This time his smile was fuller, though still edged. “Prudence restrains you? Or propriety?”
“Both. Along with the presence of my very interested sister, who is memorising every word for later dissection.”
“I am not,” Lucy objected—then ruined the denial by adding, “though you are being remarkably calm about selling your soul.”
“Lucy!” their mother gasped.
But the Duke only looked amused. “Not her soul, Miss Lucy. Souls are too abstract for my taste. I prefer more tangible acquisitions.”
“Like wives?” Lucy shot back.
“Like security,” he corrected. “For all of you. Your sister has made a practical choice. You might consider being grateful for her sacrifice.”
“Should I?” Lucy demanded, stepping forward with her chin raised in an echo of Celine’s stubbornness. “Should I be grateful that she must marry a stranger because my father couldn’t control himself? Should I celebrate that she’s being treated as property?”
“Lucy, enough,” Celine murmured.
But the Duke lifted a hand. “No—let her speak. Honesty is refreshing in a drawing room.” He turned his full attention on Lucy, and she faltered only slightly under its weight. “You’re quite right. None of this is fair, or just, or romantic. Your sister deserves better than a marriage of necessity to a man with my reputation. But the world rarely gives us what we deserve. It gives us what we can negotiate, what we can survive, what we can transform through will and wit into something bearable.”
He turned back to Celine. “Your sister will do far more than survive. She will have comfort, status, and freedom from desperation. Happiness…” He shrugged. “That will depend on how we conduct ourselves within the constraints we’ve accepted.”
“And how do you intend to conduct yourself?” Celine asked.
“With civility, respect, and clearly defined expectations.” He glanced at his pocket watch, movements precise. “Speaking of which, we should discuss the wedding. I assume you prefer something small?”
“Minuscule,” Celine said. “Family only, if possible.”
“I’ve no family to speak of, so that simplifies matters. St George’s?”
“If they’ll have us on such short notice.”
“They will.” His tone allowed no doubt. “Next Thursday, then. Ten o’clock. That gives you enough time for arrangements.”
“What sort of arrangements?” her mother asked faintly.
“Whatever ladies require for weddings. Gowns, flowers, and so forth.” He handed Lady Broker a card. “Send the bills here. My man of business will attend to them.”
“That is not necessary—” Celine began.
“It is entirely necessary. You cannot appear at St George’s in a two-year-old gown.” His gaze swept over her dress; she had the unnerving sense he could recite its entire history. “My wife will be properly attired.”
“Your wife,” she repeated softly. “How strange that sounds.”
“You will grow accustomed to it.” He moved toward the door, then paused. “One more matter. There will be talk. Speculation about the haste, the circumstances. I trust you will conduct yourself with caution?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that, should anyone ask, this is a love match which your father initially opposed because of my reputation, but which he has come to accept. We’ve been privately—though with all the dignity required—attached for some months, and the swift wedding is merely due to my impatience to make you my wife.”
“You want me to lie?”
“I want you to protect yourself from gossip that would make your life unnecessarily difficult. Unless you would prefer to be known as the woman wagered away in a card game?”
She flinched. He was right. The truth would destroy what little social standing she retained.
“I understand,” she said quietly.
“Good.” He bowed to her mother and Lucy. “Ladies. Lady Celine, I shall send my carriage on Thursday morning at nine.”
