Chapter 3
Chapter Three
He has lost his mind.
The thought struck Poppy with such force that for a moment she could not do anything but stare.
The Duke of Sterling stood tall and sure of himself as though he had merely suggested a change in the weather, and not marriage. His gray eyes were fixed on her face, and their strange, icy color intimidated her along with his proposal. A cinnamon scent drifted from him and intoxicated her senses.
Poppy’s lips parted, but no sound came. She had not prepared herself to become a duchess or even a wife. Though marriage was expected of women her age, she had no desire to step into that role. As the tension lingered, Lord Bendon was the first to regain his composure.
As the silence stretched between them, Lord Bendon recovered before anyone else.
“Your Grace,” her uncle said, warmth rushing into his voice with indecent speed, “what an excellent idea. Absolutely excellent. I must say, I could not have hoped for a better future for my niece. Penelope has always deserved a home and a position worthy of her birth.”
A small smile played at the corner of his mouth that might, in a more affectionate man, have suggested tender pride.
But Poppy knew him too well to be comforted by his excitement for her.
There was relief beneath it, bright and poorly concealed.
Not relief for her, but relief from her.
She was just another burden removed from his house.
“Oh, dear,” Lady Bendon whispered beside her as she sat down heavily on the couch.
Her gloved fingers tightened in her lap. She glanced first at her husband, then at the duke, as if waiting to discover which form of propriety would profit them most.
Poppy remained silent as she observed them.
A great many words moved through her mind, colliding and breaking apart but not reaching her tongue.
No, this is impossible. You do not know me, and I do not know you.
What about the girls? What about me?
The duke seemed unmoved by the small storm his proposal had produced. He looked at her uncle with an expression close to disgust.
“Lord Bendon,” he finally said, “you appear remarkably pleased.”
Poppy watched as her uncle’s smile faltered by a fraction. “Naturally. Any guardian would be gratified by such an offer, and from a duke too.”
“Hmm, yes,” Poppy wondered in which direction the conversation would go as the duke seemed irritated. “But a proposal from a man you met less than an hour ago?”
The room stilled.
Lord Bendon gave a short, awkward laugh. “You are not just any man; you are the Duke of Sterling.”
“That is my title, yes,” His Grace replied. “But it tells you little of my character as a man and even less of my intentions with your niece, whom I just met.”
Poppy felt the words settle between them with unexpected weight.
Her uncle adjusted his posture nervously. “Your Grace, I assure you, I meant only that such an alliance would be advantageous for Penelope.”
“Ah, you have your niece’s best interests in mind,” the duke responded in a dry tone that dripped with sarcasm.
“Yes, of course.” Her uncle nodded his head vigorously.
“You know nothing of what sort of husband I would be, and you are at peace with that?” he frowned at Lord Bendon, and Poppy found herself holding her breath.
Lord Bendon’s smile thinned. “A duke need hardly defend himself as a suitor.”
Hector’s gaze sharpened in Lord Bendon’s direction. “Your enthusiasm suggests either extraordinary faith in my virtues or very little concern for your niece’s welfare. Since we are strangers, I find the second possibility easier to credit.”
Poppy’s breath caught before she could prevent it.
No one spoke to Lord Bendon that way in his own house.
Her uncle had never struck her in front of guests.
He had never called cruelty by its name.
He had simply made plain, day by day, that she owed him gratitude for shelter, that her presence was tolerated rather than welcomed, and that affection was a currency he did not intend to waste on dependents.
He even treated his own daughter as a burden.
The duke did not know any of that, and yet he read Lord Bendon like an open book.
Her uncle’s face colored. “Your Grace, I must protest—”
“You may do so later.” Hector turned his head slightly, toward Poppy and spoke. “Miss Norish and I will continue this conversation privately.”
Lady Bendon rose halfway from the couch. “Privately? Your Grace, that would be most improper.”
“It is a proposal of marriage,” his tone changed when he spoke to her aunt; it was gentler and softer.
“I can hardly see my future bride, so she is perfectly safe with me.” His tone suggested that they may not argue with him.
Poppy felt heat rise to her cheeks when he called her his bride, though his tone held neither flirtation nor apology. He spoke the fact coldly, as if it were a legal point that should end all argument.
And it did.
Lady Bendon looked at her husband, who was still smarting from the duke’s accusation, and he cleared his throat.
“Violet,” he said sternly. “We shall allow His Grace and Penelope a moment.”
Poppy wanted to object. She wanted to ask why anyone should allow anything when it was her life being discussed.
But her voice still refused her, and perhaps some part of her wanted the room emptied.
She did not know what she would say to the duke once they were alone, but she knew she could not say it under her uncle’s satisfied eye.
“Jonathan, you may join them,” the duke instructed his footman, who simply nodded and left.
Lady Bendon rose fully. Her skirts whispered as she moved toward the door. Lord Bendon followed her with stiff dignity, though he paused long enough to offer Poppy a warning look.
She lowered her gaze until the door closed behind them.
“You may speak freely now,” Hector said.
But for several seconds, Miss Norish did not speak.
Then she drew in a careful breath. “I think this is utterly mad!”
Hector chuckled. There was more composure in her voice than he had expected from a woman who had been struck speechless moments before.
He had the sudden urge to see her fully; his eyes studied every shadow, curve, and wherever the light touched her.
Her face had soft features; her nose was small and round, her hair long with the softest curls falling loosely around her shoulders.
She looked beautiful, but Hector reproached himself for not being able to see the color of her eyes.
Composure and beauty. Perhaps she is Duchess material.
“That is a reasonable accusation,” he said gruffly.
“You proposed marriage to me, and you hardly know me. That is insane.” She huffed.
“Yes,” he said finally.
A faint, incredulous sound escaped her. “Do you mean to answer my objections with a single syllable?”
“If the objection is accurate, there is no use disputing it.”
“That is not—” she stopped, perhaps searching for patience. “Your Grace, marriage is out of the question.”
“It is not; it is the answer to everything.”
She was stubborn, but he would not back down; if a marriage would save his family, then he would do it for duty’s sake.
She moved, a small blur of motion. Hector listened to the light brush of fabric as she sat down on a chaise nearer to him.
He could almost smell her faint jasmine scent, and it made his heart race.
Hector planned the proposal after speaking with the nuns at the orphanage and learning that the girls could not bear to be separated from Miss Norish.
But he did not expect such a distracting woman who intrigued him and all his senses.
“I came here,” he said as he walked toward her and sat next to her, “to simply meet the woman my nieces have become attached to, and with my proposal I intended to determine whether your concern for them was genuine or simply an indulgent sentiment.”
Hector felt her squirm next to him, but he did not turn toward her.
“And have you determined it?” she asked him.
“I have.”
She waited.
He tightened his fingers around the cane as a sudden urge to reach for her took over him. “I believe you genuinely care for them. Or at least I pray you do.”
A strained silence fell upon them. Poppy shifted uneasily, and her fingers twisted nervously in her lap.
When she spoke again, some of the sharpness had left her voice. “And from that you arrived at marriage?”
“May I remind you that you insisted that the transition must be smooth for the girls.” He turned to her then, and his breath caught.
Hector could almost see her features clearly in the afternoon light that burst through the windows and landed gently on her face. She was truly beautiful; her hair framed her face perfectly, and her full lips seemed to be designed by a sculptor, but the color of her eyes remained a mystery.
Miss Norish looked back at him, and he heard a hitch in her breath too.
“I… I meant they should be prepared before they move in with you. They have to be visited and reassured. I did not mean that you should marry the nearest woman they happen to trust.” She exhaled, and he could almost taste her sweet breath.
Hector turned away from her, staring ahead at the entrance to the drawing room.
“You are not just the nearest woman, Miss Norish. You are the woman they trust; therefore, I trust you too.” His words settled, but he turned his gaze away because he could not be distracted by her again.
“Trust does not make me fit to marry you,” she muttered under her breath, and he briefly wondered why she would think so absurdly.
He did not like the thought of her making herself small. He also did not have time to indulge any dislike.
“I cannot allow them to remain in an orphanage longer than necessary,” he said.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was crowded with everything she did not say. Hector waited, and he disliked waiting, but he knew that forcing speech would cost him more than silence.
At last she said, “You have arranged my life very neatly, but the girls’ lives should not—”
“No. I have proposed an arrangement that serves the girls.”