3
The weather was mild and the Thistleworth garden smelled of the many flowers there. The roses were the most potent, but Jo detected lilies and irises as well as she was walking along the garden path lined with lanterns with the Duke of Riddlesmarsh. Her hand still rested in the crook of his elbow.
“It is rather simple, Your Grace,” Jo told the duke since he did not speak. Or perhaps he had. Her blood was rushing so loudly in her ears that she could not be certain. In any event she continued:
“When my uncle died, I thought I was free to do with my life what I wanted. I am of age you see, and my father has left me a substantial amount of money. Not that I stayed with my uncle out of obligation: I loved him and cared for him for the last five years, when he was not well. But I had always had this idea that I wanted to live by the sea. I grew up in Lymington but moved inland to live with my uncle ten years ago. After his death, I bought the perfect little cottage there and have lived there for six months.”
She paused to look up at him, to make certain that she had not lost his interest. He was looking down at her with a kind and attentive gaze. She met his eyes, they were green she could tell now that she was closer, and his skin was indeed covered with freckles. She liked that.
As did she like the way her hand felt in the crook of his elbow. There was something steady and dependable about it. Or perhaps it was merely the fact that he was the only man other than her uncle she had walked with in this manner.
“What happened then?” he asked as he looked away from her. There was no particular curiosity in his voice, but he had asked, so Jo continued:
“A little more than two weeks ago, I received a letter from my cousin, Ambrose Hawkins, the one you met inside, that he had found my father’s will among his father’s papers.
He informed me that the will states that my money would either be managed by my uncle or his descendants – or my husband.
” She gulped as she said the last part and did not dare to look at him again.
There had been a moment before when she had been certain that he would refuse her, but then Ambrose had laughed and the duke had offered to listen to her at least. Which was a start.
A great start. Although they were close to midnight and if he refused her, it would be difficult to find another who would marry her.
She might have to settle for Mr. Sedgewick, but even he would be better than Ambrose managing her money.
Jo explained how they examined the will for authenticity, and how Beatrice’s husband had spoken to several of his colleagues who all agreed that Ambrose was right to demand that she hand over her assets.
Mr. Oakley had done a remarkable job of negotiating that Jo did not have to hand over her money before tomorrow at dawn, inadvertently allowing her this chance to come to London and find a husband before midnight.
“Before midnight?” the duke choked on the words.
Jo nodded solemnly.
“It’s in less than an hour.”
“I know,” Jo snapped, then hurriedly amended: “I am sorry, Your Grace.”
“No, don’t be; you are right. Of course, you are aware of the time.”
The duke rubbed his chin, deep in thought it seemed.
Jo let him think. It was a large decision that he needed to make in a short span of time. Or perhaps he was contemplating a way to let her down gently.
Jo studied the dark garden around them. Despite her name, Lady Thistleworth’s garden was kept immaculate: lush rose bushes and neatly trimmed shrubbery lined the paths they were walking with Beatrice trailing along behind them.
All of the paths were illuminated by lanterns.
The garden was larger than Jo had ever thought a garden in London could be.
But then again this was her first visit, and she had only been here for little more than four and twenty hours.
“How had you imagined it would work? Proposing to a complete stranger?” the duke asked.
The question was reasonable and luckily Jo was prepared.
“We would make a contract,” she told him and came to a stop in the middle of a small square lined with a low stone balustrade. She rummaged in her reticule for the right piece of paper.
“A marriage contract?” the duke asked.
“No, well, yes, that too, but Mr. Oakley has drawn up one as per my request, which any husband would need to sign, before we were married.”
Jo held up the piece of paper triumphantly as she found it.
“I have written my terms for the marriage here, and then you – if we assume that you are agreeable – would state your terms as well.”
She handed the duke the piece of paper.
He gave her an unreadable look, before he took it from her gloved hand and unfolded it.
He walked to one of the lanterns to be able to read.
Jo cast a glance in Beatrice’s direction.
Her heart was in her throat, and she was glad when her friend offered her an encouraging smile from her position on the outskirts of the small square.
“Manage own money,” the duke read aloud. “Stay a minimum of six weeks at the seaside cottage each year. Separate bedrooms. Maximum three children. Raising children together or Miss Josephine Hawkins will manage their upbringing herself.”
Was it something she was imagining or did his voice sound strange when he said her name? He looked at her briefly before continuing. Jo clutched the strap of her reticule. The metal was digging into her skin, even through her best pair of silk gloves.
“United public front. Miss Josephine Hawkins will assist her husband in his pursuits as best she can as long as it does not interfere with the aforementioned demands.”
Jo held her breath as she waited for his verdict. Lord Riddlesmarsh crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the stone balustrade behind him. He was still holding her list in one hand.
“How would it even be possible for you to marry before dawn tomorrow? Unless you wake the archbishop to obtain a special license that is.”
Jo’s throat made a strangled sound at his words. Did that mean that he agreed? He had asked how she would marry. Not them. Was he simply appeasing his curiosity? Perhaps amusing himself until it was too late.
“I have a special license,” she croaked. “And a priest. He is waiting in the carriage. Along with Mr. Oakley, who has the financial contract and will act as a witness as well.”
Lord Riddlesmarsh rubbed his mouth while he tried to hide a smile behind his hand.
Blast it all, he was laughing at her. He was going to turn her down.
Perhaps she could live with Mr. Harborn reminding her of her uncle, perhaps with two sons he would not be interested in more children, and she would not have to perform her marital duties.
She could probably live with him then, but it would take an extended amount of time to negotiate that.
Time, she did not have, if Lord Riddlesmarsh kept talking but ended up rejecting her.
“You have certainly thought of everything,” the duke stated in an unreadable voice.
“I always do,” Jo told him and could not help but feel a little proud.
Lord Riddlesmarsh met her gaze for a long moment again. Jo squared her shoulders, sensing that she was being scrutinized. Would he see what everyone else did? A woman of mediocre looks who tried to make sense of the world by making lists? She could not let that happen.
“I would be a good duchess,” she blurted. “I am highly organized and reasonably likeable. It would be little work for me to arrange balls and political dinners, if you desire it. Or manage charitable work at your estate. Or oversee renovations for that matter.”
“Reasonably likeable,” she thought she heard Lord Riddlesmarsh mutter under his breath, but she was not certain.
He studied the list again for several minutes. Jo could feel the second hand on the clock ticking against the fabric as if she was carrying a beating heart.
“You are very bold, Miss Hawkins.”
“I suppose more desperate than bold, Your Grace,” Jo admitted and met his eyes again. His face was impossible to read.
He huffed a laugh at that.
“And it doesn’t hurt that I am a duke, does it?”
“Well, I can hardly hold it against you, can I?” Jo retorted before thinking.
“What do you mean?” he asked and she could sense from his voice and the way he straightened slightly that she had piqued his interest.
“I… would have preferred a man without a title,” Jo squirmed under his gaze, hating having to admit it. She did not dare look at Beatrice, who could no doubt hear every word.
“Then why did you choose me?” he asked with a frown between his brows.
“Because you seem… steady… and kind.”
It was what she had thought in the ballroom, but now she was not so certain. She had based her assessment of him on one smile he had shared with a friend. Perhaps Ambrose was right to question her sanity.
“Steady and kind,” Lord Riddlesmarsh repeated.
Jo could not tell whether he agreed with her judgement of him, let alone liked it. They stared at each other and Jo made certain to meet his eyes, hoping he would be able to read something in them, anything that would help persuade them.
When the duke looked down and rubbed his chin in thought, it felt like a loss. He was going to say no. He was thinking of a way to let her down gently. It had been asinine of her to approach him and even more so to expect him to say yes.
Jo chanced a glance at Beatrice.
Forty minutes, she mouthed.
The duke nodded to himself a couple of times and took a deep breath. Jo fought the urge to look away as he would say the damning words and Jo would have to rush into the ballroom and drag Mr. Harborn or, God forbid, Mr. Sedgwick out here.
“The duchess will manage her own money,” the duke said as he reached into his coat and found a pencil. He turned the paper over and rested it on the stone balustrade.