IT was strange, but when Minerva awoke that morning, everything felt so much brighter, as though every color in the world had become richer.
Standing behind a curtain while an assistant helped her into her clothing after a fitting for a new gown, Minerva wondered if she should go ahead and talk with the seamstress about her wedding gown. She and Ashe hadn’t discussed how quickly they would marry, but she didn’t want to wait overly long. The end of the Season, perhaps. Certainly not the end of the year.
During the last dance, they’d spoken not a word. After their torrid encounter in the garden, after his stating he would speak with her father, what more was there to say? He’d made his claim, and while he’d not voiced the words I love you, he’d certainly made it clear that he held her in high esteem and affection.
He’d held her more closely during the waltz, he’d never once looked away. With his gaze, he communicated everything. He was offering her everything she’d ever dreamed of when gentlemen who barely gave her any attention danced with her. When they hinted that they were her last hope for a marriage and children. That she should be grateful for their attentions, just as they were for her dowry. No romantic notions of love but practicality had ruled the social scene for her.
Until Ashe. Until he looked at her as though she were more than coins. Until he looked at her—
“I simply think it’s sad is all,” a lady said coming into the fitting room. “She wore such a moony-eyed expression as they were dancing last night. I thought at any moment she was going to swoon right into his arms. I feel rather sorry for her, making such a fool of herself with him.”
“I can’t blame her,” another woman said, and Minerva knew that voice. Lady Honoria. “He is the most dashing of the hellions.”
Everything within Minerva turned to ice. She couldn’t be talking about Ashe. While Minerva considered him dashing, she knew many ladies preferred the playfulness of Edward. Surely, she was referring to him, causing some lady to swoon.
“To be sure.” She recognized the speaker now. Lady Hyacinth. “I simply find it ironic that she wrote a book on how to identify fortune hunters, and she has failed completely in identifying one and has been totally ensnared by someone who is after her dowry.”
The assistant reached for the curtain. Minerva grabbed her arm, shook her head, held a finger to her lips.
“Are you quite sure he’s after her fortune?”
“Quite. My brother has the same man of business as Ashebury. He’d stopped by to see Nesbit some time back and he overhead Ashebury shouting about his coffers being empty. Of course, my brother made a hasty retreat, not wanting to embarrass the duke when he emerged from Nesbit’s office. But there you have it. Winslow even suggested that I set my cap for Ashebury, as my dowry is nothing to sneeze at. I tried, but it became obvious rather quickly that he needs a substantial amount more than what I can offer. Where is the assistant? I really must get on with this fitting.”
Minerva released the woman’s arm, gave her a nod. She slipped out between the slight gap in the curtains, while Minerva leaned back against the wall, barely able to draw in a breath. She’d dared to believe that he wanted her.
Perhaps she’d been partially influenced by how precious he’d made her feel at the Nightingale. She’d fallen a little bit in love with him there, carried the emotion with her when she left rather than leaving it behind as she should have done. She’d allowed it to blind her to the truth.
He might have been more polished and subtle about it, but he wanted from her what every other man only wanted: her dowry.
HE was sitting at his desk, papers strewn over the top of it, head bent, hair mussed as though he’d tunneled his fingers through it repeatedly. Standing in the doorway, Minerva thought he’d never looked more appealing, and a tight painful ball formed just behind her breastbone. She’d fallen in love with him, but he was as much a fabrication as Lady V.
She’d arrived at Ashebury Place and—with a secretive smile and a wink—she’d managed to convince the butler to allow her to surprise the duke with her arrival. Having been in this room before, she’d not required an escort. Her heart had been thundering so heavily that she was surprised he’d not heard her walking down the hallway. Then she’d laid eyes on him, and everything had settled into a dull ache.
“Your coffers are empty,” she said quietly, but still he must have heard her because his head came up swiftly, and if ever there was a person who looked guilty, it was he.
Shoving back his chair, he rose to his full height, reached for his jacket draped over the back of the chair, and shrugged into it with one smooth movement. “Minerva, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting you.”
Walking toward him, she was amazed that her legs retained the strength to propel her forward. “Your coffers are empty.”
He arched a brow. “Is that a question?”
Stopping before the desk, she ran her gaze over him, his perfect bone structure, his perfectly proportioned features. She’d wondered why he’d begun giving her attention, and he’d made her believe that her imperfections didn’t matter. “Are your coffers empty?”
“Nearly so, yes. How did you learn of it?”
At least he hadn’t lied, denied it. She’d give him that. “At my seamstress’s of all places. Apparently someone heard from someone else . . . you know how it goes. There are no secrets among the aristocracy. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t see that it made a difference.”
She stared at him. “Not make a difference? How could it not? You need my dowry.”
“Just because my coffers are bare does not mean I was in pursuit of your dowry.”
She jutted up her chin. “Are you saying it wasn’t a consideration?”
Somberly, he said, “No.”
That simple word deflated her. She looked at the papers strewn over his desk, columns of numbers neatly laid out in contrast to the disarray in which the ledgers were arranged. She spied a blue corner peering out, a familiar blue. Snatching it up, at the sight of the painstakingly written A Lady’s Guide to Ferreting Out Fortune Hunters, she was aware of her soul crumbling. The edges were worn, the spine cracked—the usual sign of a book well loved, well read. Well studied. She flipped through the pages. He’d even made notes in the margins.
She raised her eyes to his. “I thought I was providing information to the ladies. Instead, I provided you with the strategy on how not to get caught.”
“This doesn’t change anything, Minerva.”
“It changes everything. You needn’t bother to speak with my father this evening. I have no intention of marrying you now.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“You deceived me.”
“I’m certain there are things about yourself you’ve not told me.”
“Nothing as bad as this. You wasted your inheritance. You traveled the world, sought out pleasures, while your estates languished. Did you think there would be no consequences to your unbridled spending, to your failure to take responsibility?”
“I’m taking responsibility now.”
“It’s too late. I will not marry a man I cannot respect, and I cannot respect a man who allows his financial situation to get to this state”—she swept her hand over the desk—“and then expects a lady’s dowry to undo the damage.” She was not a woman who cried, and yet she felt the sting of tears. “You should have been honest with me, Ashebury.”
Turning on her heel, she headed for the doorway. She’d nearly reached it when his voice echoed around her, through her. Full of confidence, warning, and victory.
“I’m not certain you’re in a position to deny me . . . Lady V.”
ASHE was angry at the accusations she’d thrown out at him. What did she know of his struggles, of how he’d come to be in his position? Why did she discount his feelings for her just because he was in need of her dowry?
Spinning around, she glared at him. “Are you threatening me with blackmail? Do you really think I’m the sort to be intimidated by such poppycock? What passed between us doesn’t change anything. I won’t marry you.”
He strode across the room, stopping only when he was near enough to smell the verbena. “I’m certain your father will feel very differently when he learns that I deflowered you.”
“It will be your word against mine.”
If she didn’t look at him with such loathing in the depths of her brown eyes, he might have let her go, but she’d stung his pride. “Truly? Because all of London knows about the heart-shaped birthmark at the bottom of your right hip? Even with your skirts on, I can lay my finger unerringly against it. What will he say then?”
“He won’t force me to marry a man I have no desire to marry.”
“And what will London say when they find out that the prim and proper Miss Dodger visited the Nightingale Club three times?”
“You won’t divulge that. They’ll kick you out. You’ll never be welcomed there again.”
“What need will I have for the Nightingale when I have a wife to satisfy all my baser needs?”
“You’re mad if you think I’d welcome you into my bed.”
“You’re too sensual a creature to not welcome me, to deny yourself the pleasure I can bring you.”
“Arrogant prig.”
He gave her one of his more devilish smiles, designed to conquer a woman’s heart. “Don’t be a fool, Minerva. Yes, I need your dowry to set my financial matters to rights, but that doesn’t mean that things can’t be good between us. Things are good between us. The Nightingale proved that.” Before she could react, he grabbed her, drew her in close, and slanted his mouth over hers, determined to remind her of the passion that flared so easily between them, to spark her desire, to—
The pain hit low, hard, sharp, and doubled him over. His knees slammed to the floor, the rest of him smashed against it, and he curled into a fetal position, fighting to catch his breath.
“I will not marry a man I cannot love,” she stated flatly, “a man who does not love me.”
Through his watering eyes, all he saw were her skirts and the heels of her shoes as she made her way out of his library, out of his life.