Chapter Eight
Lucian bowed to her, hoping his neckcloth hid the rapid pulse beating in his neck.
She was here. In his house.
Thankfully, Mr. Bishop had taken himself off as soon as his glass was empty, since Lucian didn’t want to have to explain how he came to know the lady. Nor did he want Mr. Bishop to think Lady Diantha was another potential pigeon to pluck. It would make things even more complicated than they already were.
And why did he now almost wish for a comet to streak by and change his life?
“Devlin, bring tea and ask Cook if she was able to make those delicious biscuits, the ones with the lemon icing.”
Devlin bowed, then left the room, leaving the door ajar, as was proper.
“Are you here by yourself?”
he asked, peering over her shoulder to the entrance hall. Not just unusual for a lady to visit alone, but just not done.
But apparently she did it.
“I am.”
Her expression was set, as though she was about to face something unpleasant and wanted to be prepared for it.
Was it him? Was he the unpleasant future? If so, what was she about to say?
“Would you care to sit down?”
he offered, gesturing to the chairs in front of the fireplace.
They were in the salon, the one where Lucian had received Mr. Bishop. Lucian had begun to use this room for household business rather than usurp his father’s office. It felt as though he was truly carving out his own space, making his mark that was entirely different from his father’s.
“Thank you,”
she said, taking a seat. She sat forward in the chair, her spine rigid, her expression still set in that anticipating something awful face.
He took the chair opposite, placing his arm on the back as though he actually felt casually relaxed.
He did not.
“What brings you here, my lady?”
He bit back his next sentence—Why didn’t you receive me when I called?—because it would likely just be awkward.
Because then she might say she had hoped never to see him again. Which begged the question of why she was here.
The thought struck him—perhaps she was here because someone had seen them, and she needed him to repair her reputation. To require him to marry her.
Why didn’t that make his throat constrict the way it usually did?
“I came to see your father,”
she replied. “But since he is not here, I am seeing you.”
Ah. So she was not here about her reputation. He should not feel disappointed. And yet.
“It’s about the factory,”
she continued. “The one that our parents still own, despite the lawsuit having been settled. They are no longer partners in any way, but they do still own something together.”
She straightened even more. “I am here to resolve the issue.”
She wasn’t here to see him in any capacity at all. Instead, she was here to—
“Resolve the issue?”
he said, aware he sounded somewhat pugnacious. “How do you imagine we can possibly do that? What with our parents despising one another for longer than either one of us has been alive?”
She gave him an annoyed look. At least that was better than the awful-anticipation expression. “While our parents are at odds, my lord, there is no reason we have to be.”
“That is true,”
he snapped back. “As I recall, we got along quite well when we first met.”
He hadn’t meant to sound resentful. But he had. He’d been aware of thinking about her, about that night, far more often than was his wont, but he hadn’t known just how badly he’d wanted to see her.
And how much it hurt that she didn’t actually want to see him.
Her face turned bright red, and he immediately felt terrible for being an ass.
“I am sorry,”
he said. “I should not have mentioned that. It is—”
“It is fine.”
She took a deep breath. “It is true that neither of us expected to see one another, but it seems fate has another plan. The thing is, my parents are . . . are incapable of resolving this issue themselves, so I have taken it on.”
“And my father told me to resolve it myself, while he is away. It seems, my lady, that fate has an odd sense of humor.”
“Indeed,”
she said. “So what do you propose we do?”
She didn’t expect his bark of laughter at her question.
“What do you propose we do,”
he echoed, emphasizing the fourth word. “I suppose that is one solution,”
he said, giving her a meaningful look.
She caught his meaning immediately and felt her temper rise. “Look, my lord, I assume that ladies are forever flinging themselves in front of you, what with—”
and she gestured toward his face, wishing he wasn’t so ridiculously handsome “—but I am not here to sacrifice myself on the marital altar like some modern-day Juliet.”
“You know they weren’t trying to resolve things between the two of them,”
he pointed out in an infuriatingly mild tone. “They had fallen in love, you see, and—”
“I am well aware of how the story goes,”
she interrupted.
“I wasn’t certain,”
he replied, “what with you talking about marital sacrifice.”
He gave her a knowing glance. “And would it be a sacrifice to be married to me? What with—” and he repeated the gesture she’d made, all the while keeping his gaze locked with hers.
Was he this insufferable the first time they’d met? The only time they’d met, in fact?
No. Then he’d been charm and grace and glorious kisses.
She presumed the latter would still be true, with the benefit being that if he was kissing her he wasn’t saying something infuriating.
A dangerous thought, because that was, in fact, what she wished she could do, despite—or perhaps because of—how contrary he was being.
It was refreshing to banter with someone and not have to think they’d react in some wholly outsize random way like her family. It was also refreshing to have someone follow her in conversation, not be sitting there quietly thinking about turnips while she was talking about a piece of art she’d admired or a book she’d enjoyed.
It felt good to be heard, even if his response was aggravating.
“I am not Juliet, and you are not Romeo,”
she stated. “I am glad we have that cleared up.”
His mouth curled up into a wry smile. “We do, my lady.”
He leaned forward in his chair, bracing his elbows on his knees, and rubbed his hands together. “So. Now that we have established that, I see there are only a few options remaining.”
“Which are?”
“We could raze the factory, sell the land, and split the proceeds.”
“The factory, despite it being outdated, is worth far more as a factory than as a piece of property,”
she said, then gave him a narrowed look. “But you already know that.”
He shrugged. “It’s always wise to lead with your worst idea so you can build up to your best.”
“Just skip the middle parts, then, and tell me your best idea,”
she said, folding her arms over her chest. It wasn’t a polite, ladylike posture, but there was nothing polite about this exchange.
“That’s the thing,”
he admitted. “I don’t have a best idea.”
And that was refreshing also: for a man to concede that he did not have the best idea was something Diantha had never experienced.
“What are your ideas?”
he continued, sounding genuinely curious.
That was downright revolutionary.
“You’ll be drummed out of the Handsome Men’s Club if word ever gets out you have just solicited a lady’s opinion,”
she warned, unable to keep a smile from tugging at her own lips.
One eyebrow rose. “The most obvious example of a woman with very good ideas is Queen Victoria. There are myriad examples of other women who know best, from female business owners to theater owners to dressmakers to one woman who, I believe, was the first female ship captain.”
That shrug again. “If we only ever took advice from males, that would be leaving out half the population. It sounds like far too much work,”
he added with a mock shudder.
“So your concern isn’t necessarily equality between men and women but an abhorrence to working too hard.”
“Why else does anyone do anything?” he asked.
“This is getting too far off the topic,”
she replied, though she wished she could sit here and spar with him for hours. It was almost—almost—as much fun as kissing.
“Is it, though? We’re here trying to save our respective parents from having to do the work of dealing with one another because we’re well aware of how that will affect our situations. I know for me it will not be pleasant. My father is difficult in the best of circumstances,”
he said, his expression turning uncharacteristically grim for a moment.
“And mine would talk about it until I might be tempted to just go burn it down myself and be done with it.”
She glanced away. “And . . . and it is important that I forge my own path here.”
Thankfully, he didn’t ask her about what she’d just said. Why had she said it in the first place? Because the factory represented the very real hope that she could strike out on her own. If she could solve the issue and, what was more, if it resulted in a steady income, no matter how small, she wouldn’t have to worry if the Courtenays were swimming in eels or lobsters.
“If there was something we could make in that factory,”
he offered, jarring her out of her fishy thoughts, “something that would benefit people, then that would be the best course. But I just can’t think of what that could be. Anything less than some sort of miracle lifesaver would not be worthy of my father’s attention.”
She wanted to know just how terrible the duke was, but to inquire would be to increase the level of intimacy they had, and she did not want to tempt herself.
Instead, she thought about what he’d said, her mind racing with the possibilities.
He didn’t speak during that time, just sat and let her think. Another remarkable attribute: anybody else would have spoken just to break the silence, but not him. It seemed he was comfortable enough with himself to let others do the same thing.
“I can’t think of anything,”
she confessed. “Though, I am certain something is out there.”
She couldn’t keep the note of frustration from her tone.
“How about this,”
he said. “We put an advertisement in the papers saying we’ve got a factory that needs to be useful and asking people to bring their most altruistic ideas to us. We review them and we pick the best one. And then,”
he continued, his eyes lighting up with enthusiasm, “we present the product at Prince Albert’s thingum next year.”
“Do you mean the Great Exhibition?”
she said dryly.
“Exactly! And then you will have your proof that you can forge your path.”
So he had noticed. He just hadn’t asked her about it. Because he was tactful?
Hardly. Perhaps because he wasn’t interested. That should be what she hoped for, and yet she felt . . . flattened.
“There are worse ideas,”
she admitted. She rose as she spoke, and he snapped to his feet as well. “That will work for me, my lord,”
she said, holding her hand out to him. “I will take care of placing the advertisement and then we will arrange the presentations for—”
“For here,”
he supplied. “Since the duke will not return for some time.”
He hesitated, and she gave him an inquiring look. “We should also strategize on how to handle the factory management. The problem doesn’t end when we find something to produce.”
“Oh,”
she replied, surprised. “You’ve thought this out.”
He raised a brow. “And that startles you?”
Well. That was rude.
“I am sorry,”
she began, but he waved her off.
“Most people don’t normally think I am the thinking sort,”
he said. “So it’s expected.”
Why didn’t she want to be most people?
“We can correspond about our discussions after the advertisement has run,” he said.
They shook as he spoke, and she suddenly felt entirely awkward. “If you will excuse me, then, I will be on my way.”
“A pleasure exchanging ideas with you, my lady,”
he said, and she couldn’t help but feel warm at the compliment.
Dangerous indeed.