“Mother. You wished to know my reasons for attending tonight’s soirée?”
The duchess nodded, hesitant.
“It was to choose my wife.”
Chapter Six
Happiness is no laughing matter.
(Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin, 1787–1863)
Surely ’twas impossible for a person to be still living if they hadn’t breathed for twelve hours.
To be sure, she’d not breathed last night when bundled upstairs, or when put to bed by her maid, or whilst sleeping, and she quite definitely hadn’t breathed since waking at dawn.
Whenever she tried, her throat contracted.
And another entirely new development in the life of Aideen Maura Kathleen Quinlan was that she appeared to have been struck dumb.
Uncle Seamus said she’d been born to the world jabbering, tongue running twelve score to the dozen, and yet… She opened her mouth.
Nothing.
Not that she needed to say anything. Mrs Beckford was more than making up for Aideen’s muteness.
At this very moment, she chattered over the breakfast table about how well-mannered the duke was and how honoured Aideen should be.
Honoured?
Certainly, she was aware it had been a grand gesture on his part to save her reputation from ruin, although she’d an inkling it had also been to save his own pompous hide.
The duke had not suddenly developed a tendre for her, and if she’d been in any doubt, his tight lips and angry eyes on the stalk back from the fountain would have soon un-doubted her.
He’d probably regretted the words as soon as they’d been uttered, but what else could a priggish duke do when confronted with such a reproachful threesome?
Well, not kiss her in the first place, of course, but the milk had already been spilt. Indeed, it had copiously flooded until they were chin-high and drowning.
Aideen scowled as Mrs Beckford babbled on about trousseaus and wedding fruit cakes. But what no one seemed to have taken into account were the very words the duke had so coldly drawled:“It was to choose my wife.”
Conceited, puffed-up, overconfident, egotistical, self-important…
The more she thought upon it, the more incensed she became. There were so many ways he could have worded it:
“I was about to ask the beautiful Aideen to be my treasured wife.”Perfect.
“I am hopeful Miss Quinlan would honour me by consenting to be my duchess.”Very Rakecombe but acceptable.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”From her favourite book, so unlikely.
“You don’t have to marry him, you realise.”
Aideen frowned. An odd thought, until she realised it wasn’t in her head but the astute Mr Beckford.
Peering up, she found warm brandy eyes twinkling at her over a fork full of bacon. “Just saying, Aideen dear, you need not marry the young buck if you don’t wish to. Duke or no duke.”
His wife’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Of cours–”
“No,” Mr Beckford said mildly. “What is most important for our girls, Edwina?” He reached to twine his fingers with his wife’s, their gazes meeting.
