I am difficult to deceive...” he said, “... and harder still to persuade.”
Lucy glanced up at him. “You are doing an excellent job of proving both points.”
“I would hate to disappoint you so early in our arrangement.”
Her smile faded just enough to show resolve beneath it. “You may evade me if you wish, Your Grace, but the ladies I must speak to will not be so easily satisfied. They will ask questions. They will expect answers.”
“I have uttermost faith that you would do excellently well, Miss Crampton,” he said and interlocked his fingers on the table. “Now, if that is all, I would love to get back to the more pressing matters that require my attention.”
Lucy inclined her head at his dismissal, though it was a touch stiffer than courtesy alone required. She gathered her papers, smoothing them more than necessary, and rose. There was no sense in pressing further. Whatever cooperation she had hoped to extract from him had reached its limit, and forcing the matter would only harden his resolve.
If the Duke of Langridge refused to assist in his own rescue, she would simply manage without him. She figured it wouldn’t be that difficult to find a lady willing to hear him out. He was a duke. He possessed an ancient title, a vast estate, and enough wealth to dazzle even the most discerning families. Though she would rather not dwell on it, the man himself was a;lso undeniably handsome in a severe, infuriating way.
That, she decided, would suffice.
Society did not require love to arrange a marriage. It required security, position, and promise. On those terms,Rowan Langridge was an exceptional prospect, whether he acknowledged it or not.
Still, the walls of the estate suddenly felt close, the air too heavy with challenges and smothered irritation. She found herself craving movement, noise, familiarity. London was near enough, and within it were allies. Cousins, conversations, and the invaluable currency of gossip.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Did you say the Duke of Langridge? His Grace, Rowan Clawridge?” Dorothy, Lucy’s dearest cousin, asked with widened eyes.
“Yes, you know of him?” Lucy questioned curiously.
There were very few people before whom Lucy allowed herself to be uncertain without shame. Dorothy was one of them. With her cousin, there was no need for performance, no careful measuring of words or ambitions. Dorothy had known her before her debut, before expectations, before Lucy learned how to be useful rather than simply herself. Whatever Dorothy’s reaction might be, Lucy trusted it would be honest and, if necessary, kind.
