by Eva Devon
“I do. Just now.” He took a deep breath. “But not for long.”
“Out with it then,” she urged, certain he was about to tell her about a new dog, or horse, or perhaps a new venture in some part of the world. With George, it was hard to tell. “It’s cruel to keep me in suspense.”
He nodded and clasped his hands behind his back.
She stilled, surprised by his sudden collection of himself.
“Eglantine—”
“Yes?”
“We’ve known each other since we were children—”
“So we have.”
He blinked then continued in that deep, important voice, “And we’ve always gotten along—”
“George, you’re repeating yourself.”
“Eglantine! Do let a fellow finish.”
“Oh.” She wiggled in her chair, nodding. “Bad form. Pardon. Do continue. You’ve prepared a speech, have you?”
And then her blood went cold. For that was exactly what he had done. George Cornwall, Duke of Harley, had prepared a speech. For her. Which meant only one impossible thing. No. She had to be mistaken. Surely he didn’t think. . . surely, he would not. . .
But surely, he began.
Clearing his throat, George then smiled at her and said with remarkable ease, “I wish to make you a most beneficial offer.”
“Beneficial offer?” she echoed, plunking her cup down on the table and feeling the air go out of the room.
“To us both,” he agreed. “I have been in search of the perfect duchess. My helpmate, my wife, the mother of my children, and someone who will be my friend as she steers the Harley dukedom’s house and lineage.”
House and lineage. Eglantine pursed her lips, her good humor sliding out of her much the way her cream had slid out of her scone. This could not be happening. In truth, it could not. Surely, she had fallen asleep in the warm sunshine as she lounged with her book and was imagining this. Surely, it was as mad as anything the author, Mr. Fielding, might imagine.
He gave a nod and all but bounced on his heels. “I am certain this comes to you as a surprise. For as you pointed out, we have spent little time together in the last years. But you are the only person I can think of to bestow this honor on with such a good feeling.”
Eglantine blinked, folding her hands in her lap.
She stared at him, struggling to understand what the devil was going on in his head. Was it possible George had any sense that he was digging himself a large and unpleasant hole? One which, if any deeper, would soon be impossible for him to extract himself from?
She struggled not to squirm in her seat. For his speech did go on and on in the most benevolent of manners.
“I have considered many names,” he explained further. “All of whom are good women. All from good families. But I believe it is you who will be my ideal mate.”
“Goodness, George,” she laughed, praying a bit of humor might bring him back to earth, “don’t you wish to ask Mama for my breeding lines before you go any further?”
“Don’t be silly, Eglantine,” he said brightly.
She sighed, relieved he wasn’t completely mad.
“I am well acquainted with your family tree.”
And that. That was the final shovel of earth she could abide.
She scowled. “Dear George, I am not certain what has caused you to take up this notion—”
“Before you agree,” he cut in happily, “I wished to assure you that I have made certain your position will be most dignified. And I will not interfere in any causes you choose to take up. After all, your intelligence is one of your qualities that I admire most.”
Well, at least he’d managed to say one thing she didn’t abhor. In part.
Now, how the blazes did she say what needed to be said? “George—”
“I cannot tell you how relieved I am that I came upon you in the woods.” He all but beamed.
Her jaw fairly dropped as she understood his meaning. “Your solution to your problem. It is wedding me?”
He nodded, still apparently happily, still not noticing that the meeting was not going as he thought.
She groaned then peered at the gloriously handsome man who had apparently taken leave, entirely, of his wits. And as she sat there with the greatest offer she could ever aspire to, something he was clearly aware of, she considered for the briefest moment to say yes. Had she not felt her heart spark upon sighting him the other day? Had her blood not hummed?
It had. And she’d been so certain that he would never think of her as a woman to love. And she’d been right. He hadn’t. That was perhaps more galling than anything. That George could ask her to do such an important thing with no love beyond genial affection between them was appalling.
In the entirety of his proposal, there had been no mention of love, affection, devotion, or even a deeper friendship.
She ground her teeth together.
Much to her irritation, he stood there, smiling as if waiting for her to bathe in his benevolence. Ha! Now, it was true that most ladies dreamed of being a duchess. Even she, if she was honest about it, had perhaps as a girl fantasized about marrying George. . .
No. She would not think it. For, in her imaginings, they had an understanding that went beyond breeding and the getting of the Harley line. No, it had been the understanding of souls, of minds. . .
The steering of the Harley lineage, indeed!
She fairly shuddered.
“I think we should be married as quickly as possible,” George continued, so confident, he obviously had not actually looked upon her face. “Do you have a preference to St. Paul’s or the Abbey?”
She frowned. “George.”
“It is very likely that the king will attend—”
“George—”
“If you’d like, we could go away to Italy. I think that could be arranged. Travel can be precarious but—”
“George!” she all but roared, knowing if she did not, he would not cease.
He stopped then looked at her. Really looked and his inherent arrogance, born to all dukes she supposed, suddenly faded just a shade. “Eglantine, are you overwhelmed?”
She drew in a fortifying breath then stood, regardless of the fact that it still left a good ten inches difference in their heights. “Now, you listen and listen well, George Cornwall, Duke of Harley. I thank you for your kind offer, but I cannot take it up. I pray you put it out of your mind.”
She gave a succinct nod then blew out the rest of her rather angry breath. “Now, shall we talk about the theater? Perhaps you can recommend what I should see first when I arrive in London.”
“Cannot take it up. . . put it out of my. . .” George shook his head as if he had not possibly heard her right. “Eglantine.”
She suppressed a groan. Could he not take her reply and not pursue it? She gazed at her childhood friend and, of course, realized that he could not. This was George, after all, who, being a duke, almost always, always got his way. It was really remarkable he wasn’t a complete ponce.
She smiled prettily at him, determined not to say the rather unkind things racing through her head. George wasn’t awful, just. . . well, just as foolish as Tom Jones apparently. Perhaps, all men were, and she could never have anything to do with that.
“Yes, George?”
“You don’t even know the terms,” he protested.
She folded her hands before her, determined not to lose her temper, for he wasn’t a bad sort even if this was badly done. “Nor do I need to.”
He gaped. “What can you mean?”
She pressed her lips together then finally realized she’d just have to tell him the truth. “There is only one term that interests me, George, and you have not mentioned it.”
“Good God, what?” he nearly bellowed, due to his shock at being denied, no doubt. “A coach and four of your own? A London house of your own? A theater? If it pleases you, we can commission a company of players. Dash it all, Eglantine, what could you possibly wish f
or that I can’t provide you?”
Much to her horror, her eyes burned then. She narrowed them to cease the galling sensation. “Are you really such a booby, George?”
His face darkened. “I beg your pardon?”
“There is only one thing I have ever wanted beyond the ability to have a small house, a livable income, good friends, and books,” she said tightly, her words astonishingly clear given the depth of her feelings at present.
He gaped, positively gaped, as if the sort of existence she posited had never occurred to him. “What? Name it. I’m sure it can be taken care of.”
“It can,” she agreed as she eyed him afresh. “But not by you, I think.”
George drew up, which seemed impossible given his magnificent posture. But just then, the playful, mischievous boy she’d known was replaced by. . . the duke. Imposing, strong, determined, and apparently offended.
“And what is that?” he drawled. “I cannot live in a cottage. Such a thing is impossible. I could arrange a cottage for you. A retreat.”
She ground her teeth together, collecting herself, then said very simply, “Love, George. Love. I will love my husband.”
He rolled his eyes, and all but threw up his hands.
“I’m sure we shall love each other in time. We like each other.”
His easy reply stung. Could he be so callous? “Have you even thought if you love me?”
“Of course I do,” he replied tightly. “I’d do anything for you and your family.”
“Not like that, George,” she fairly growled. “By your own account, I and my family are interchangeable. I want to be loved for myself. I want a man who is breathless to see me, to hold my hand, and kiss me. Who longs to share his ideas with me and hear mine.”
“Don’t be foolish,” he dismissed. “That sort of nonsense doesn’t last.”
“Yes, it does, or have you forgotten your own parents.” Anger brewed inside her now. When had George become such an arrogant blade? “Or mine.”
He looked away. “Eglantine, we would be suited very well if you could but put such romantic notions aside.”
“Have you even thought of kissing me?” she challenged.
His gaze narrowed and then the strangest look overtook him. “I would not be asking you to wed if I had not, Eglantine. For I will not have a cold bed.”
Her breath hitched at his hot words. “You w-wish to kiss me?”
His eyes burned with hunger then, a hunger that seemed to surprise him as much as it did her.
“You do not even know what I have thought of doing to you,” he replied, his voice low and rough. “Eglantine Trewstowe. . . from the moment I saw your delicious ankles bared to the bluebells.”
It was tempting to fall under those seductive words, but the reality of them hit her. “You would have me without love?”
He stilled. “It is not necessary.”
The passion which had suddenly and shockingly begun to burn in her at his words vanished and she threw up her hands. “Not necessary? Not necessary? To you perhaps, Your Grace. But it is to me. I am not a mare to be bred because it’s possible. I am a woman with my own mind, heart and soul, and I will be loved. Deuce take it!”
His eyes widened with astonishment at her speech.
“Now, let us not speak of this again, George. I will not marry a man who sees a pleasing cow to put in a pleasing field with a sumptuous barn. That is not and never will be the life for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I find I cannot tolerate this absolute tosh another moment.”
She charged for the door then stopped herself. Wincing at the explosiveness of their exchange, she turned, bobbed a curtsy and said, “I wish you every luck in finding what you seek and I pray we can still be friends. For I do like you, George. Even if you are being exceedingly foolish.”
And with that, she stormed out. She felt certain that, given the superiority with which she’d always viewed George, men were a ridiculous lot, indeed.
Chapter 7
George stormed over the Devon moor, wishing for once he had ridden his horse. He quite liked walking but, right now, he wanted to be as far from her as possible, as quickly as possible. Whilst his legs were quite good, they were not adequate to achieve the distance he required at the rate he required.
He foolish?
He swiped at the tall grass, thought better of it and whipped off his hat instead. The wind blowing in from the sea provided a welcome brisk feeling. If only it could blow away his current feelings.
Foolish! The Duke of Harley? Ha!
It was she who was foolish. Absurd, actually. He had thought Eglantine to be a person of good sense. Apparently, he’d been greatly mistaken and saved. Yes, saved. He did not usually so entirely miscalculate a person. But he had. Entirely.
He harrumphed.
Marry for love. How many people did that? People in novels. That’s who. And whilst he did adore them, he had not fallen under the delusion of love marriages.
Even his mother and father had not married for love! Their marriage had been arranged by two great families. They’d grown to love each other. Why the devil couldn’t Eglantine see they could do the same?
Oh, perhaps they’d never share a grand passion. But grand passions were for plays, and novels, not perfect dukes.
As he marched, he hesitated. That was not entirely true. His mother and father had, after some time, as he’d been told, established such a thing. At first, they’d had quite a few battles. Or so the story went. By the end, they’d gone everywhere arm in arm.
But the rarity of it was extreme.
He did not know of a single marriage in the ton that could reflect it. Everyone he knew barely tolerated their spouses and, quite frankly, they were engaged in bed games that could make a harlot blush once the heir and spare were seen to.
Of course, he’d never do such a thing. He believed in loyalty. Once married, there would no one else for him.
He stopped.
Surely, she would come to her senses. He’d already envisioned them together, years from now, children at play.
He slowed on his rampage through the fields.
Perhaps, he’d even receive a note from her today reconsidering.
But then he thought of the way her eyes had narrowed at him. Narrowed at him as if he were an absolute arse.
As his mother had proclaimed, Eglantine was a lady who knew her own mind. She’d never even considered marrying him after that altercation.
Him!
He frowned, wondering why this bothered him so entirely.
And when she’d asked if he’d thought of kissing her? It was all he could do not to tell her in detail exactly what he had imagined doing. Of the way he’d planned on sliding her skirts up her legs, kissing every bared inch, then parting her thighs and worshipping—
He was a gentleman, devil take it!
One did not detail the imagined debauchment of an innocent, even to said innocent herself just because she asked.
It had never occurred to him that she would say such things.
A small house, and books, and friends. . . and. . .
George stopped, his heart pounding.
It didn’t sound like a terrible life at all. Not really. Not when you considered it from the viewpoint of not having been born to the sort of power he’d been born to.
Was that all she truly wished? Such a small but pleasant life? Perhaps so. It would never have even occurred to him. For his life had always been destined to be one of the most influential to England.
It was better he knew now that she did not wish anything more. Yes, it was a blessing.
Even so, his heart did the strangest thing. It sank. For he did feel that Eglantine would be wasted in such a quiet life. Her merry soul, her quick wit? She would shine if given the chance.
He thought back over the interchange and nearly choked. He’d been so certain. So determined. So absolutely sure of her answer. He drove a gloved hand threw his hair. He hadn’t been a fool. He’d been an
arrogant arse. And he realized that a good deal of his fury was not directed at Eglantine but at himself.
He charged towards the towering house, his boots crunching over the raked gravel.
He gave little thought to his environment as he headed through the hall and towards his study, his refuge.
To his horror, his mother was awaiting him. With brandy.
“When is the wedding then?” she asked, her lips in a decidedly quirked grin.
He stared at her. Aghast. And abhorring the idea of confessing to his behavior. “You knew.”
“Knew what?” she asked, her eyes wide and angelic, a state far from his mother’s actual demeanor.
“Mother, do not prevaricate,” he stated. He gestured up and down to himself. “Do I look like a man to be wed?”
She tsked. “I confess not. Oh, George, I am sorry for you.”
“Don’t. Please don’t,” he groaned slamming his hat down on his desk. “I made a tactical error.”
“A tactical error?” she asked, her brows lifting as she extended a snifter to him.
“No champagne?” he challenged dryly. With a beleaguered sigh, he threw himself down into his chair and took the glass from her.
He downed it in one go.
She said nothing but fetched the decanter.
After she’d poured, she asked, “That bad was it?”
He gave a terse nod then added. “Worse.”
“As you said, I had an inkling that there would be no celebration.” She returned the decanter then turned back to him. “Brandy is much better, in any case.”
He stared at her, adrift. “I cannot believe she turned me down.”
“Dear boy, you are a magnificent fellow,” his mother soothed as she lowered herself into the chair opposite him. “As your mother, I am astoundingly proud. But. . .”
He tilted his chin down. “Yes?”
She cringed. “You went about this as a man buying a cow at market.”
He held his breath then blew it out. “She said much the same.”
“She is remarkably intelligent.” His mother took a drink. “I have always liked her.”
