Chapter 3 #2
“Stop,” Euphemia said. “I am not marrying him. Besides, he already dislikes me, and he made it perfectly clear that he guards his bachelorhood like a fortress. He would never offer for me, and I certainly will not beg him to save my reputation with a ring. What are we even talking about? He is a stranger. I met him just yesterday.”
Leonora shrugged her shoulders. “Well, you have already been in his bed…” Leonora mumbled.
“Leonora!” Euphemia cautioned her.
“Sorry,” she whispered in response. “It was a joke.”
“Nothing is funny.”
Seraphina was about to say something, when a firm, synchronized knock sounded at the drawing room door.
The sisters all snapped their heads toward the sound. The door opened, and the butler stepped into the room, holding a silver tray.
He walked directly toward Euphemia, lowering the tray. Upon it sat a thick, cream-colored calling card, stamped with a heavy crest in green wax.
“A gentleman has arrived, Miss Vane,” the butler announced. “He requests an immediate audience with you in the morning room.”
Seraphina, Leonora, and Emily all leaned forward at the same time, their eyes locking onto the green wax crest.
“Who is it?” Emily asked.
The butler took a slight breath. “The Duke of Greymoor, Your Grace.”
All three Byron sisters spoke entirely together, their voices echoing in perfect, panicked unison.
“The Duke?”
“I would have preferred to speak with your legal guardian, Miss Vane, rather than you,” the Duke said without preamble.
He stood by the tall windows of the morning room, the harsh daylight catching the sharp lines of his face.
“Is there any way the master of this house might be summoned, or am I to be denied the basic courtesy of a proper intermediary?”
Euphemia sat stiffly on the velvet settee, her fingers laced so tightly together that her knuckles were white. She stared at him, still thoroughly shocked by his sudden appearance in the house. Her mind raced with questions.
She had spent the ten minutes between the butler’s announcement and that very moment attempting to prepare herself, which had involved Leonora pressing her into a clean dress, Seraphina re-pinning her hair ng, and Emily straightening her collar and assuring her that she looked perfectly composed.
Euphemia had walked down the stairs telling herself she was prepared for whatever he came to say.
She was not prepared.
‘Why is he here?’ she wondered frantically. ‘Has he come to blame me further for the disaster in the hallway? Is he here to deliver a formal threat, or perhaps to demand that my family pack our bags and flee the capital before the first morning calls begin?’
She was not mentally prepared to banter with him. She lacked the armor for his dry wit and his cutting remarks, and she was entirely unsure of what his presence meant for her already fragile future.
Swallowing the lump of anxiety in her throat, she forced herself to offer a standard, polite nod.
“Good morning, Your Grace,” she managed, her voice remarkably steady despite the drumming of her heart.
She took a breath to address his question.
“I am afraid my uncle, Lord Sterling, is my legal guardian here in Mayfair. However, he is quite ill and barely leaves his bedchamber. He is entirely unfit to receive visitors.”
Nathaniel turned away from the window, his gaze locking onto her. “That is inconvenient,” he remarked flatly. “But it cannot be helped. Since the head of your household is unavailable, I shall have to address the matter directly with you.”
Euphemia tilted her chin up, bracing herself. “If I may ask, Your Grace... why exactly do you wish to speak to my uncle? If you have come to lecture me again about my lack of direction, I assure you, my sisters have already done a thoroughly efficient job of it.”
“I am not here to lecture you, Miss Vane,” Nathaniel said. “I am here to propose marriage.”
The words seemed to hang in the air between them, heavy and absurd.
Euphemia froze, a profound shock rippling through her system. “I’m sorry?” she said, wanting to be certain she heard him correctly.
“I am here to propose, Miss Vane.”
Her eyes widened.
But right behind the shock came a sharp wave of disappointment that tasted like ash.
It was terrifying, really. She knew she was in the middle of a ruinous scandal.
She knew Lady Jersey’s tongue would dismantle her life by noon.
Yet, even though she had spent the last hour panicking over her future, she had never imagined that the Duke would actually show up to offer for her.
More than that, she had never imagined that the reason she would finally marry someone would be to save herself from a social execution.
The reality of it crushed her. Despite everything that had happened with Lord Finch, a small, hidden part of her had still hoped for a love match.
She had wanted the grand, romantic poetry of the books she loved.
To have that dream officially replaced by a transactional arrangement born of a clumsy mistake was a bitter pill to swallow.
Nathaniel watched her closely, his eyebrow twitching slightly at her prolonged silence. “You are remarkably quiet, Miss Vane. I had expected a lecture on my arrogance, or perhaps another quote from your library.”
“I am thinking,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor.
“You think a great deal, it seems,” he countered, his voice softening just a fraction, though the edge remained.
“I know,” she replied softly.
Sensing the sudden shift in her demeanor, Nathaniel closed the distance between them. His boots clicked softly against the hardwood floor as he walked up to her side. Euphemia lifted her head, her blue eyes meeting his brilliant emerald gaze as he looked down at her.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched the corner of his mouth. “You seem disappointed.”
Euphemia let out a small, weary breath. “Is it so obvious?”
“Extremely,” Nathaniel said. “Though I must say, it should come to you as a profound relief, not disappointment. This is a win-win scenario for both of us, Miss Vane. It saves your reputation from absolute ruin, and it ensures that no one can accuse me of compromising an innocent woman. We are simply solving a problem.”
“I know,” she said simply. “It is the most logical response to this.”
“Then why do you look like you’re facing an executioner?”
A heavy, suffocating silence fell between them. Nathaniel remained standing right in front of her, his tall shadow completely eclipsing her on the settee as he looked down at her. Euphemia swallowed hard, the muscles in her throat tight and dry.
She stared at the polished leather of his boots, her mind spinning into absolute disbelief.
‘How did my life become this?’ she thought wildly. It felt entirely unreal. Just yesterday morning, she hadn’t even known what the Duke of Greymoor looked like. Now, twenty-four hours later, the very same man was standing in her morning room, casually appointing himself her husband.
Who actually was this man?
She barely knew a single thing about him.
It felt completely absurd that the most important decision of her entire life was to marry a person she knew absolutely nothing about, save for his grand, intimidating name.
She hadn’t done any research. She hadn’t consulted Lady Byron.
For all she knew, he could be a wicked, cruel tyrant who locked his wives in the attic, or he could be a perfectly noble gentleman.
He was an absolute enigma, wrapped in armor, and frankly, he was more than a little scary.
As she sat there, practically drowning in the sheer weight of her own thoughts, Nathaniel leaned down just a fraction. His eyes narrowed, losing their sharp, defensive edge for a brief moment.
“Did you really stumble into my room by mistake, Miss Vane?” he asked quietly.
Euphemia lifted her head, her gaze meeting his. “Yes,” she said, her voice small and traitorously shaky. “Yes, I did.”
Nathaniel studied her face for a beat, as if checking her features for any sign of a lie. Satisfied by the terror in her eyes, he let out a short, breathy exhale that was almost a laugh. “Then you have the most spectacularly foul luck of any woman alive. Two scandals, in one season?”