Chapter Seven #2
When she didn’t obey, Lady Glynis lifted one of Ana’s hands.
“Ragged nails. Do you chew them? A disgusting habit. I’ll coat them with rapeseed oil, the bitterness will soon cure you of that.
You’re altogether too slight and small of stature, you’ll have to wear heeled slippers and lift your chin.
We can perhaps add some padding to your gowns to give you more of a feminine shape.
Now then, are you proficient on the pianoforte? ”
“I play very poorly.”
“How many languages do you speak?”
“Just the one. I did learn French but I’m afraid it’s mostly slipped away.”
“Do you draw or paint?”
“Badly.”
“Well? What are your accomplishments?”
“I’m writing a novel for publication.”
Lady Glynis shuddered delicately, her thin lips turning down. “Don’t ever mention that in public. Warburton will dower you generously, of course, otherwise we have no hope.”
“Pardon me, but no hope of what?”
“Making a success of yourself on the marriage mart. You must be a credit to this family. I can’t very well sponsor a girl who will shame us.”
“I’ve no wish to debut in society, nor to find a husband.
” She’d told Mr. Norwood she had a titled fiancé, but surely a titled guardian would do just as well?
Once she wrote a brilliant half of a Clovercote novel, she could then inform him that she had the patronage of a duke.
She didn’t require a fiancé now. But how was she to write the novel if she was to be readied for a debut? No, she must wriggle out of it somehow.
“Then why am I here?” Lady Glynis turned to the duke. “Warburton, this young lady has no wish for a husband, therefore she has no need of a chaperone. I’ll bid you good day.”
Warburton slammed the ledger closed. “Not this again. Miss Crewe, I’m becoming rather tired of your contrary nature. We discussed the need for you to be settled.”
“I don’t recall a discussion. I recall you barking orders and ignoring my plans for my future.”
“Well!” Lady Glynis shook her head disapprovingly. “She has neither the docile temperament nor classic beauty to be a success. Perhaps you should allow her to pursue her own future and wash your hands of her.”
The duke closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as though he had a headache coming on.
He turned to his aunt, opening his eyes.
“Aunt, you will instruct Miss Crewe in the niceties of making her debut. She will enter society in a matter of weeks. She will make a respectable match and her future will be secured.” He turned to Ana.
“And you, Miss Crewe, will obey my aunt’s every instruction. Is that clear?”
“Clear as a bell, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Your lessons will begin immediately—”
“However,” Ana broke in, “I don’t wish to attend the Season, therefore I won’t follow instructions.” She had a novel to write.
Lady Glynis rolled her eyes heavenward. “Nephew, I’m leaving. When you have your ward in hand, fetch me again. Until then, I bid you good luck.” She left with a swish of heavy silk skirts and an indignant sniff.
“Do you always have to be so argumentative?” asked the duke.
“Did you see her evaluating my teeth? She forbade me to smile with my lips open.”
“She’s a paragon of propriety. With her by your side your celebrated entrée into society will be assured.
” He rose from the desk and stood in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his gaze.
“I’m weary of you thwarting my every attempt to help you, Miss Crewe.
My aunt will chaperone you. I’ll dower you generously. I will see you comfortably settled.”
His unspoken words: he’d buy her a husband. Then she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
What was it about his size that made her tremble?
She’d faced down larger men. She knew she was petite.
A pint-size virago. A big life force in a small package.
But she’d never been aware of her body in the way that he made her aware.
She stared at his hands and remembered when he’d lifted her by the waist and plunked her into the carriage.
Something about him felled her like she was a sapling under a woodsman’s axe. It was the sheer magnitude of his presence. The way he seemed always a hairsbreadth away from losing his temper and doing something outrageous.
Like now. He could be towering over her because he wanted to shake some sense into her, wanted to bend her to his will. Or he could be standing so near because he wanted to kiss her.
Kiss her? What a ridiculous thought. Where had that come from? “Your Grace, I’m far too busy to attend the Season. I have a novel to write, or have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. And I don’t care if you write ten novels. Only do so after you are safely married.”
“You have my future all planned out for me. A wealthy husband, a townhouse in London and a home in the countryside, no time to write frivolous novels or gallivant around the country on doomed missions to locate my missing father.”
“No, you had your future planned in the letters you wrote. You wanted to attend balls, find your true love, set about creating a large and happy family. I’m only trying to give you what you envisioned.”
“I wrote those letters when I was fifteen. I didn’t know what I wanted, or who I was.
I only knew what I was supposed to want.
And, yes, I did long for a large family because I had never known one, but now I want other things.
I want financial independence, the chance to travel and experience life like Lady Claridge did. ”
“Your patroness was protected by her status as a respectable widow while she was traveling.”
“Then I shall invent a husband and kill him off quite handily. Let’s see .
. . dear Reginald. He was a devoted husband.
We married when we were young. He wrote me truly awful poetry.
He had red hair, like mine. We were doomed to produce redheaded children, though it didn’t bother us because we were quite jolly and content with our quiet life in the countryside.
Until poor Reginald, poor sweet soul, was killed by a .
. . runaway bull in the paddock. I’ll wear a ring when I travel and tell stories of my dear departed Reginald.
” She sniffled. “See there? I’ve nearly made myself cry thinking about Reginald and what a devoted husband he was until he was gored by that bull. ”
The duke crossed his arms, glaring most ferociously. “Are you quite finished?”
Ana attempted to match his ferocity. If only she had a stepstool, she’d climb higher than he and glower down from a great height, show him how it felt. She jutted her chin, staring him down. “Just getting started, Your Grace.”
She was brave. She didn’t back down easily. He respected that. “Don’t you want to make your debut?”
“It won’t work. I’m ill-suited to London society. I’ll stand out like a sunflower in a rose bed. I’m hardly the modest, sheltered young lady society demands. I’ve had to learn hard truths about the world.”
He winced. “And that is entirely my fault. I mean to make reparations. You may not be the daughter of a titled gentleman, and you may have had several years outside of society, but as a duke’s ward, you’ll attract the notice of all, especially when they learn about your dowry.”
“In other words you’re going to bribe someone to marry me.”
“Don’t view it as such. I’m giving you an appropriate sum that will signal your worth to a society that places much value on such things.”
“I shall attract only fortune hunters then. And they’ll know I’m not an innocent debutante. I’m not the girl Papa left at the finishing school. The girl who wore ribbons in her hair and had a head full of sentimental dreams.”
“I read your letters. I know what those hopes were. I can’t bring back your father, but I can see that the rest of your dreams come true.”
“I’ll bring my father back. If there’s even the slimmest of chances that he may be alive, I must attempt to find him.
If you are set on paying for my way in the world, I will accept those funds in order to place advertisements in the papers for any news of my father’s whereabouts.
I shall interview the men who fought alongside him, perhaps even travel to Belgium to search for news of him—”
“Those men are dead.” He hadn’t meant the words to be so cold, so harsh, but there was no other way to communicate the truth. “Your desperate hope that your father is still alive is dangerous. It could make you the target for unscrupulous charlatans.”
There was no gentle, kind way to say this. She must abandon this false hope. “I’m very sorry, Miss Crewe, but there’s no way your father survived his injuries.”
“The official report says he’s missing in action and his body was never recovered.”
“It’s true that he was never found. Many were not.
We had to . . . dig shallow, hasty graves.
Men were piled into them. We had no time to erect grave markers or make lists of names to send home.
” He winced at the memory. As long as he lived, that tumult of limbs and faces being steadily swallowed by dirt would never fade from his mind’s eye.
“And yet you didn’t actually see him die,” she said stubbornly.
“I staunched his chest wound with a cloth. He’d lost too much blood. He’s gone, Miss Crewe.”
“You have no imagination, that’s the problem. Some kind villager found him and dragged him to safety. Nursed him back to health. He lost his memory. He can’t even recall his own name.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s not,” she insisted, her cheeks gone pink with emotion.
“I’m going to find him and then I’ll set about restoring his memory using the things he used to love.
I’ll read him his favorite poem—Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”—we’ll play a game of whist, and I’ll feed him his favorite dessert—flummery. ”
“Flummery?”