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“Enough.” The older woman’s clipped tones quieted Mrs. Pickering in an instant. Even in the midst of Ash’s confusion and frustration, he couldn’t help but admire her for her talent in achieving something of that sort without even needing to raise her voice.
“Yesterday is quite forgotten,” she continued, sharp eyes scanning the Pickerings before coming to rest on Ash. “It is another matter entirely I’ve come about. Miss Pickering,” she said, not looking at that woman though she addressed her, “I hear you have made friends with some new arrivals come to stay at Caulnedy Manor.”
“I have, my lady,” Miss Pickering said. She exchanged glances with the young woman just behind Lady Tesh, a charged look passing between them. “Two young girls, Miss Eliza and Miss Nelly Hargrove. And this is their guardian, Mr. Ash Hawkins. Mr. Hawkins,” she continued, looking up at him with shuttered eyes, “allow me to introduce the dowager Viscountess Tesh and her companion, Miss Katrina Denby. Oh, and her dog Freya, of course.”
“Mr.Ash Hawkins, is it?” Lady Tesh murmured, her eyes narrowing as she continued to stare at him, as if trying to peer into his very soul.
“Yes,” Miss Pickering continued. She gripped his hand tighter. “Mr. Hawkins has asked me to marry him, and I have accepted.”
“Bronwyn,” her mother moaned.
“There will be no getting her out of it now,” her father muttered in a tortured aside to his wife.
But Lady Tesh seemed to have forgotten that the elder Pickerings were present. Her eyes flared wide as her companion gasped. “You are engaged to this man, are you, Miss Pickering?”
“I am,” Miss Pickering answered, standing straighter.
“We are so very sorry, Lady Tesh,” Mrs. Pickering broke in, her hands clasped beseechingly to her ample bosom. “She accepted Mr. Hawkins without our consent.”
“I’m certain my lady can help us to keep this unfortunate predicament under wraps, and perhaps even assist us in persuading Bronwyn to give up his suit,” Mr. Pickering said, his voice a pleading whine.
But the dowager viscountess looked at them as if they were mad as hatters. “Why on earth would you wish to do something like that?”
“Mr. Hawkins is not a proper husband for our dear Bronwyn,” Mr. Pickering answered, shooting Ash a furious look, as if to say,This is all your fault.
“Not proper, eh? Not keen on having a duke for a son-in-law?”
The silence at that pronouncement was so thick Ash could have cut it with a knife. He nearly groaned. Damn it all to hell, this wasnotthe way he had hoped to tell Miss Pickering of his identity. He looked down at that woman, expecting to find one of two emotions on her face: fury at being deceived, or joy that she had snagged a title. Having seen her stand up to her parents in the past minutes, he rather thought it would be the former.
Instead, there was humor in her eyes. “Lady Tesh,” she said, laughter barely held in check, “I’m afraid you are mistaken. This is Mr. Ash Hawkins, owner of a London gaming hell. He’s certainly not aduke.”
“Actually,” Ash began ruefully.
Miss Pickering turned to look up at him, the amusement that stamped her lovely features vanishing in an instant as she took in the seriousness of his expression. She frowned, dropping his hand and stepping away from him. “Mr. Hawkins?”
“I meant to tell you,” he attempted to explained, the words sounding pathetic even to his own ears.
“You’re aduke?”
He winced at the disbelief and condemnation in her voice. Ah yes, definitely the former reaction. “Yes,” he replied quietly. “I’m the Duke of Buckley.”
***
Mr. Hawkins looked as uncomfortable as any one person could. No, Bronwyn reminded herself harshly, no longer Mr. Hawkins. The Duke of blasted Buckley.
She should be happy, she supposed. It was her parents’ fondest wish that she marry a title. And not just any title, but a bloodyduke.
Instead, all she felt was a bone-deep hurt. Why did men feel as if they could lie to her? Granted, she had been in love with the man who had last deceived her. But that did not mean this betrayal did not sting as well. Did she seem that naive? Or did they just have so little respect for her that it didn’t matter what they told her?
Suddenly tired down to her soul—she didn’t know why she had thought this man would be different, but she had—Bronwyn wanted nothing more than to retire to her room and crawl under her covers and pretend she had never woken up that morning. Her parents, however, had quite another idea.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Pickering,” her mother shrieked, at such a volume that Bronwyn would have been surprised if the entirety of Knighthead Crescent hadn’t heard her. “Our daughter is marrying a duke. Our daughter shall be a duchess!”
“I always knew you had it in you, Poppet,” her father pronounced, his face flushed with pride as he looked at her.
All the while, as her parents fairly exploded with joy, she was painfully aware of Mr. Hawkins—er, His Grace—gazing at her, a kind of apology in his eyes. For what? Making a fool of her? Tricking her? Being found out? Not that he could have hidden it for long. One couldn’t marry a woman without certain minor aspects coming to light. Like one being a damnedduke.
Lady Tesh, it seemed, had finally had enough of the noise. “Dear God,” she muttered, waving her cane in the air in a bid for silence and nearly clipping Bronwyn’s nose in the process. “You shall make my head ache with all this screeching and going on.”
