Chapter Three
Millie
Of all the times to trip, it had to be now. Right in front of this odious man. Who smelled good. Spicy good. And looked good. And felt good—or so she had imagined upon gazing into his deep-brown eyes that held a warmth akin to a chocolate drink in the morning.
He was far too good-looking for her to give a second thought to.
But when he had touched her book, she had nearly fainted at the sight of the masculine face indirectly attached to the domineering finger.
And then when he had put his steady hands above her and leaned in, she had thought he’d been about to kiss her, so she had nearly sagged to the ground in a heap.
Like potatoes in a bag. Or more like sugar.
Every part of her had dissolved into tiny crystals, nothing to hold her together.
So yes, all that combined had culminated into her tripping over her own three feet. Three. When there should have been two. It all felt like they got tangled up.
And then those domineering fingers and steady hands were wrapped around her most vulnerable parts.
Or so she thought. Though hindsight would tell her otherwise.
(Indeed, there were far more vulnerable parts, but at this moment, with the firsthand knowledge she had of a man’s touch on her body, these were the most sensitive parts to date.) Those fingers, attached to manly hands, directly connected to strong arms, were pulling her into a solid force. A body. A man’s body.
She forbade herself to tremble.
It didn’t work.
“Steady, I’ve got you,” he murmured huskily, almost as though he were out of breath. Which was patently ridiculous.
“Uh…” Thought fled her mind. The arms of her brain reached out, trying to grab any single of those pesky things…fruitlessly.
With his arm latched around her waist, her back was arched, forcing her to tilt her head back to look up at him. Which… Why would she look up at him, having already determined what he looked like? The maneuver was unnecessary. Yet…oh, so necessary.
Just to stare into his eyes again riveted her into place. Into a place she didn’t think she belonged. A place that she couldn’t dare to dream anymore. Being nine-and-twenty left a woman very few—ahem, zero—options.
“Marlowe?” a voice called in a soft but stern tone, though it quickly turned terse. “What are you doing with Lady Millie? One of our esteemed guests. My word!” She stopped spewing words as she marched down the steps, darting a look around.
“What are you still doing? Let her go.” And it took the older woman disengaging his hands from her body for the oddly paired—not to mention temporarily paired—couple to break apart. Millie stuffed her book in her hidden oversized pocket and stood as primly as her muscles could muster.
“Nothing, Mother.”
“Stop.” The woman put a hand in the air and her eyes shone as though someone had just given her a present for Christmas. Odd, that.
Without even a passing glance at Millie, she spoke again. Low. Determined. Forcefully. Yet somehow with grace. “She’s the one, Marlowe.”
What was she talking about?
The woman took slow, deliberate steps encircling the couple. Against the black backdrop, the woman looked like a panther, casing their prey. “Yes, she’ll do quite nicely.”
“N-No. Mother. I mean, she’s quite lovely—” Marlowe started, directed at his mother.
“Enough, Marlowe. I caught you,” the older woman said.
“Unhand me, sir. Please,” said Millie, desperate now.
“I’m not not going to tell the truth simply because you—” Marlowe started again, this time directed at Millie.
“Enough. Both of you,” said the evening’s hostess. They were face to face while the mother stood at their shoulders. “This is like a dream come true.” She said it so sweetly that Millie wanted to believe her.
“This is your dream, Mother.”
“If you don’t play along, Marlowe, I’ll turn this little dream into a nightmare.” With a little tap to the shoulder, she added, “Now, you two figure this out before you reenter my ballroom.”
Then she was off.
And Millie made to follow.
“Where are you going?” Marlowe asked.
Without turning back, because really, this time she needed to pay more attention to those things called feet and those other things called stairs, she said, “I’m going inside.”
“You can’t.”
“I can.”
But then he was standing before her, looming over her. “Do you not understand what just happened?”
“Some delusional woman made plans about something without my consent.” Slowly, she eyed him up and down. For later memories. “You’re a grown man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“This isn’t just something for me to figure out, Bookworm.” He reached for her book and snatched it out of her pocket.
Well, if there was anything that would prevent her from going inside, that was it.
“Give it back.”
“The second we figure this out, I’ll give it back. I’ll even put it in your pocket for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” she grumbled, meanwhile considering how sometimes unnecessary things could be completely necessary. “What do you wish to talk about?”
“My mother has appointed you to become my wife.”
It was unclear to Millie how much time actually passed between the uttering of those words and the next, but it certainly felt about as long as an eon. Perhaps two. It was long enough for him to lead them back down the stairs and out of view.
“Did you hear me, Millie?”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“My mother has determined that you will be my wife?”
Something akin to complete and utter flabbergastation encapsulated her. It felt rather like someone had dropped a freshly caught fish in her mind and let it loose to flap about.
“W-Why would she want that?”
“I need a wife.”
“But why me?”
Marlowe crossed his arms. “Why not you?” he asked tentatively.
“I’m old. I’m plain. I’m more loyal to my books than my friends. Not to mention that I-I’m not made to be a duchess.”
“Do you not believe that if you put your mind to something that you can do it?”
“But I’d never put my mind to being a duchess. I put my mind to books.”
“You’ll learn,” he said, taking a step around her.
“Wait. That’s it? That’s the discussion?”
“Do you have an alternative suggestion?”
The damn fish was floundering in her mind. So much so that she couldn’t see straight. Couldn’t think. But there had to be another solution. She couldn’t be a duchess, and she certainly couldn’t be his duchess. He was far too handsome. There would be no love. No loyalty. No relationship.
And yes, she had given up on that dream, but no, she did not want to live miserably and lonely in a convenient arrangement. Far better to actually live alone than to be lonely with someone else.
“My mother will start the gossip mills if we don’t go along with her plan. There’s no other choice.”
“We’ll fake it,” she blurted out. “Yes. That’s what we’ll do. We’ll just pretend for this house party. How long is it? A few days?”
“It’s two weeks.”
“‘Two weeks’?” She gasped. She must have been woolgathering when initially informed of the duration of the party. “Oh, all right. That’s fine. We can…um…pretend for two weeks. It won’t be that bad. You can feign interest in me, can’t you?”
“I don’t need to feign interest.”
“Enough of that.” She waved his vacuous compliments off and up into the silhouetted tree branches above. “We can do this.” She inhaled deeply, readying herself to return to Dolly and tell her the good news.
The fake good news.