“We are not cattle you can choose from to add to your herd,” Arabella hissed.
“I should hope not. I am not here looking for a cow,” he teased, his head tilting a little. “I am here selecting a Duchess.”
“Then you made the wrong choice, Your Grace,” Arabella almost spat back. “For I refuse to be your wife.”
The Duke froze for a few seconds, pausing in the middle of putting on his gloves. Then he resumed, slowly, surely, seemingly unbothered.
“I see,” he said, looking down at the task at hand. “It is, of course, well within your rights to decline my proposal. But then again,” the Duke smiled wickedly, “we came to an arrangement with your father, an understanding, if you will. If you are adamant on not accepting the position of the Duchess, I guess I will have to marry your sister instead.”
Her hand lifted instantly and violently, pointing at him with all the resentment this situation had brought in her.
“No! Never!” Her voice burned.
He looked at her, his eyes taking her all in, from the scowl on her face, the fire in her blue eyes, to the pointed finger and her tense body. His eyes drifted back to her eyes with an icy determination.
“I guess it is settled then,” he said, adjusting his black suit. “I will make arrangements for the wedding.”
Arabella felt all her fire extinguished and flared at the same time. She was cornered. She didn’t want to marry him, not in a million years. But the alternative… Bridget was already too fragile. Being pushed like that would surely break her.
“Fine,” she hissed through gritted teeth.
The smile that bloomed on his face was startling as it was insufferable. The urge to turn violent was rising again. But she held back.
“We are in agreement then?”
“I will… marry you,” she said, the word putrid in her mouth.
“Excellent,” he triumphed. “I will make the appropriate arrangements.”
“Your Grace!” Arabella stopped him, grabbing his wrist once more.
He looked down at her hand touching his, the glove not exactly covering all the skin around his wrist. Arabella released his hand as if it were on fire.
“Just a request, Your Grace.”
“A bargain, then, Miss Arabella? Already? This is going to be very interesting.”
“I am so happy you find this so amusing, Your Grace. Your life must truly be impoverished if coercing a family you outrank is your chosen entertainment.”
His smug smile turned sour on his lips. It was her turn to smile that well-rehearsed, polite smile she had perfected. It was thesmile a lady gave when she wished to convey, with impeccable propriety, that she hoped the recipient choked on his next meal.
“Your terms,” he said flatly.
“Nothing much. Just the chance to get to know each other before we speak our vows.”
“I do not see why that would be necessary,” the Duke said in a dry tone.
“If you expect me to be at least agreeable in front of the ton as far as this… arrangement is concerned, at least we could try to understand each other.”
“And why would I do that?” The Duke demanded.
“Oh, you can refuse, of course. But the alternative is a very sour bride on her wedding day that will enforce the rumors regarding your person.”
A flicker of irritation passed from his face. Arabella caught that. So, the Duke valued his public image. That gave her some leverage. It was only fair. He kept dangling his sister’s fate over her head.
“What did you have in mind?” He hissed, as if the answer alone cost him.
A saccharine smile bloomed on Arabella’s face, carefully balancing satisfied and triumphant.
