“So you are aware? “ Clara asked, though she shouldn't have been surprised. The servants' network was more efficient than any postal service.
"Edmund's man told Cook, Cook told Mary, Mary told everyone else, and now the entire county probably knows that you're an heiress who's been tragically deceived buttriumphantly returned to claim both your fortune and our duke."
"I haven't claimed anyone," Clara protested. "We've simply agreed to enter into matrimony."
"After thoroughly anticipating the wedding vows, from what I can see.”
"Mrs. Potter!" Gabriel attempted his duke voice, which was entirely lost on the woman who knew him in his cradle.”
"Don't you 'Mrs. Potter' me, young man. I'm simply stating facts, which is that the entire household is aware that you and Miss Clara have finally abandoned your foolish airs and reached an understanding, though we might have preferred a different order of operations."
"The order of operations is our business," Gabriel said, though his stern effect was somewhat undermined by the way he was absently playing with Clara's hair.
"Your business becomes everyone's business when you conduct it at volume, Your Grace.
"However," Mrs. Potter continued, her expression softening slightly, “Upon my word. It is time you two arrived at an understanding. I have been observing your mutual pining since you were children and, truly, the lack of resolution was becoming quite tedious to behold.”
"We haven't been pining," Gabriel protested.
"You spent three years drinking yourself into a stupor and glowering at anyone who sought to lend you aid.”
"That wasn't pining, that was... artistic melancholy."
"It was pining," Mrs. Potter said flatly. "And Miss Clara here wasn't much better, from what I heard. Taking positions beneath her station, letting herself be pushed around by lesser folk, all because she thought she wasn't worthy of better."
"That's not…" Clara began.
"It's exactly what happened, and we both know it. You two have been in love since before you knew what love was, and it's taken tragedy, desperation, and apparently the threat of Lady Agatha in purple silk to finally get you to admit it."
"Purple silk was definitely a motivating factor," Gabriel agreed. "Nothing quite like aesthetic assault to clarify one's priorities."
"Speaking of priorities," Mrs. Potter said, gathering the linens she'd never intended to actually change, "breakfast will be served in half an hour, and I expect both of you to appear properly dressed and prepared to face the staff, who are all eager to offer congratulations .”
She headed for the door, pausing to look back at them with an expression that was equal parts exasperation and affection. "Your Grace? Your aunt's carriage was spotted leaving the inn this morning, heading this direction. She'll be here within the hour."
"Of course she will," Gabriel sighed. "Because why should we have even a moment of peace to enjoy our betrothal?"
"To be fair, you did propose in front of her yesterday, essentially declare war on propriety, and then compromise your fiancée quite enthusiastically all night. She's probably coming to either disown you or have you committed."
"She can't disown me, and having me committed requires more proof than moral outrage."
"Well, the dress on the candelabra might qualify as evidence of some sort of mania," Mrs. Potter observed, eyeing the suspended garment with interest. Thirty minutes, breakfast, proper clothes. And perhaps retrieve that dress before the entire household sees it and starts asking questions about the physics involved."
She left, closing the door with deliberate firmness, and Clara immediately buried her face in Gabriel's chest.
"I can never face anyone ever again. I'm going to die of mortification right here in your arms."
"There are worse ways to go," Gabriel said, stroking her back. "Though I'd prefer you survived long enough for us to be wedded."
"How are you so calm about this?"
"Because I'm deliriously happy and I don't care who knows it. Also because I'm a duke and eccentricity is expected of me."
"Eccentricity is one thing. Scandalous debauchery is another."
"Is that what we're calling it? I prefer 'enthusiastic celebration of our betrothal.”
“You are utterly unreformable.”
