Chapter 16 #2
The old man pulled his gouty foot to a footstool and settled his girth comfortably before gesturing Richard to sit.
Heat burned in Richard’s chest and died in his iron control. Don’t let the man flummox you.
Brandies arrived. Servants left. The duke sipped slowly in silence. Richard controlled his racing mind by calculating the number of reports on his desk, mentally dividing them into different numbered stacks and assigning a level of importance to each. He could wait as well as the duke and longer.
“You probably wondered why I asked you to meet me,” the duke said, words rumbling out like gravel down a rough chute.
Asked? I know a summons when I read one.
“I assumed you wish to know more about instability in Naples,” Richard answered smoothly.
“Naples? Unstable? Nonsense. We defeated the damned Corsican.”
You would know better if you bothered to read the briefings we send to the House of Lords. Richard clamped his lips tight rather than respond to what he knew to be ignorance.
Lisle pointed an impatient finger at Richard. “I asked you here about my daughter.”
“Lady Sarah is well, I trust. Last night—”
“Last night I expected you in my study. The girl and her mother did, too,” the old man sputtered, spittle dropping to his cravat. “Hell,” he went on, “half of London did.”
“I was unaware we had an appointment of some kind.”
“Damned well should have. You’ve been paying court the entire Season. Parliament closes for the summer soon. City is emptying. The girl is in fits and has started wondering when you’re going to declare yourself.”
“If I’ve given her reason to expect—” Richard began. Given her reason to expect? You let your mother crown her duchess-in-waiting; you let her dragoon you into escorting the chit everywhere; you fell into that piece of theater in the box last night.
“Do you mean to say you paraded her in front of the ton—in front of Castlereagh—on your arm last night and you didn’t think it gave her expectations?”
“I have an interest, certainly.” Richard chose his words carefully. “I considered asking to speak to you, but the hour was late.” And I wanted to get to Chadbourn’s before his dinner guests departed.
“So you are going to ask for the chit or not?”
Words stuck in his throat. He thought of the extraordinarily expensive betrothal ring sitting in a vault at his bank.
He thought of the smug look—no question she looked smug—on Lady Sarah’s face when they promenaded past other debutants.
He thought of his parent’s expectations about their due.
He thought of duty. He thought of England.
Richard opened his mouth to ask Lady Sarah Wharton’s father for her perfect, well-bred, wealthy hand in marriage. The words would not come out.
“Speak up, man! You’ve all but driven away her other suitors.”
“Lady Sarah is exquisite. Any man in London would be honored to have her.”
“We don’t want any man. We want a duke’s heir. There was an earl on the hook, but m’wife tells me he is much too old. Viscount Osborn has made tentative overtures. He’s well-to-pass and heir to an earldom. He might do. Would come up to scratch right enough.”
He makes her sound like a statue at auction.
It struck him she seemed cold enough, and chided himself for it.
Not fair, Richard. She possesses both beauty and manners.
She would not only ornament your table but also serve adequately as an ambitious diplomat’s wife.
You saw that at Chadbourn Park; you planned to pursue the connection then.
Thoughts of Chadbourn Park brought the feel of Lily Thornton’s body pressed against his, unbidden, to his mind; the feel of her mouth burned his memory.
Lily Thornton is no statue.
The duke waved for another brandy. It appeared by his elbow in moments. Richard looked down at his own drink, almost untouched. He downed it in a single gulp.
That damned Thornton woman would never make an appropriate marchioness, much less a future duchess. Do your duty, man, and get it over with.
She had been gone by the time he got to Chadbourn’s. It had been foolish to seek her out, and he admitted to himself he had gone there hoping to do just that.
She made it clear she doesn’t want you. What are you waiting for?
“May I call on you next week?” he asked at last.
“Another damned week? You aren’t exactly impassioned.”
“I thought you sought a well-titled connection, not a damned besotted lover,” Richard spat.
The old man chuckled. “Just so,” he said. “Just so. You can have a week, Glenaire. No longer or Osborn will have stolen the match on you.”
I doubt it. Your Sarah won’t settle for an earl’s heir if she can have a duke’s. He made his leave, determined to sort his disordered thoughts.
One week. Perhaps if I lay out the advantages and disadvantages on paper, my decision will become clearer. His steps slowed as he passed through Saint James Park on his way to Horse Guards. Perhaps in a week I will have dealt with Lily Thornton once and for all.
He approached the end of the park and stopped, so lost in thought he dropped onto one of the benches lining the walk.
Lily. I owe her protection. I promised it.
I promised her father home safe. The image in his mind shifted from Lily, frightened yet determined, with Volkov, to Lily, soft and warm from loving, in the dim shade of a sheep barn.
Sheep barn! He smiled at that. What I owe her is marriage. Why won’t the damned woman see that?