What was the word for a woman like that? Theton—the world—did need their words and labels. She was worried the right word began with a “w” and ended with an “e.” Or an “h” with a “t.” Maybe they’d gotten it right from the beginning. Maybe they saw her more clearly than she saw herself.
If the duke married this girl, who was no doubt a sheltered virgin, she’d be treated just like the crystal on that imaginary table. As a precious, breakable thing who would never have to endure the challenge of a spot on her hem. Because for a duke, there was the woman you married.
And then the woman who would do nearly anything for him in the dark.
They could never be the same woman.
She’d known that, of course.
Hadn’t she?
“Oh, Your Grace! Good evening!” Mrs. Pariseau called. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help make paper roses?”
Mariana looked up with a start.
There he stood in the doorway, coat draped over an arm, hat in his hand. Looking every inch of what he was. Even now her body felt weak at the sight of him.
For the first time, however, she felt small and tawdry.
Her pride had taken a ringing blow. Surely that was all.
She didn’t think it was fatal.
But she needed to be alone.
She turned her head away and opened her fist, amazed that she’d squeezed the little paper rose she’d been working on. It was now ragged and limp.
“I just had a meeting with my Man of Affairs about a roof repair. Paper roses would be thrilling in comparison.”
She was certain he was puzzled by why she hadn’t turned. She knew his face brightened when he saw hers. She was petty enough to deny him that much.
“Your Grace, we were just reading about you on page six of theLondon Times.”
His face went stony. “Surely you’re joking.”
Dot, alarmed by his expression, silently shook her head. She held the newspaper out to him.
Mariana watched his face go thunderous.
Then carefully, studiedly, coldly blank.
He lifted his head slowly and met Mariana’s eyes.
“Welcome to page six, Your Grace,” Mariana said lightly. “Now we’ve something in common.”
“Well, that, and Italian,” Mrs. Pariseau said happily.
James lay motionless on his bed. He was fully clothed, and apart from the dying fire, which he could not be bothered to get up and poke, it was dark. It was two o’clock in the morning. He’d spent the entire evening alone, waiting in an absurd agony of suspense. Starting at every sound. Every nerve on alert with hope and dread. Watching that tiny space between the door and his floor for the flash of a satin slipper.
She never came.
He was seething.
And he was in pain.
Galworthy? Galworthy’s wife? His daughter? Who had done it, sent that lying little snippet of gossip to the newspaper? It was difficult to imagine Galworthy doing it, but perhaps he was desperate to marry off his daughter. Perhaps something was amiss with his finances and he needed the settlements badly, and had thus concocted a ploy to corner the oh so honorable Duke of Valkirk into a marriage.
It was almost funny that anyone,anyonethought that was possible.
