To Marry The Duke (5 page)

She’d never really felt anything like these swooping butterflies before. They were both physical and ethereal, for her pulse was racing, her skin tingling, while her mind was floating in a sea of emotional fascination.

She struggled, however, to remember that her mind must rule her emotions, and recalled what the young woman at the assembly had said.
A cruel lot, all of them
.

She had not forgotten it, nor had she forgotten the importance of being careful. She tossed her head, to throw a fallen lock of hair out of her eyes, and reminded herself of it again.
Choose with your head, Sophia. Be prudent. You are not only choosing a lover, you are choosing the practicalities of the rest of your
life
.

Yet, her heart continued to tumble in her chest.

“I wonder when you’ll see him again, Sophia,” Florence said.

Sophia stared numbly at her mother and the countess. She saw the victory in their eyes. The aspirations. She heard the words
He’s a duke
! bouncing off the walls inside the carriage, even though no one was actually saying it.

She tried to speak with indifference. “I don’t know. Perhaps he will be at the Berkley assembly.”

She was glad she’d lied, she decided, when the ladies turned back to their scheming and left her to gaze at the dark window again. Otherwise, they would question her all day tomorrow about when he would arrive. They would make her change her dress a dozen times, they would grill her on proper etiquette, and her mother would spend the whole day reminding her not to lean forward when she rose from her chair. She would most likely get caught up in the hoopla herself, and become even more tempted by a man she barely knew—a man who appeared to harbor a mysterious, dangerous darkness in his depths.

And oh, the certain uproar if he did not come. There would be questions about that. Conjecture. Reproach.

No, she would not put herself through that. They would be surprised when he arrived—
if
he arrived— and she would be surprised as well. Because under no circumstances was she going to spend another minute thinking about him.

“Is it common knowledge, here?” Sophia asked her mother over the breakfast table the next morning. “How much I am worth?”

Her mother set down her teacup and the fine china made a delicate clinking sound. She and the countess exchanged looks of concern. “Why do you ask, darling?”

Sophia wiped her mouth with her linen napkin. “I’m curious if there is an exact number floating around out there. Mind you, I’m not naive, I know there must be speculation, but do they know
exactly
how much Father is willing to pay?”

Mrs. Wilson cleared her throat. “I certainly haven’t told anyone, except Florence, of course.”

The countess didn’t look up from her plate, and Sophia felt a ripple of mild anger. “Florence knows, but I don’t?”

She glanced up at the footman standing behind the countess. Like a soldier on duty, he kept his gaze level, giving no hint that he was listening to the conversation, not even a hint that there was anything going on inside his head at all. Sophia knew there was, of course. The servants tried to act invisible, but they weren’t. Not to her. They were human beings like everyone else, and they probably enjoyed the blue bloods’ performance each day, like one big continuing opera—complete with costumes, glitter, and light.

Her mother reached for a roll and began to butter it vigorously. “There is no exact amount, Sophia.”

“There must be a range.” She looked up at the footman, and said, “Would you excuse us please? Just for a moment.” He walked out.

Sophia pressed her mother further. “Well? Did Father give you some indication?”

“Oh, Sophia, why must you ask these questions?”

“Because I have a right to know how the world works, Mother. And certainly what my chances are of finding a man who will marry me not just for my money.”

“No one will ever marry you
just
for your money, Sophia,” Florence said. “You’re a very beautiful woman. That will play a significant part in this.”

“So it’s my looks and my money. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but don’t my heart and soul and mind have any part to play?”

The two older women both reassured her at once. “Of course they do, darling!
That goes without saying!”

Sophia ate a few more bites of her breakfast. “You still haven’t told me how much Father is willing to pay.”

After an uncertain hesitation, her mother replied, “He seemed to think five hundred thousand pounds was the going rate, darling, but there is of course room for negotiation, depending on who makes the proposal.”

“It’s quite standard,” Florence added.

The going rate
. Sophia sat in silence for a few moments, feeling her appetite drain away. “Thank you for telling me.”

She said nothing more, and Florence rang her little bell for the footman to return and bring more tea. When he went to fetch it, Sophia made one quick request.

“Will you please not tell anyone, not even a gentleman who expresses interest? I know that there are of course presumptions that I will come with money, but I would prefer that it not be a certainty. That if a man wishes to propose to me, he would at least be willing to take the risk that my dowry might not be what he thinks or hopes it is.”

Both women were quiet for a moment, looking at each other over the table. “If that will make you happy, Sophia, then yes, of course. Our lips will be sealed until you find a man you can love.”

The word
love
uttered from her mother’s lips was a surprise, one that made all the muscles in Sophia’s back and shoulders relax. She let out a breath. “Thank you, Mother.” Then she rose from her chair and kissed her on the cheek.

James stepped from his carriage, looked up at the front of Lansdowne House, and wondered uncomfortably if he was doing the right thing. It had been an impulse the night before, to say he would call, and he wasn’t used to having impulses. He usually knew his reasons for doing things, but today, he was uncertain. Was he here because of the money? Was that the spark that had lit this little fire under him? Or was it Miss Wilson’s uniqueness? He supposed it was a little bit of both—though he had never found uniqueness to be a desirable quality in a woman before. Quite the opposite, in fact.

He then considered getting back in his carriage and driving away. Something in him wanted to, but whatever it was, he rejected it. He decided to let this venture play out and see where it led, which would probably be nowhere. He would sit through dull talk about the weather, perhaps some gossip about the ball the night before, but nothing more consequential than that. With that supposition, he walked to the door and knocked.

A few minutes later, he was shown upstairs to the drawing room. The butler announced him, and James moved through the door. His gaze was drawn at once to Miss Wilson seated across the room, a teacup and saucer held in her delicate hands. She wore an ivory, tulle tea gown that complimented her complexion and gave her a look of sweetness—like some whipped cream confection. At the sight of her, he felt a ravenous, predatory rush.

It was the challenge of her, he supposed. She had disliked him on first impression.

There was a brief moment of stunned silence from the other women in the room—the countess and Miss Wilson’s mother—then a sudden frazzled flurry of greetings. James moved all the way into the room, but stopped when he saw the dark image of another man to his left, seated by the fireplace. He glanced over to see Whitby.

“Whitby, good to see you,” he said, keeping a calm, cool tone while he shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other.

The earl rose from his chair. “Likewise.”

An awkward silence ensued, until Whitby finally gave in to the rules of etiquette and leaned to pick up his hat and stick. It was appropriate that he, having already had a chance to pay his call, should politely bid his hostess
adieu
.

He bowed to the ladies. “I thank you for your society this afternoon, Lady Lansdowne. It was most pleasant. Mrs. Wilson, Miss Wilson? Enjoy your day.”

He gave his card to the countess, then brushed by James on the way out. “Wentworth,” he said, in a cool, hushed tone.

James swallowed the bitter taste of Whitby now considering him a competitor in the Marriage Mart. Bloody hell, it would probably be in the
Post
tomorrow.

“Won’t you come in, Your Grace?” Lady Lansdowne said.

James nodded, trying to forget about Whitby and focus on Miss Wilson, but that wasn’t so easy either, considering his own past with the countess. He’d never imagined he would ever call on Lady Lansdowne, not after the awkward circumstances that transpired three years earlier when she’d arrived in London for her first Season and had directed her ambitions toward him. Thank the Lord, the Earl of Lansdowne had proposed and prevented James from openly humiliating her.

“Please, make yourself comfortable,” she said. Perhaps she did not even remember it.

Purposefully steering clear of the chair next to the countess, James took a seat beside Mrs. Wilson. A
parlor maid poured him a cup of tea.

“It’s a beautiful day, is it not, Your Grace?” Lady Lansdowne said. “I don’t recall the month of May ever being so full of sunshine.”

Ah, the predictable talk of weather.

“It is indeed a pleasant change from the wet spring we had in March,” he replied.

“Is it usually this warm?” Mrs. Wilson asked.

The clock ticked on while they continued to make small talk about nothing of any relevance, and at the end of the obligatory fifteen minutes, James wondered why he had even bothered to come at all. Miss Wilson had not said one word.

While her mother went on about the Season in New York, James took the opportunity to study the quiet young woman across from him, sipping tea and contributing nothing to the conversation. Where was her fire from the night before?

“So you see,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “it’s quite the opposite in America. People tend to leave New York in the summer when it’s warm, and retreat to their summer homes, where here, everyone leaves the country to come to the city.”

“It is indeed a fascinating contrast,” Lady Lansdowne said.

“I don’t understand why you wouldn’t prefer to be on your estates in the summer,” Mrs. Wilson continued, “when the city can be so warm and…”

Could it be that Miss Wilson was disappointed that James had arrived and cut Whitby’s visit short?

He glanced down at his walking stick, chiding himself. What did he care if she was disappointed or not? All he needed to care about was the simple fact that she was as flagrantly rich this morning as she was last night. Richer probably.

He gazed into her huge, unfathomable blue eyes. Lord, she was the most beautiful, exquisite creature he’d ever seen.

Perhaps he should leave.

At that precise moment, Miss Wilson interrupted. “It’s because of Parliament, Mother.”

The fact that it was the first time she had spoken was not lost on James. His desire to leave vanished abruptly, and he wondered with some interest if that had been Miss Wilson’s intention just now—to keep him in the countess’s drawing room a little longer. He felt his mood lift slightly, felt the hot, glowing embers of attraction smolder. He was back in the game.

“Well, of course I know that,” Mrs. Wilson replied, but James suspected that she had not known.

Miss Wilson turned her attention to James. “Does Parliament take up a great deal of your time, Your Grace?”

He was thankful to have the opportunity to at last speak directly to her. Her eyes sparkled as she waited for his reply, and with pleasure he finally let himself imagine what it would be like to make love to her. Would she be as spirited in bed as she was in public, breaking etiquette rules in London ballrooms?

He felt a distinct tremor of desire as he studied the shape and line of her breasts and visualized her naked on his bed—with nothing upon her but
him
. Yes, it would give him great pleasure to make love to her.

For the next ten minutes, they talked about lighter Parliamentary matters. Miss Wilson’s inquisitive nature and intelligent questions challenged him, and he managed to avoid thinking any more about taking her to bed. He considered more practical matters—like the obvious fact that she would be a fast learner, and a woman had to be such, in order to become a competent duchess.

A competent duchess
. Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself.

When the time seemed right, James set down his cup and smiled at the countess. “I thank you, Lady Lansdowne, for the fine discourse this afternoon.” He stood. She stood also, and walked him to the drawing room door. He handed her his card. “It was a pleasure, indeed.”

He turned to take one last look at Miss Wilson, rising to her feet. “Thank you for coming, Your Grace,” she said.

She watched him with some intensity, and again he wondered why she had been so quiet for most of his visit, for he had thought he’d made at least a little bit of progress with her the night before.

James inclined his head at her and walked out.

As soon as the duke left the room, Sophia turned to her mother. “I overheard you talking to the earl before I came in. You promised me you wouldn’t tell anyone how much Father is willing to pay.”

The color drained from her mother’s face. “I’m sorry, darling. I wasn’t going to say anything, but the earl expressed an interest in you, and it was my intention to tell him that to propose now would be a mistake—that you wish to truly
know
a gentleman before you can even consider a marriage proposal. I was only trying to do what you wished, but he pressed for more information. I couldn’t lie to him. I tried to change the subject, didn’t I, Florence?” She looked helplessly at the countess.

“Oh, yes, dear. She did. She was very discreet for as long as she could be, but the earl pressed.”

Sophia suspected that wasn’t the case. She tried to keep her voice steady. “So now everyone will know how rich we are—not to mention be shocked by the ‘gauche Americans,’ actually discussing money in drawing rooms.”