“I just can’t,” he said, his voice catching.
“But we can weather the gossip. You are the Duke of Wildeforde, and I am Lady Amelia Crofton. There won’t be a scandal if we forbid it, not one they’ll remember. You aren’t your father.”
Edward stiffened before he pried her hands from his lapel and stepped back.
“I can’t take that risk. It’s not just me I need to think about. I have my sister’s future to think of. My brother’s. God, my mother—”
“Ugh, your mother. Your mother will be sour and spiteful regardless. She might as well have something to be sour over.”
He shook his head, although whether it was at her comments or at the thought of the current duchess, she couldn’t tell.
“Why did you do it?” he asked, as though the fight was lost, and he was trying to work out where it all went wrong. “Why leave London?”
Every muscle tensed. Yes, she’d departed London in a madcap state—so hot with fury she hadn’t noticed the cold. But she was not responsible for this situation. How dare he insinuate that she was.
“Why, Amelia?”
“Miss Josephine Merkle announced her engagement. To Lord Cossington. I thought you would want to know,” she bit off.
His brows knitted as though she’d spouted off some complex riddle. “Why would I want to know?”
And there was the crux of their problem. He couldn’t see anything beyond his dry, demanding duty. Beyond managing his estates and serving in the House of Lords.
“For goodness’ sake, Edward. I was annoyed. And embarrassed. Even Moany Merkle is getting married before me, and she only came out this year. I’m sick of waiting. I’ve been waiting for you my whole life. Just do it. Keep your word. Marry me.” She beat his chest with those last two words. He let her.
“I’m sorry.” He refused to meet her gaze, fixating on the painting on the wall behind her. “I must think of my family. When you’re a duke, society holds you to a whole different level of standards.”
She inhaled deeply, counting backward until she was sure a snarl wouldn’t erupt with the exhale.
“Standards? I am the daughter of the Earl of Crofton. Our lineage goes back to the Normans. I can name every peer in Debrett’s as well as their conversation preferences. Ladiesbegme to attend their balls. I’m not the most fashionable young lady. Iamfashion. The Incomparable. The diamond. Andyouworry about standards?”
Edward at least had the good sense to look ashamed. “I know Asterly. We haven’t been close lately, but he’ll do the honorable thing.”
She struck at him, a softthwapsounding as her hand connected with the padding of his waistcoat. “I’m more interested in you doing the honorable thing, you wretched cur.”
Blood drained from Edward’s face, but he continued. “He’s a good man—a better one than me in many ways. And he’ll treat you well.”
“He’s a country simpleton with the manners of a goat and the breeding of a donkey. You’d have me stuck out here in some godforsaken backwater, married to a mere mister and eating what, potatoes and blood pudding? Do commoners even drink tea?”
There was a cough from the doorway. Edward’s face flushed red, and she knew immediately who was behind her.
For heaven’s sake.A brief wave of mortification assailed her.
“We commoners drink tea. Courtesy of the West Indies.”
Chapter3
Benedict’s cheeks burned as he strode into Wilde’s study, the sharp-tongued harpy at his heels. The esteemed Duke of Wildeforde had escaped out the front door.
Benedict had spent the day hammering steel sheets—a departure from his usual work with a sketchpad designing his steam engines. But he’d needed thethunk, thunk, thunkof a hammer. Needed to sap the fight from him until he had the exhausted acceptance of a man ready to meet his maker.
A country simpleton with the manners of a goat and the breeding of a mule.
The words blazed across his skin, a stinging reminder of decades-old insults. They could have been taken straight from his mother’s diary. Well, to hell with them both.
The aristocracy could hang itself. He didn’t care a whit for its good opinions. To think he’d walked in with an intention to marry the ice princess. Now he was just here for the entertainment.
Her father didn’t bother to stand as they entered. There was one chair opposite him, and Benedict took it, crossing his legs lazily. He plastered an apathetic smile on his face—a “go to hell” smile he’d not used since he was a bull-headed youth.
