“But I don’twantto be a duchess!” God above, if ever there was a lady who wasn’t suited for such a grand title, it washer.
He snorted. “Don’t be absurd. Every young lady wants to become a duchess.”
“No, you don’t understand! I’m not . . . I can’t . . .” She wasn’t elegant, she didn’t care for drawing, company, gossip, or fashions. She didn’t play, sing, paint, sew, or embroider, and she was a fish out of water when it came to performing in the drawing room.
Even more to the point, she didn’t care for the Duke of Montford. “I don’t evenlikeyou.”
Oh, dear. Perhaps she might have said that with a trifle more kindness, or at the very least, not quite soloudly. But Montford only smirked. “Nor I you, I assure you, Miss Thorne, but why let a small thing like a deep and abiding mutual antipathy get in the way of a marriage between us?”
Why, he was as mad as his grandfather was! It seemed as if neither of them had the least intention of putting a stop to this scheme, so she’d have to do it for them. “No, Your Grace. I can’t—indeed, I won’t marry you. Not under any circumstances. So, you may tell your grandfather you offered your hand, and I refused you.”
With that, she came around the side of the billiards table, intending to sweep by him and out the door, her head high, but he caught her wrist as she passed. “Just a moment, Miss Thorne. We haven’t finished talking.”
“Yes, we have.” She tugged on her arm, but while he remained gentle, he also didn’t let her go, instead drawing her closer, and goodness, he was tall—her head barely reached the center of his chest. The scent of orange blossom, amber, and a hint of brandy enveloped her, and all at once, she couldn’t get away from him quickly enough. “Let go of me, Your Grace.”
“Not just yet, Miss Thorne. I freely admit I have no wish to marry you—I’ve no wish to marry at all, come to that—but my grandfather has made his wishes clear. He’s forcing my hand, and so, I’m forcing yours. It’s that simple.”
“Forcing! Don’t be absurd, Your Grace. You can’tforceme to marry you.”
“No? Your father still owes me five hundred pounds, Miss Thorne. I can call in that debt anytime I choose. Now, for instance.”
“But he doesn’t have it!” Dread tightened her chest and writhed like a serpent in the hollow of her stomach. “We . . . we don’t have it.”
She met his gaze, but instead of the triumph she expected to see, his eyes were bleak. “You came to London determined to save your father and your home with an advantageous marriage. Would marriage to me really be so much worse than marriage to Stoneleigh?”
She squeezed her eyes closed. “I—I don’t know.”
She’d never been less certain of anything in her life, yet how was she to find her way out of it? She no longer had a pocketful of scandalous jewels to bargain with. Her father couldn’t pay the five hundred pounds until they sold Thornewood, and once they did, where were they meant to go? They’d have no home, no money.
She was caught, and there would be no scheming her way free. Not this time.
“Think about it, Miss Thorne. If we marry, you need never worry about money again, and you’ll enjoy a great deal more freedom as the Duchess of Montford than you ever could as plain Miss Thorne.”
Freedom. That magical thing, as elusive as turreted castles and winged horses. Her mind seized on the word, held it tight.
“I’ll give you until tomorrow to give me your answer.” Montford released her and stepped back, offering her a stiff bow. “Until then, good night.”
Then he was gone, melting back into the shadows, leaving her alone in the cold room, his words echoing in her head.
CHAPTER16
It had been nearly a year since Prue had first laid eyes on the Duke of Montford, and she hadn’t enjoyed an entirely restful night since.
Tonight, the last night she would spend at Basingstoke House was no different. She lay in the dark for hours, arms flung wide atop the enormous bed like a beached starfish. It was the most decadent bed she’d ever lain upon, so wide she couldn’t reach the sides even with the most determined stretch, but it seemed one could remain sleepless in a grand bed as easily as a humble one.
She gave up at last, abandoned the bed, and curled up into the window seat with the coverlet pulled tightly around her shoulders. Her window looked down on the south garden, the full moon casting its bright rays over the roses, the silvery beams trickling over the vivid bursts of color.
Bright scarlet, buttery yellow, sunset pink, and creamy ivory.
She drew her knees up to her chest, shivering a little in the chill, and rested her temple against the cool glass. Tomorrow was her wedding day.
Tomorrow, she would become the Duchess of Montford.
Her father wasn’t pleased about it. He’d arrived at Basingstoke House yesterday afternoon looking like a thundercloud, ready to bundle her into their ancient carriage and drag her straight back to Thornewood before she could “put herself into the hands of that ruinous scoundrel, Montford.”
His words, not hers.
She didn’t blame him for it. Despite her father’s modern notions about female capabilities, from the moment she’d been born he’d watched over her with the eagle-eyed protectiveness with which all fond fathers did their daughters. To blame him now would be to blame him for loving her too much, and that she could never do.
