Blast it. He would never understand her. He couldn’t understand her. He might not have been raised to be a duke. But he was raised in this world. A world of flirting and backstabbing and political alliances formed through marriages. There was nothing in this world for her. She must remember that.
She loved him. Fine. Unfortunate, but true. She loved him but she’d sooner trudge all the way back to Wales on foot with no coat or snow boots than admit it to him.
She lowered her voice to a bare whisper. She still couldn’t look at him. “My apologies, your grace. But I thought we’d both made it clear that we were done pretending to flirt with each other.”
* * *
Oliver’s head snapped to the side as if he’d been slapped. She might as well have hit him. He would have preferred it actually, would have welcomed the physical pain as opposed to the intangible pain that ripped through his chest at her words. “Pretending to flirt.” That’s all it had been to her, hadn’t it? And here he’d allowed himself to be persuaded that she actually cared for him. Had actually opened herself up to him earlier emotionally and physically because she felt something for him beyond a mutual agreement to use each other to fend off others. Why had she even bothered? It was laughable. She certainly hadn’t seemed as if she minded the advances of either Esterbrooke or Gilliam in the ballroom a few minutes ago.
And here he’d acted like a complete fool, dragging her out of there like a lout, wanting an explanation, her attention, something, anything to explain why it made him sick with anger to see her with another man. It was a feeling he found singularly unpleasant and he loathed himself for it.
And why in the hell was she pretending as if she cared about his interactions with Lady Kinsey or Lady Selina? As if he gave a damn about either of those two. Lady Selina could rip off her gown in the middle of the ballroom and he wouldn’t look twice. No. It made no sense why Cerian would even bring it up as if it mattered to her. She was obviously trying to deflect the blame from herself.
He took a long, deep breath. Blast it. The fact was, Oliver had never been more scared in his life. His entire adult life. Oh, he’d been a bit frightened of the dark when he was a lad of three or four but he’d quickly forced himself to get over that by experimenting with going into dark rooms time and again and sitting there until the fear passed. He honestly couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more scared than he was now. The feelings he had for Cerian were more powerful than any he’d had before for any woman and it scared the hell out of him. This is what he’d always imagined it would feel like when he—damn it all to hell—fell in love. He was completely out of his element.
But here she was, the one woman at the house party who wanted no part of him and his title and she was the one woman he couldn’t erase from his memory. Damn it. Life was unfair sometimes.
But the fact remained that Cerian Blake was completely inappropriate for him. She wanted no part of being a duchess and she wanted no part of him either.
He refused to make a fool of himself over a woman who didn’t want him.
“You’re right, Miss Blake,” he said, moving past her and opening the door to the closet. “My apologies. We both agreed we’re done with our little distraction. I find I’m also no longer interested in pretending.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“One of the grooms seems to think there’s a madman in here unmercifully punching a bag of hay.” Medford appeared on the other side of the stable stall, his hands resting nonchalantly in his pockets.
Oliver barely glanced up from his punching session with the hay bag. He’d ripped off his cravat and tossed it on another pile of hay behind him. His shirt was open at the throat and sweat beaded down his forehead and chest despite the December chill in the stables. He grunted at Medford.
Medford arched a brow. “Seems the groom was right.”
Another grunt. Another savage punch to the middle of the bag.
Medford leaned a shoulder against the stall wall. “Care to inform me why you’re so angry at a hay bag?”
Oliver wiped at the sweat in his eyes with the back of his forearm, then threw another punch. “Not particularly.”
Medford sighed. “Forcing me to guess, are you? Very well, my guess is this has something to do with one Miss Cerian Blake.”
Oliver pulled his next punch and turned to face Lord Perfect, his eyes narrowed.
“I was right, wasn’t I?” Medford asked with a smirk.
Oliver rubbed his hand over his eyes and groaned.
“Let me guess a bit more,” Medford continued. “You care for the chit, more than you realize, and you don’t know what to do about it?”
A savage grunt from Oliver this time. “I suppose you’d never do anything as crass as taking out your frustration on a bag of hay?”
Medford chuckled. “On the contrary, it’s better than finding a seedy tavern in London and drinking far too much gin out of an extremely questionable glass.”
Oliver furrowed his brow. “Pardon?”
“That’s what I did when I found myself inconveniently, unfortunately, undisputedly in love. With a woman who wanted no part of me, I might add.”
Oliver shook his head. “Kate?”
Medford nodded. “One and the same.”
Oliver felt as if the hay bag had just punched him back. The wind was knocked out of him. He struggled for a breath. “Wait. I’m not … I’m not in love.”
Medford propped an elbow on the stall wall. “Aren’t you? The hay bag begs to differ.”
Oliver stared at the bag and then at his bruised fists, and let out a long, slow breath. He rested his hands on his hips and bowed his head. “Damn it.”
“Quite right,” Medford replied.
“What the hell am I doing?” Oliver breathed.
“From the looks of it, I’d say you’re inappropriately taking out your anger on a perfectly innocent bag of hay when what you really should be doing is telling the lady you love her.”
Love? The word made Oliver’s stomach clench. He kicked at a stray bit of hay with his booted foot. “I can’t— We can’t—”
“I won’t argue that it’s not complicated. But I’ve got faith in you, old chap. You’ll figure it out.” And with that, Medford strolled out of the stable, whistling as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Oliver stood alone in the silence for a minute. He ruthlessly punched the hay bag five times, six, eight, ten. Then he collapsed against it, completely spent, his eyes closed, his breath coming in ragged pants. What the hell did Medford know about it?
Plenty, his mind replied.
But it wasn’t that simple.
Neither was Medford’s courtship of Kate.
But Medford wasn’t a duke with a name to protect.
No, he was a viscount who owned a printing press and risked his entire reputation and livelihood for Kate.
Damn it. Blast it. Bloody hell. Medford was right.
“Tell the lady you love her,” Medford had said. This time Oliver kicked the bag of hay as hard as he could. It was true. He did love Cerian. And she felt something for him too. He knew it. They might not have met under the perfect circumstances, might not have acted appropriately by pretending to be courting, but somewhere along the way, he’d gone and fallen in love with her. His bruised knuckles proved it.
He’d convince her, by God. He had to.
And he wasn’t about to waste any more time. He glanced around the stall and swiped up his cravat. He was going to need a bath first, and a new set of clothes.
And a little luck.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cerian intended to slap Lady Selina before it was all over. Cerian’s fingers were tingling with the urge and that was before that little hoyden had the nerve to put her arm around Oliver’s and pull him into the middle of the drawing room.
Following tradition, they had just lit the Yule log in the main room from a lump of charcoal left over from last year’s celebration. Everyone was drinking wine and singing a
Welsh carol that Cerian’s mama had taught them.
“Gather round, everyone,” Lady Selina said in a sing-song voice. Cerian could barely stand to look at either of them but a quick glance in Oliver’s direction at least gave her the comfort that he looked nearly as annoyed by Lady Selina as she was. He did not, however, pull his arm from her grasp, Cerian noted with a bit of ire simmering in her chest.
Where was Mama? It was high time they left this place. The entire week had been a waste as far as Cerian was concerned and even Mama would be able to see reason and realize she wasn’t on the verge of getting an offer. Why, after the snippy words she’d exchanged with Lord Esterbrooke and Sir Gilliam as soon as she’d returned to the ballroom earlier, those two suitors were keeping their distance. Cerian felt nothing but relief. Very well, and a bit of guilt.
And now, whatever asinine game Lady S was up to, Cerian could be certain it would involve something idiotic and unappealing. Cerian didn’t care what Mama said this time. The woman could be lying across the staircase demanding she return and Cerian would pick up her skirts and step over her. Even Mama wouldn’t be so crass as to make a scene on Viscount Medford’s main staircase. Would she?
“It’s time for the final game,” Lady S said. The look on Oliver’s face remained a mask of stone but Cerian barely glanced over her shoulder as she made her way toward the door. Slinking along as unobtrusively as she could so no one would notice her flight. No. No. She’d just slip away. Quietly. No fuss. No scene.
“Each gentleman shall be given a bough of mistletoe and he shall have to present it to the lady most worthy, the lady he has most enjoyed spending time with, the lady he might choose to spend time with in the future.” She gave Oliver a sidewise look.
A cacophony of nervous giggles and twitters made their way around the perimeter of the drawing room and Cerian rolled her eyes. Why exactly was Lady Selina so enamored of mistletoe? Why, if she didn’t know better, Cerian would think her family owned a share in a mistletoe farm. But she wasn’t about to stay and listen to some ninny-hammered mistletoe acceptance speeches from a bunch of ladies she hoped to never see again.
Lady Selina clapped her hands. “The Duke of Markingham shall go first! Won’t you please, your grace?”
Cerian closed her eyes. Five simple steps. She was only five simple steps away from the door. She’d nearly made it, by God. But the moment she heard that Oliver was going to go first, she became rooted to the thick Indian rug. She’d expected Lady Selina to save him for last, draw out her own anticipation more, no doubt. Though it stood to reason. No doubt Lady Selina was ensuring that Oliver would pick her first and spare her any potential awkwardness should another potential swain present her with a bough.
It made Cerian’s stomach turn. Not enough, however, to cause her leave the room. Instead she turned on her heel. Refuse the bough, Oliver, she mentally begged him. Surely, he would do the right thing and decline to be a part of this idiocy.
Instead she watched with wide eyes as Oliver took the first bough from Lady Selina’s only-too-eager hands.
Lady Selina had demurely stepped back into the crowd and was smiling prettily, her eyes downcast as if she didn’t fully expect Oliver to turn and present her with the bough.
“There is a young lady,” Oliver began, “to whom I would like to present this mistletoe.”
Cerian ground her teeth. She detested herself for not having left the room and now she had only herself to blame while she was forced to watch Oliver give the mistletoe to Lady Selina or someone equally insipid. “I’m no longer interested in pretending either,” he’d said. The words ripped through her heart again as if he’d just uttered them.
She glared at her slippers. Wondering if she could back out of the room without looking up and having to see the spectacle with her own eyes. Could she successfully navigate herself backwards toward the door and slip through it without looking? Was she brave enough to attempt it or would she merely end up tripping and making a fool of herself only to look up and see Oliver handing over that stupid branch to Lady Selina? She could just picture the smug look on the younger woman’s face now.
A shadow fell across her slippers. Cerian looked up.
She gasped.
There, standing in front of her, offering the bough of mistletoe, was Oliver.
“Miss Blake,” he said, his bright blue eyes shining. “Would you do me the honor?”
Cerian’s voice caught. Her breathing hitched. She tried to push the word ‘yes’ past her dry lips but it wouldn’t budge. All she could do was stare up at him with wide eyes and dumbly nod.
Lady Selina grasped her throat as if she were choking.
“Your grace?” Lady Kinsey’s voice came cutting through the silence that hung in the room.
Oliver half turned as if to hear her better. “Yes, my lady?”
The matron’s face was bright red and she looked as if she was on the verge of an apoplectic fit. “Your grace, I believe you’ve made a mistake, haven’t you?” The last two words were laced with such venom and innuendo, Cerian wondered at their earlier conversation.
Oliver didn’t bother to turn and face the woman. “No, Lady Kinsey. There’s been no mistake.”
Lady Kinsey’s entire body shook with rage. “You choose this nobody?”
Oliver spun on his heel to face Lady Kinsey this time. “I’d watch what you say, my lady. You’re speaking of my future wife.”
Cerian and Lady Selina simultaneously gasped. Lady Kinsey raised a fist. “Your family name won’t withstand this! You’ll both be outcasts!”
Lord Medford stepped in deftly just then and said, “It appears you’re correct, Lady Kinsey. There has, indeed, been a mistake. A grave one, I’m afraid.”
Lady Kinsey raised her chin a notch and gave Cerian and Oliver a haughty, triumphant stare. “I thought so,” she intoned without actually turning her attention to Lord Medford.
“The mistake was made when you and your daughter were invited to this house party, my lady,” Medford said, a completely blank look on his face. “If you’ll allow me to escort you to the door, the mistake can be remedied posthaste.”
Medford offered an arm. The look of horror on Lady Kinsey’s face rivaled the look of triumphant joy that Cerian knew was on her own. She raised her chin a notch this time.
Lady Kinsey savagely gripped her skirts in both hands. “I’ll see myself out, Medford,” she lashed at him. She quickly marched past all of the gaping mouths in the drawing room and out the door. Lady Selina burst into fake-sounding tears and followed her.
Oliver turned back to Cerian and fell to one knee. Cerian clutched the mistletoe like a lifeline.
“You didn’t answer, Miss Blake. Will you be my wife?”
Cerian pulled Oliver to his feet and motioned for him to lean down so she could whisper in his ear. “Is this part of our pretend relationship?”
“No. Why? Would you prefer that?” He grinned.
“No.”
“I’m glad you said that because I was hoping you’d agree to be the Duchess of Markingham.”
“I don’t know how to be a duchess,” she said, feeling the eyes of everyone in the drawing room upon them.
“You’re in perfect company then because I don’t know how to be a duke. We’ll learn together.”
“What if I trip in front of the queen or use the incorrect form of address when speaking to a baron or something?”
Oliver watched her face, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “God, Cerian. You make me laugh even when I’m proposing marriage to you.”
From the corner of her eyes, Cerian saw Mama turning a mottled shade of purple. No doubt the woman was about to have a fit while her daughter took her time saying yes to a proposal from a duke.
Cerian bit her lip. Her foot was tapping in its predictably embarrassing woodpecker-like manner. She couldn’t capitulate so easily, however. There were many things to consider. Big, important things. “What about your reputation?” she countered.
“What about it?”
Cerian couldn’t seem to get enough air in her lungs. “What about Lady Kinsey’s threats?”
Oliver squeezed her hands. “What about the fact that I’m in love with you, Cerian? And I cannot imagine my life without you?” He stood, cupped her cheeks with his hands, and stared deeply into her eyes.
Very well. That did it.
Tears dropped down her cheeks. “Yes. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you, Oliver. Yes!”
A relieved smile spread across his handsome face. He swept her up into his arms and the entire drawing room erupted into a cacophony of cheers.
* * *
Moments later, when Oliver let Cerian slide from his arms, she stared up dreamily into his eyes. The entire drawing room was issuing their congratulations to Oliver and best wishes to her. Something brushed against Cerian’s ankles and she looked down.
The cat.
This time the cat wore a bit of mistletoe on its head. The sprig was angled jauntily over one pointy ear.
“Medford,” Oliver said to his friend who had re-entered the room. “This is the cat I asked you about.”
“Yes,” Cerian said, looking toward Kate. “What is this cat’s name?”
Medford and Kate glanced at each other.
“I have no idea whose cat that it. It certainly doesn’t belong to us,” Medford replied.
“Whose cat is this?” Kate called out to the assembled guests, turning in a circle to see who would claim the animal.
No reply.
Cerian bit her lip. “She doesn’t belong to Lady Kinsey and Lady Selina, does she?”
Medford laughed at that. “Hardly. I can tell you those two ladies have no interest in pets.”
Medford called to the butler, “Locke, where did this cat come from?”
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