A Man Above Reproach (22 page)

“Above reproach?”

“Precisely.” She looked away. “I will understand if you must throw me over. I will not like it, but I will understand. Your position—”

He cut her off with a frustrated groan, tightening his arms enough to crush her against his chest.

“Stop that, Ana.” Every time he said her name, it all felt more real. They could make it work, he knew. He was still euphoric, but the adrenaline from the whole evening was draining from his body. “I know it may not seem like it, but none of this is insurmountable. But now, we both need a good night’s sleep. You can yell at me and make assumptions in the morning.”

“We are safe here?” she fretted. Elias smiled and kissed her head, feeling immensely grateful that he was the one who could provide sanctuary for her.

“The safest you have ever been. And we are going to keep it that way.” He smoothed her hair, while laying down and settling her into the crook of his arm. “I promise, we can fix this. Tomorrow. Right now, you are exhausted.”

“I am,” she yawned against him. She seemed almost as if she would lodge more protest, but after a few minutes, her breathing slowed. He stayed up long after, matching his breath to hers, meditating. And planning.

She woke up for the first time in years feeling like Miss Analise Quail, which was unnerving to say the least of it. The daughter of a disgraced
baronet, penniless, unable to enter a room in Staffordshire without people whispering. She had thought that shame was over once she and her mother went to Scotland. Never again would she have to hear vicious gossip from the lips of vainglorious ladies, saying how her father had brought their family to ruin when he openly flaunted his mistress and then barred his own wife from his house. There was no way she could go back to it, the pinched faces of disapproving society ladies. Her eyes shot open upon consciousness, but the nightmare persisted.

She was at Ashworth Hall. She had slept at Ashworth Hall, in the bed of a duke.

The duke in question was already up and dressed, sitting at a small desk. Steaming tea and a half-eaten pastry sat near his elbow as he scribbled on a piece of parchment. He was so very
there
. Undeniably there, and so sure that everything would be fine. Even though his mother would never approve and the situation at the Sleeping Dove was irretrievable. She sat up, the gravity of the situation dawning on her. No matter how perfect the night before had been, she could not marry a duke. There was simply no earthly way.

“Good morning, Ana,” he smiled, without looking up. He said her name in a maddening casual way… as if it was easy to say, as if he had never known her any other way, as if it wasn’t loaded with the bitterness of her past. As if it could mean something different than it had.

A sob caught in her throat. He did not seem to hear, small mercy, and she swallowed the emotion.

“I have taken the liberty of arranging for a bath to be brought to you after we break our fast,” he said, gesturing to a setup of food far more lavish than she was accustomed to, laid out on a sideboard. “I have been up for a few hours; there is much to be done. I will send an accountant over this afternoon to go over your books at the Paper Garden and—”

“What? No.” She sat up.

He turned around and arched the imperial eyebrow at her, the one she found so nettlesome.

“Howsoever bad you think the damage stands, your finances can be fixed. Besides, once you agree to marry me, I thought we might expand the Garden. I will need to know where it stands presently to plan for its future. To plan for our future.”

“No, Elias—you really have no idea of what—”

He crossed his arms, his eyes playful. “I will soon enough, Miss Quail.” There was a different light in him this morning, a confident disobedience. “No argument will reach my ears.”

Analise threw him an icy look, a rush of anger piercing her affection for him. Must he be so haughty? She wrapped the blanket around herself, seeing a dress approximately her size draped over the dressing partition. She slipped behind the divider, feeling both irritated and dismal.

She heard rather than saw Elias’s valet enter the room, just as she slipped the dress over her head.

“Your Grace?”

“Yes, Dryden. Do mind that Miss Quail is behind the partition. Let us not be ungentlemanly, make it quick.”

“Miss Quail, sir? The bluestocking?”

“I will explain later. Is there word from Miss Francis?”

“Yes, she will meet you in the park at half past.”

“Smashing. And the cleaning at the Paper Garden?”

“Progressing nicely.”

Ana scowled, deciding to stay put. His generosity was making her feel embarrassed, like he was rescuing a damsel, and she resented it. She would have survived, she told herself, without this man and his resources. She had just hit a snag and she would have been fine. His meddling had actually made things more difficult for her. The lobby of her shop would be sparkling if she had not wasted so much time
parrying with him. And he was going to meet Miss Francis! Of all the nerve!

“Are you all right, love?” he asked, as the door closed behind Dryden.

She must have lost track of time in her building fury.

“Fine,” she snapped, reemerging.

“I was thinking—I should like to reprint
On Society
with your proper name when we marry,” he said, dusting the parchment he had been fussing with. “This is a letter requesting special license from the Archbishop, but it should not take more than a few days. When would you like to meet my mother again? We had best get it out of the way forthwith.”

She found that she was staring at him, openmouthed. He was really going through with the utter fairy tale that he spouted the night before. He meant to marry her. Not as a ruse to tup her, but in reality. He stood, caressed her cheek so tenderly that the anger drained out of her. It was quite remarkable the hold he had on her, which in turn made her angry all over again.

“May I remind you,” she said in measured syllables, “that I never agreed to wed.”

Elias pulled her into his arms so quickly that she gasped.

“You will. I’ve made an appointment for you to see a modiste this morning. Sally will meet you there. I, however, must inform Miss Francis that I cannot marry her. Then, I have some plans to put into motion in regards to the Dove. I thought you and I might spend the night at the Paper Garden, have dinner alone.”

“Elias,” she said weakly. “Are. You. Mad.”

“Mmhmm,” he agreed, tilting his head to kiss her. He reached behind her for his overcoat and hat, planting a final kiss on her forehead. “See you this evening, dearest.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“Though you may not believe it, dear reader, I do not find fault with the institution of marriage. If both parties feel well-matched and are able to choose a partner of their own discretion, I cannot see opposing a union of equals. There are very few comforts in this world and I would deny you none. For myself, I doubt it is a particular comfort I shall attain.”

—F
ROM
O
N
S
OCIETY
’
S
I
LLS AND THE
R
EAL
P
RICE OF
P
ROSTITUTION
BY
J
OSEPHINE
G
RANT

Elias jumped down from his carriage, still buoyed by everything he had put in motion upon waking. He thought if he could make arrangements quickly enough, Miss Analise Quail would not have time to over think, analyze, or refuse him. He would be far more comfortable if she did all that nonsense after they were safely wed. The sooner she was an acknowledged duchess, the easier it would be to deal with whatever spectre remained of her father’s checkered past.

“Miss Francis,” he called, waving his hat in the air. He realized he must look flushed, ridiculous, so unlike his normal contained visage. He no longer cared. He liked how he felt under the grip of this “madness” and would deny it no longer.

“Your Grace,” she smiled as he bent to kiss her hand. “You are in a fine humor this morning. I was so glad that you contacted me. It is far too long since we have had a chance to speak in private.”

His eyes glided over to her chaperone.

“Oh, Agatha. She does not count. She would never betray my confidence.”

“Shall we take a turn about the park, then?”

Elias offered his arm, straightening to return to more of a ducal distance. It would not do to make her think that his happiness revolved around her presence, as he was about to tell her that it did not. He felt
a bit like a cad—Miss Francis was as helpless in this business as he; she had not chosen him. He really knew nothing about the slight blond woman, beyond the fact that her father was an earl and their families approved of the match.

“Miss Francis,” he began tentatively, when there was enough space between them and other early morning strollers.

“Please, let me speak first. I do not want to marry you.”

He could not hide his look of surprise, but hoped that his jaw was not hanging open in an uncivilized way. The bald statement shocked him. He glanced sideways at her, his mouth forming into a strict line as she continued.

“With every due respect, Your Grace, do not ask me to marry you. We are ill matched. There is no spark between us except the politeness that our families have bred into our veins. I will happily sit at a table with you, be social, etcetera, but I do not want to wake up in any of your houses every morning. We have nothing in common.”

“Pardon me?”

It was the only phrase that he could force out.

“You must feel the same, correct? I think we have been used as pawns, for my part. Your mother and my father, both widowers, seem to get along smashingly. A rumored engagement between their children was a convenient excuse for them to spend time together. Did you not realize?”

“No, I…” he stuttered, fumbling for words. “I have been preoccupied.”

“I noticed.”

She smiled and for the first time, Elias could see a woman beneath the front she presented to society. The poor girl simply had the disease common to London society females—personalities hidden beneath layers of proper conduct and silly rules. It was unfair to compare her
to his Ana, his wild and untamed Ana, who had flown in the face of everything that Miss Francis had been raised to respect as gospel.

“You are in love,” she said, squeezing his arm. “I thought as much. But the waltz with your cousin confirmed it last night. Lord Frost told me that you are entranced by a bluestocking. He says that you are a good man, but cowardly.”

“Cowardly!” he exclaimed too loudly.

She laughed.

“I only think that he meant in regards to telling me your true feelings.”

“I was going to tell you today!”

“I know I may seem like a delicate flower, Your Grace, but you would be surprised.”

“Hence the sly grin you wear, which I have never seen before.”

“You did not give me the chance,” she returned. “But it is no matter. We have weeks behind us in which we could have been friends to make up for now. I will tell my father that I refused to marry you. You may tell your mother that I am obstinately against our union. If it is not too forward, perhaps you should also tell her that your heart is otherwise engaged? I hope that when you settle with your new duchess, I shall be invited for dinner.”

Elias felt a sudden rush of affection.

“Of course,” he said earnestly. “We are indebted to you.”

“There is one thing,” Miss Francis said as he pressed her tiny hand between his palms. “When you have me for dinner, do invite your cousin.”

Analise felt like she had no choice but to be carried away on the wave of Elias’s planning. Her whole day was laid out before her, including
a carriage, chauffeur, and imposing footmen who looked suspiciously like bodyguards. Before Elias left, he poked his head back in the bedroom door and whispered, “Stop worrying.”

Stop worrying? She did not think she could exist without the worry. In fact, as she picked at the breakfast that a pleasant but jumpy maid brought, Analise found plenty of reasons to be vexed. By the time she finished her tea, she was sure of two things: that she loved the Duke of Lennox and that she had to leave for Scotland.