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“But I cannot delay,” she cried. Her sudden gasp, the hasty hand she clapped over her mouth, reminded him that she was in dire need of the funds she would get from assisting him, apparently in a very specific amount of time. And he as yet didn’t know why she was so desperate for them.
He narrowed his eyes. “Are you in trouble?”
She paled, her typically rosy complexion turning a sickly green as her gaze slid from his. “I can find you a wife within the time we agreed upon” was all she said. And then, in a bright tone that had a brittleness to it, “Oh, how lovely; our order is here.”
He ached to know what the devil was wrong. It was both a blessing and a curse, really, that they had been interrupted. While he wanted to help her in any way he could, he knew that asking her to confide in him would open up an emotional intimacy between them that he was not looking to have.
Damn Erica for hurting him. Damnhimselffor allowing her to hurt him so. He should have known that a woman as beautiful and polished as her, a woman who had been made for the glittering London scene, would never love someone as awkward as he. But he had been fooled by her attempts to get him alone, by her shy proclamations of affection, by her kisses. When all along she had been playing him as expertly as her pianoforte.
But he would not allow himself to be fooled again, and would most certainly not allow himself to be hurt again. Which was exactly why this cold advancement to matrimony was so very necessary.
As they ate she chattered with an almost manic busyness that fairly made his head ache. And every bit of her one-sided conversation was centered on the damn list of prospective brides. The Gadfelds, she said, would surely agree to an invitation to tea at Seacliff, where he could show Miss Emmeline the rose garden. And did he have chickens back at Brackley Court that he could discuss with her? Miss Denby, while constantly made busy by Lady Tesh, would surely enjoy his company in the morning again when she took her private time to walk Mouse. And perhaps on this occasion Margery might accompany them, the better to get Mouse away from his…ahem, person…so he might better secure the young lady’s focus on him. There was a ball, too, in just a few days; mayhap he might secure Miss Peacham for a set. And while she knew he did not dance, he could sit with the young lady and talk, surely. Miss Pickering’s parents had invited them on a picnic; while the young lady would no doubt be ever watchful for her beloved insects, mayhap he might assist her. She was certain they could get Miss Athwart away from her beloved circulating library, though she doubted they would be as lucky to separate her from her parrot. And did he mind the creature? It could be rude at times, but she was certain it didn’t bite. At least, not unduly hard.
Daniel ate, and drank, and sat in increasingly morose silence. Because the more she spoke, the more he realized that no matter which of the young ladies he pictured himself with, he could not see himself kissing them as he’d kissed Margery.
Why not marry her, then?
The thought came with a suddenness that left him breathless. Marry Margery? No, she had declared she would never remarry. Yet now that the idea had taken hold it would not let him go. And he realized it made perfect sense. He desired her. And she had kissed him, with a surprising enthusiasm. She had mentioned more than once that she didn’t mind his scars.
Really, he was surprised it hadn’t come to him sooner.
Just then she took a sip of her tea—no doubt she was parched from the constant stream of words that had poured from her mouth over the past half hour. Knowing there would not be a better time, and that he might lose his nerve if he thought on it any longer, he blurted, “Why don’tyoumarry me?”
Chapter 9
Margery blinked. A ringing started up in her ears, her mind going blank. Surely she’d heard him wrong. “Pardon?”
His face fell, seemingly as shocked as she was by his question. “Which, I suppose, is not the most romantic proposal,” he mumbled to himself. But a look of determination entering his blue-gray eyes, he asked, “So what do you think? Will you marry me?”
She could not have held back the sharp bark of laughter that exploded from her if she’d tried. “You’re jesting.” He had to be jesting. It was all a cruel joke. He could not have possibly suggested thatshebe the one to marry him.
He proved her wrong in the next moment. “Not a bit.”
But Margery’s shock was beginning to wear off, and was quickly being replaced with a hurt so profound it made her hands shake—made so much worse by the disturbing longing that filled her. “I thought you understood,” she managed through lips that felt stiff, ignoring any emotion but for the pain caused by his suggestion. “I won’t remarry. Ever.”
Uncertainty flickered in his eyes. “I know you said as much,” he said, his large, blunt-tipped fingers demolishing a biscuit. “But I thought—”
“What, that because I had kissed you, I might have changed my mind?”
“No—”
“Because I assure you, women are allowed to have desires. And I’ve seen enough of the world, as limited as my view has been, to know that one does not have to have deeper emotions to feel desire. Why, as a widow I could have a discreet affair and no one would bat an eye.”
Her voice was climbing in volume along with her agitation. Flushing, belatedly realizing that this was no place for such a conversation—and that she seemed to be attempting to convince not only him but herself as well that it was natural to have desires—she closed her mouth with a snap and glanced about them. Blessedly, however, not a soul seemed to be paying them the least attention.
“Though you are the only man I have kissed besides Aaron,” she continued in a low, strained voice, her eyes fixed on the empty teacup before her, “that in no way means I wish to remarry. Why, it would be the grossest betrayal to his memory. I could never replace him. Not ever—”
Her voice broke off on a sob. She clamped her lips shut, fingers working at her wedding band in agitation. The silence stretched on between them, the duke unmoving beside her.
Suddenly his voice, achingly gentle. “I’m sorry.”
She raised her eyes to him and took in the sorrow that seemed to fill his craggy face. For what, her broken heart? Or was it something else?
But what did it matter? “Please,” she said in a mere whisper, “don’t mention such a thing again.”
“I won’t,” he said.
But as he turned away, she wondered at the regret that filled her. He was a distraction, she knew. Her desires for him were not going away anytime soon. If she was to find him a bride and collect the money necessary in paying off the blackmailer, she had to quench this physical need for him. But how?
