The Spinster and the Rake

by Eva Devon

  She did not look up. She wanted to make him wait just a little. She wanted him to understand she did not feel completely deferential to him. She was not going to bow and scrape, even if that was what he was accustomed to, or what he expected of a wife.

  Had he no idea of equality or brotherhood? If not, she was going to have to teach him. Ever so slowly, she lifted her gaze. “Oh,” she exclaimed lightly. “Do forgive me. I did not hear you enter.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Your book is so very enthralling?”

  “Indeed it is,” she said. “I was most immersed.”

  “May one inquire as to what you are reading?” he asked coolly, his hands folded behind his immaculately tailored blue morning coat.

  “You may,” she said. “I am reading Much Ado About Nothing.”

  “Aha. Shakespeare again.”

  “Yes,” she said dryly. “Are you aware he wrote plays as well as poetry?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Someone of my standing is well versed in all the works of Mr. Shakespeare. I also know the writings of Mr. Jonson, Mr. Marlowe, and Ms. Behn. Do you?”

  “I do.” She cocked her head to the side, stunned he would mention a female writer. “I don’t find Mr. Jonson’s voice particularly good, if you must know. I also like Congreve and Wycherley, though they are significantly later in period.”

  “They are,” he said, tense, as if the room was entirely too small for him. “I hope you don’t plan on behaving like the female characters in those plays.”

  She frowned, taking his meaning. “I won’t behave thus if you won’t. I’ve heard you’re a bit of a rake.”

  He wound his way around the table piled high with books and stopped right before her. “Where have you heard such rumors?”

  “Do you suggest that they’re not true?” she asked, resting her book upon her knees.

  “I suggest no such thing,” he countered with the sort of tone one might expect when discussing which jam one preferred on their toast. “I merely ask where you gather your information from.”

  She sighed then admitted, “My sister.”

  His lips twitched, though he didn’t appear amused. He was, once again, a contradiction. “And your sister has a great deal of information of the ton, does she?”

  That put her on the defensive. “You will find the sisters in my family are well-read, even if some of them are interested in trifles. We do like the newssheets.”

  “If you read of me being a rake, you are not reading newssheets. You are reading gossip rags.”

  Georgiana swung her legs from the window seat and rested her slippered feet upon the floor. “For me, even newssheets have a tendency to be full of addlepated gossip.”

  His brow furrowed, apparently confused by her commentary. “Why ever do you think so?”

  She gestured with her hand, twirling it as she sought a way to describe her frustration. “Do you not find that all such articles are given to the leaning of one particular point of view?” she asked. “Is that not itself a bit of gossip? The political leanings of Mr. Fox or the Tories?”

  He stared at her as if she had grown another head. “You know about Mr. Fox verses the political leanings of the Tories?”

  “What person does not?” she scoffed.

  “A great many persons,” he said, as he took up a rather large volume of The Aeneid. “I have a whole lesson planned out for you regarding them. Put this on your head.” He held out the volume to her. “You must practice while we hold debate. It will be good for you. To maintain your composure.”

  She fought a scowl, tempted to tell him exactly what he could do with his suggestions for composure and debate.

  “And may I ask?” she said, taking the book without bothering to argue, as he no doubt expected she might. She wished to improve in the privacy of his home. Public failure did not appeal to her. So, she did as bid, carefully resting the book atop her simple coif. “What do you think of the affairs in France?”

  He gestured for her to begin walking. “Does my opinion make such a difference?”

  “Well,” she began softly as she strode forward with the book balanced precariously. “It wouldn’t make a difference in the fact that I’m going to marry you, but it might make a difference in my estimation of you.”

  He frowned. “Your estimation?”

  The words came out of his mouth in such a terse way that she could only imagine he gave little consideration to her opinion of him.

  The realization sent a flood of fury through her. The book wobbled. She drew in a deep breath, as he had taught her, and surpassed her own annoyance. Keeping her shoulders back and her chin parallel to the floor, she continued walking.

  “Are you one of those stodgy old lords trapped in a bygone era who believe that only titled men should make change in our land?” she asked calmly as she faced him.

  “No, I don’t believe that at all. If we continue in the rigidity of old, we shall soon find ourselves to be in the same shoes as the fellows over in France.”

  She gaped at him, then, hiding her surprise, walked about the long mahogany table which bore the ledgers, cards, and graphs he used to teach her. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Then you must believe in the basic tenets of the American Revolution and—”

  “Good God, woman, I am an Englishman through and through. Am I marrying a revolutionary?”

  “Not exactly,” she admitted, smiling. She pivoted and turned in the opposite direction, quite pleased she could walk so smoothly and engage in a discourse at the same time… All while balancing an ancient Greek story atop her head. “I did find a great deal to be admired in the Jacobin cause, but they seem to have gone completely wrong.”

  He blew out a derisive breath. “If one can say blood in the streets and heads being lopped off right, left, and center is going wrong, then yes, the Jacobin cause has indeed.”

  “A few people have truly ruined it,” she said with a sigh. Or at least so the reports in the newssheets made plain.

  He studied her for a long moment. “You do seem to have an understanding of the world.”

  “I cannot help my penchant for it.” She shrugged, with the book still balanced, and she beamed. Practice really did make progress! Soon, she’d be perfect if she kept this up. And she felt oddly confident with her new posture, as if she could take on the world. “It is far more interesting than lace and fans.”

  “Young ladies are generally supposed to limit themselves to languages, music, and design.”

  “Young ladies are meant to limit themselves to very boring things indeed, though language is not so very boring, for if one can speak French, they can read French in the original.”

  “Dear God,” he groaned, but then his face began to transform into one of calculation and he raked his gaze up and down her body in a slow sweep. “You read French in the original?”

  “I do,” she said proudly. “I quite like it. The writings of Olympe de Gouge are my favorite.”

  He blinked at her, unreadable, though his stance had changed ever so slightly from the rigidity of a statue to that of one who was intrigued by an animal on display.

  “Olympe de Gouge,” she repeated slowly.

  “You know who she is?” he asked, apparently stunned. “Speaking French is common enough in the ladies of the peerage. But familiarity with Madame de Gouge?”

  “I have read her treatise more than a dozen times,” she said, and then it hit her quite firmly. A man of his power and position? His travel? The people he had met was awe inducing. “Do you know her? Have you met her?”

  “I had the good fortune to meet her in Paris.” His face grew drawn. “Yes. Before things went—”

  “How remarkable,” Georgiana breathed, unable to stop herself.

  “This is the strangest conversation I have ever ha
d.”

  Georgiana paid no attention to the remark, nearly skipping at the proximity to Madame de Gouge, though she had been cruelly martyred. “She proclaimed the rights of women, you know.”

  “Yes. I know,” he said with little patience. “I met her and Mary Wollstonecraft at the same party. Now, one is dead. And the other, well, most disappointed.”

  “That’s because the reformation of women’s issues is so completely ignored in this country,” Georgiana said, lamenting for both women writers.

  “You know about the women’s issues in this country, as well?” he asked, eyeing her carefully again.

  Oddly, he did not seem…disappointed.

  “I do,” she said, proud of her own education, as she stepped before him. She took a single moment to prepare then executed a perfect curtsy. One that was not too deep, given her future station. When she was presented eventually to the queen, as she must be… Well, she’d have to sink much lower and without a single bobble.

  Slowly, she put her hands to the book atop her head and took it down. “I may live in Yorkshire, but that does not limit me to the fact that I am absolutely affected by the rules of our society. Now, if you think about the fact that women are half the population and yet we haven’t a single vote in Parliament—”

  “I am beginning to believe I was vastly mistaken in my estimation of your ability to be duchess, Georgiana. I do not need to school you in politics, apparently. You could school half the ton due to your voracious curiosity and passion. You shall do quite well at the political dinners I hold every week.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, both shocked and warmed by the compliment. He seemed little given to praise, and that particular praise was great indeed. It left a heady feeling humming within her. “I am glad we shall at least have such discourse. I doubt you and I shall ever bare our souls to each other. You’ve made your opinion of me very clear.”

  “Bare our souls,” he repeated, his brow furrowing as if the very idea was positively mad.

  “Yes.” With patience, she explained, “One discusses the inner workings of one’s heart—”

  “Please,” he cut in, grabbing up a stack of ledgers from the table and holding it before his heart, a veritable shield of facts. “I did not imagine you were a complete and total romantic fool.”

  “Why would you not think such a thing?”

  For evidence, she retrieved her volume of Shakespeare. “I’m sitting here reading about romance. The fateful night we met, I was reading Pamela in your study. Why should I not be a romantic fool?”

  “Fair point.” He looked away for a long moment then gestured at one of the shelves laden with the latest novels of the day. “But be careful. Heroines like Pamela, interesting creatures that they are, seldom make good duchesses in real life.”

  “I cannot believe that to be true.”

  “Why?”

  She licked her lips, preparing to make her defense, but then she stopped and picked up a slender volume from the long table. The volume containing the history of his family. “Well, when thinking of history, the most powerful women in the country have a tendency to be interesting, do they not?”

  His gaze flicked to her mouth, drawn by the touch of her tongue, and then, his gaze lifted to hers. There was a fiery intensity in them that nearly stole her breath away.

  “Many of the women of your family, including your aunt Agatha, have been powerful creatures indeed.”

  “You must be careful, Georgiana,” he warned. “Much of society will not be forgiving. You aren’t from a powerful family. They will not like that you’ve upended the rules.”

  “I don’t mind if I’m not liked,” she said, though a wave of trepidation slid through her. She held her own volume of rebellious women in her hands, the women of his family, and felt a strange sense of liberation.

  “I find, Your Grace, that I am beginning to like the idea of having power, for in power is the ability to make change for my sex.” She swallowed back a wave of anxiety. “But I confess, the large crowds I must face give me pause.”

  He cocked his head to the side, and his dark, waving hair, hair untouched by the artificial curls of the day, fell over his brow. “Georgiana,” he said with a shocking gentleness, “I do not particularly like large crowds myself.”

  “But you are a duke.”

  “I am a duke, which makes it very inconvenient to struggle in the company of those beneath me.”

  She peered at him, trying to make sense of the man who was to be her husband, of his arrogance, and his discomfort. Was that why he was so distant? Because he so disliked to be in company?

  The volume in her hands bore the generations of his ancestors who, since Norman times, had ruled this country. She’d read the battle they’d fought, the laws enacted, the positions they’d held. She drew in a slow breath, then rushed before she could stop herself. “Do you truly think yourself so superior to others?”

  “I am superior,” he said without the slightest hint of remorse. “There’s no question. You see”—he gestured to his family history pressed to her chest—“one cannot escape the fact that my family has been in power since William the Conqueror.”

  “But surely that does not make you superior.”

  “I think it does. My family has not fallen to the wayside as many families have. What else does that not say, except the fact we are superior? We never give in. We endure.”

  The brief pleasure she’d experienced in their discussion faded entirely. She quite disliked him. There was no getting around it. And he clearly did not like her, either, even if he found her a bit more acceptable now.

  “What can you say of your family?” he continued, apparently oblivious to the offense he was causing. “Where have you come from? Are you not merely descended from Yorkshire sheepherders? There’s nothing wrong with being a Yorkshire sheepherder,” he added quickly. “But Yorkshire sheepherders do not control the country. My family does.”

  With each word that he proclaimed, fury bubbled through her until she boiled over. She tried to draw in calming breaths, but they did nothing to dissipate her anger. Was this truly how he saw the world? Did he wish her to see it thus as well, simply because she was to be his wife? If he did, he would be sorely disappointed.

  Dear God, his arrogance was just absolutely astounding. Could he not hear himself speak? Did he not realize how horrid he sounded?

  She leveled him with a hard stare. “You are suggesting that your life is more valuable than mine, Your Grace?”

  He blinked. “Well… Yes. I suppose I am. Except for now that you’re going to be a duchess, of course, your life has increased in its worth estimably.”

  “You, sir, are despicable,” she bit out, any good feeling she’d had toward him all but vanished.

  “Many people seem to think so,” he agreed, though the opinions of others seemed not to affect him.

  “They are absolutely correct.” She slammed her book down on the table. “I think you should go. I cannot imagine our lessons continuing at present.”

  “First,” he said, with a shocking level of calm for the situation, “you have an excellent imagination, so I doubt you cannot imagine it. Second, I think I should stay.”

  “Whatever for?” To continue torturing her, no doubt.

  “Since we’re to be wed, we should become accustomed to disagreement. As I understand, disagreement is quite normal in marriage.”

  She threw her hands up. “Do you know anything at all of a happy marriage?”

  He was silent for a long time, then said, “My parents were quite happy, from what I recall as a boy.”

  The mention of his parents gave her temporary pause, for she found herself curious. “Were they?”

  He nodded, wordless. Some strange emotion danced over his face and he quickly looked to the windows, squinting, as if the sun was far too bright. But he didn
’t turn away from it.

  “I’m very sorry they died when you were so young,” she said, though she was still furious with him.

  “Thank you. Your sympathy is noted.”

  “I truly mean what I say, Thornfield,” she whispered, relenting a bit as she imagined him as a child, left entirely alone.

  Blast, she did have a good imagination. Her heart ached for the small boy, adrift and isolated.

  “I’m sure you do.” He clasped his hands behind his back, drawing his gaze back to her. “You seem to be a woman of soft heart.”

  The comment was not a compliment. She knew it in her bones. To someone like him, to have a soft heart was to have a soft head.

  “Do you think your parents would admire your coldness?” she asked. “Were they cold in their happiness?”

  A look of sheer ice shuttered his already implacable features. “Forgive me, you are indeed correct. We shall not continue your lessons today.”

  He bowed, ready to take his leave.

  But she took a quick step forward, hand held out. “I don’t wish to upset you in regards to your parents. I only wish to understand. My parents are no doubt very different than yours were.”

  “They are,” he agreed, with no attempt to ease the tension between them. But then he allowed, “Your mother seems to have some sense, however.”

  Georgiana ignored the fact that he was definitely insinuating that her father was a fool. She couldn’t particularly argue with him. There were many times that she felt the same. Still, it was upsetting that he looked so firmly down upon them.

  Georgiana drew her shoulders back, lifted her chin, and locked gazes with him. “Your Grace, I’m sure it’s going to be difficult for you to bring yourself into the mire of my family. Somehow, you’ll have to slog your way through it, to take on the mud of such mediocrity upon your boots. But I am sure a gentleman of your perseverance shall somehow survive it.”

  He stared at her. “You’re mocking me.”

  “Am I?” she queried dryly. She would have laughed if it wasn’t necessary for her to wed him.

  His mouth tightened with displeasure. “I do not always follow such things, for I do not find emotional nuance easy to understand, Miss Bly. But you most definitely are.”