Peter knew nothing about this Lucy Ninepence other than her unfortunate name. The carriage slowed before a fashionable townhouse. The Ninepence residence was newer than the surrounding homes. Even the knocker looked recently purchased.
“Are you sure this is it?” muttered Peter, eyeing the gleaming brass fixtures on the door dubiously.
The door to the carriage swung open, and Peter’s footman lowered the steps for him. When the butler — a stately man whohad likely seen service in fine households across the capital — trembled while announcing his title, Peter realized he was not without options.
Miss Lucy Ninepence could end this farce. He’d simply need to convince her that marriage to him would be a fate worse than social ruin.
There weren’t many dukes in Britain. Most were old and mouldering on country estates. The few younger, eligible His Graces ended up swarmed attongatherings — hence the quizzing glass to enforce proper distance. (Never mind that Peter used the thing well before ascending to the title. One must allow forstyle.)
Society loved to talk of dukes, and stories abounded. Not all painted those of his status in a favorable light. Princes were the stuff of fairy tales; dukes could range from handsome and noble to rapacious, cruel lords who inflicted misery on all who crossed their paths.
And that was how Peter realized he might escape the noose of forced matrimony: by playing the dastardly duke and allowing the lady to flee from this sham of an engagement — that hadn’t even happened yet.
The young lady and her companion perched on twin chairs, uncomfortable and clearly awaiting his call. Peter noted that Miss Ninepence was prettier than he’d remembered. Her yellow hair caught the light. Her eyes, when she met his gaze, heldintelligence and something else. Defiance? Perhaps. It was not entirely unpleasant to look at her.
The morning room was fashionable but overly new. The upholstery still had a stiff, unused quality. Everything shouted money recently spent. Peter felt a surge of resentment. His own drawing room chair had a loose spring that always poked his arse.
Peter noted the ladies read instead of engaging in fiber arts. How typical. They rose to greet him.
“Your Grace, how kind of you to pay a call this morning,” said the chaperone, a woman of middle age who should have been deployed by His Majesty to spy on England’s enemies rather than launching debutantes — right at Peter, in this case.
“Yes,” he said, taking in the fine room and feeling deeply ill-at-ease without his quizzing glass.
“Well, if there’s nothing else, I think I’ll see that a tea tray is prepared,” said the chaperone, sweeping from the room and closing the door. Never mind the legion of staff Peter had passed on the way in, who could have seen to it. They both knew the reason for this call and what was required of all parties.
But would it be so bad for that little nobody Lucy Ninepence to race back to whatever northern pit from which she’d crawled to terrorize him? This Miss Ninepence would likely fare better back in the north, rather than attempting to scale the London social ladder at perilous speed. Really, he’d be doing her a kindness.
She would just require some convincing. And Peter knew exactly how to drive ladies away.
“How many children has your mother produced?” he asked, coming close to the chair on which Miss Ninepence perched. Alarmingly close, indecorously close. The falls of his pantaloons were just at the level of her eyes. A gentleman would do no such thing.
But Peter was most decidedly not acting the gentleman today.
“I…I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“Babies,” he said, his voice altogether too loud.
“Oh, my mother…well, she had me and then…she died. Nine days later.”
“Hmm,” said Peter, staring down at her, pointedly leering at her bosom. It was rather a fine bosom, he had to admit, and he caught himself trying to look away based on habit. He fixed his eyes on the gel’s neckline and left them there. “And your parts, do they all work?”
“My parts?”
“Your…nether parts.”
Miss Ninepence jumped, shocked by his question. Excellent.
“I believe everything is as it should be,” she said, her voice cautious.
If Peter was correct, five more such rude questions would have the girl running from the room in tears and threatening to join a foreign convent rather thanevermarry him.
But the chaperone could return at any moment and declare their engagementfait accompli. He didn’t have time for five more boorish questions. Miss Ninepence wasn’t fleeing. If anything, she looked thoughtful. As if she were considering him seriously instead of being scandalized by him.
Peter felt his plan slipping away. He’d have to escalate. Touch her. Make this so uncomfortable she’d have no choice but to refuse him. Yes, that seemed the best way to get back to what he enjoyed (drizzling, companionable meals with his mother, and maybe some third thing he hadn’t quite yet determined).
“Well, with that settled, I suppose I should test the goods,” said Peter, putting his hand on the buttons of his falls with what he hoped was rakish confidence. In truth, he did not know what he was doing. Was this how rakes behaved? His visit to that brothel had only lasted fifteen minutes, and he spent most of the time apologizing to a very patient courtesan for wasting her time.
Peter would never expose himself to this debutante, but he’d allow the tales of dastardly dukes to suggest that he had some villainous purpose for his visit. He was willing to do almost anything to expedite the return to his comfortable existence.
