Page 22 of Her Passionate Duke

“He wants you to run away with him,” she said slowly. “He wants you to leave home and elope with him to France.”

“I assumed that was what he meant.”

Linnet didn’t understand how Lady Caroline could go on sewing so serenely when her whole world was approaching a moment of crisis. Surely, to be asked to elope so scandalously was not something she could contemplate seriously?

“But of course, Caroline, you don’t mean to go through with it!”

Lady Caroline shrugged mildly.

“I might be happier if I did. Don’t give me that horrified look, Linnet Quinton. You can’t really think that the world is full of bloodless angels who never beat their wings for fear of offending someone. We’re not all pious and innocent like you. Some of us have blood in our veins. Some of us have dreams for our lives.”

“And you think that I don’t?”

Linnet realised that she had nearly shouted. She really was raising her voice an alarming amount lately.

“I think that you assume that everyone is wholesome and goodhearted like you. And you can’t see how that angelic image you have of us imprisons us. I’m tired of trying to be perfect for you, for Mother and Father, of doing what society expects at every turn. For the first time in my life I actually feel wanted by someone and I’m not about to throw away this one chance at happiness.”

The words stung like a blow to the face.

It had never occurred to Linnet that Lady Caroline might feel this way - she had kept her true feelings hidden so well.

“Even if you don’t marry Lord Brandon,” she said, “don’t do this. Anyone who would try to come between you and your family is not good for you.”

“I’m not sure that you’re in a position to be judging between good men and bad men, given the man you’ve been gazing at like a lost puppy lately.” Setting down her embroidery, Lady Caroline rose from the chair and walked over to the hearth. On top of the mantelpiece rested the morning’s paper. She held it up so that Linnet could see it. “Last night a bawdy house caught fire in a less than reputable part of London. And I am sure that you can’t guess who was seen in the street immediately afterwards?”

She threw the paper to Linnet, who scanned the column sceptically. As it happened, the Duke of Grantsham had been there - a reporter had interviewed him just as the blaze was extinguished. The Duke had managed to get in some quotable statements about how disasters hit the city’s poor the hardest, which Linnet thought was very clever of him, in the circumstances. For a moment, the fact that he had been there, right outside a house of ill-repute, worried her – surely he hadn’t….

She shook the idea aside – he wouldn’t, she couldn’t think it of him. there would be a good reason, she was sure. With a single deft motion, she turned and threw the paper into the fire, scattering sparks. She watched as it blackened and curled with a feeling of quiet fury.

“This proves nothing!”

Her voice was alarmingly raised, again, and a little shaky. She took a steadying breath.

“Doesn’t it?” Lady Caroline remained unperturbed. “I suppose there are some truths you can’t be bothered to see.”

“Why are you doing this?” Linnet didn’t care who heard them now; she was too angry. Retrieving her pelisse, she started toward the door. “I’m sorry I even bothered coming to see you. I hope you have a nice life in Paris.”

But Lady Caroline didn’t answer. Linnet slammed the door, demanded that the footman call her carriage, and hurried down the stairs into the rainy street.

Behind her, Lady Caroline returned to her chair. A tear trickled down her cheek, but she refused to acknowledge it. For the next hour she went on embroidering (dreadfully, messily) while the world grew dark outside the window and the rain worsened.

Chapter Ten

Linnet didn’t sleep easily that night. She sat up in bed for a few hours reading while the rain beat against the windows, trying not to think about the argument with Lady Caroline. Around midnight the candle had burnt down to a stub, her eyes burned, and she realised that she couldn’t remember a word she had just read. She was too angry. And, what was worse, she had begun to wonder if maybe Lady Caroline was right about the Duke.

The more she thought about it, the more her original certainty faded. She reviewed every interaction she’d had with him, and, while she couldn’t point to any one large or distinct thing, there had been a number of small things over the past few weeks which had aroused her suspicions, or left her feeling a little confused. Those had been easy to ignore when the Duke was near – he was so handsome and clever, and she couldn’t conceive of any greater happiness than marrying him. But she now understood that, when they had first met, she had lacked confidence in herself; so that if she had perceived something wrong with him, she’d automatically assumed that there must be something wrong with her.

As she had grown in strength and confidence - which she had, she realised, for these last few weeks she had chosen, more and more, to stand up for what mattered to her - she could more easily see the things which unsettled her.

Things like the moment in that conversation after he had given her the posset at the charity event, when he had hinted at having made some apparently secret choices in his life, of ‘tasks’ of some kind – and she could not imagine what tasks a Duke might take on, in the normal course of things. His apparent fixation on learning more of Monsieur Fournier also disturbed her, as did the odd way he had looked at her when he had asked her about Fournier.

Even his being outside the bawdy house right as it burned down bothered her, though not for the reason Lady Caroline might have assumed – that part of her certainty remained – she could not imagine him disporting himself with a lightskirt of that nature. It was more the sense that there was a secret reason for him being there, one which she did not understand.

As much as he had divulged during that conversation in the parlour, as she drank the posset and tea — and he had revealed more about himself that night than she had ever thought to have the hope of learning — she still had the sense that he had been holding something back. There was so much that she still didn’t know about him; and, what was worse, she felt that to be a deliberate choice on the Duke’s part. The idea that he preferred it that way, preferred keeping things secret from her, even after sharing so much, hurt. She was foolish to feel that way, for he owed her nothing. Nothing had been said between them. But it still hurt, nonetheless.

***

The sense of mystery only deepened on the following night when she arrived back at Grantsham Hall for the Ball. As her mother hurried off to speak with the Duchess, and Linnet looked about, wondering who of her acquaintances might be there, the Duke appeared by her side.