Page 35 of How Not to Marry a Duke

He turned back. “I told you. I haven’t forgotten your concerns over our ‘courting.’”

He’d already appraised her of his plans. As if by talking about the contents of her medicine chest any worries she harbored over their “courting” could be dispelled.

Good grief. Learning the layout of his country workshop and the contraptions he toiled over was one thing. Feigning an amorous courtship and fooling Edwin, his godmother, and the rest of Society was something else entirely.

“I appreciated the tour of your workshop, but Your Grace’s visit to learn about my daily activities did little to alleviate my concerns.”

“Perhaps if you’d be more specific, I will be able to address your hesitancy.”

He sounded like a professor making an inquiry of his student. The man was maddening. He completely misunderstood her “hesitancy.” How to phrase it?

Physical contact.

Touching.

Holding hands.

Kissing.

No! She shouldn’t be thinking about kissing him, should she?

His lips were perfectly formed, like the rest of the man. The more she stared at the enticing divot in his chin, the more she wanted to reach out and touch it, press her lips to it…

No. No. No!

“Well?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “First, my half brother is perceptive. He also has a strong motive for me to marry Mr. Slade.”

“Ah, the moneylender. Edwin plans to use you as payment for a debt.”

She tried not to cringe. Warwick was right, of course. No matter her discomfort. The duke’s straightforward manner was unlike any of the aristocrats she’d known. That’s because he was unlike any other. “You make it sound like I’m a commodity for sale.”

“When you look at the entire marriage mart of the ton from an economic lens, is it any different? Most marriages are an equitable exchange for dowry, title, status, or all three.”

There it was again. His method of rational thinking. Only this time he’d mentioned economics instead of science. It all was bookish without any sensitivity or heart. “Not all marriages lack emotion. Some even wed for love.” Her parents had. Granted, her father’s first wife had a dowry, title, and status. His second marriage to her mother, a commoner, was for love.

“You speak of a minority of the beau monde,” he argued.

“Whatever Lord Foster’s reasons, I don’t think we can fool him,” she said. That much was true. Her half brother had been angry that she’d refused him, and his ire had increased when Warwick had disrupted Edwin’s plans.

“I disagree. I know the man better than you think.”

“You cannot know him in just one brief meeting.” She’d noticed the hostility between the two men; it couldn’t have been missed.

Warwick waved a dismissive hand. “Not from the morning confrontation.”

“Then from where?”

“We attended Eton together, then Oxford.”

This was interesting but not uncommon. Many aristocrats sent their heirs and spares to the prestigious Eton. What she really wanted to know was what bad blood existed between the two men.

“Edwin, Lord Foster, is arrogant and dislikes a challenge—whether physical or intellectual,” Warwick said.

“I take it you challenged him at some point. Or vice versa?” Warwick was highly intelligent. Oh, her brother was smart, and he’d never been a fool, but she didn’t believe he could rival Warwick when it came to book learning.

But there were other traits she was more concerned with now. Shrewdness. Worldliness. Instinct. Edwin had all three.