Page 24 of Snowed In with the Jilted Duke

With a grin, his cousin Rawleigh vacated the chair next to Oliver and, after a moment’s hesitation, Pippa seated herself.

“Have you already eaten?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“When is Beatrice expecting to see us in the drawing room?”

Pippa sighed. “An hour from now. She and the others are copying out the parts from the final act and she intends to have us read the entire play today.”

Oliver reached for his coffee cup. “I have some estate business to attend to, but I will do my best to only take an hour.”

She nodded, and he watched her from beneath his lashes, fascinated. Today she wore a long-sleeved morning dress in a deep pink that highlighted the delicate color of her lips and cheeks and flattered her dark hair. He felt as though those lips were still imprinted on his.

Suddenly impatient to find out the terms of the marriage agreement, he stood and bowed first to Pippa, then his grandmother. “My apologies. Estate work calls, and I must hurry if I am to finish before rehearsals begin.”

Fenton looked up as Oliver entered the office, his expression triumphant. “I have found the agreement, your grace.”

Oliver refrained from snatching the contract from the other man’s hand.

“Thank you, Fenton. That will be all for now.”

Fenton shrugged, but accepted his dismissal and exited the room. Oliver turned his attention to the contract.

It was straightforward, no more than a single closely-written page. Richard Dalston, the Duke of Kendal, agreed to marry his oldest son Oliver to Miss Penelope Montgomery before Miss Montgomery turned twenty-five. Mr. Josiah Montgomery agreed to repay the Duke’s debts—including his “debts of honor”—in exchange.

Oliver still remembered the very day it had all been arranged.

“There you are, my boy. Come in, come in!”

Hesitating in the doorway of his father’s office, Oliver had glanced at the stranger already sitting in one of the chairs in front of his father’s desk. His hair was fully white and his face heavily lined, and he beamed at Oliver like Falstaff in Twelfth Night.

“Come join us,” the other man had said with a Midlands accent so thick, Oliver could scarcely understand him. After another hesitation and an impatient wave from his father, Oliver obeyed, shuffling inside.

“Close the door behind you, lad,” the other man said, and Oliver did so before seating himself in the other remaining chair. His father beamed at him in turn from the other side of the desk.

All this cheerfulness was beginning to make Oliver nervous, especially from his father. He toed at the carpet with his boot.

“I was telling Mr. Montgomery all about your wish to study at Cambridge.”

Oliver blushed, hating the hot color he knew stained his cheeks. “Er, thank you, Father.”

What was the point of telling him that? Oliver already knew there was no money to send him no matter how much he wished to go.

“We have been in negotiations, Mr. Montgomery and I, and we have decided your marriage.”

He stared blankly at his father. “My marriage?”

“Not now, of course. Later. When you’re old enough. How old are you now?”

“Fifteen, Father.” One would think his own father would remember how old his son and heir was, but Oliver was not surprised at needing to remind him.

“Wonderful! So in perhaps ten years or so…”

His father turned to beam at Mr. Montgomery, who beamed at Oliver in turn.

“Exactly, my lad! Not until you’re both grown enough for marriage. Penny’s barely ten years old.”

“Oh.”