Chapter Thirty-Five
Despite her irrational hope, it was not Nick but the Duke of Montrose who presented himself the next afternoon.
“Ah, Miss Bursnell.” Montrose rose to his feet as she entered the drawing room. “You are looking well.”
It was a lie, but a kind one. She did not look well, an earlier glance in the mirror had assured her. Her skin was sallow and her eyes were circled with purple shadows. She’d had a fitful night, her body tossing and turning as her mind tossed and turned over Nick’s words. She had finally drifted to sleep when dawn lit the sky, only to be awoken a few hours later by Alice.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Would you care for tea? I’m sure my mother will return in a moment.”
“Not for a quarter hour, actually.”
She paused before ringing for a servant. “A quarter hour?”
“Yes. It is an acceptable amount of time for a private audience with an unmarried lady, I am told. It is enough to ask a question, but not time enough to ravish.”
“Ah, I see.” She quirked her lips with humor, even as dread filled her belly. Montrose was here to offer for her. And, oh, what could she say? What would be her response? Nick had been inside her just yesterday. It was unthinkable to hear another man’s suit under such circumstances. She belonged to Nick.
If only he would claim her.
“I noticed there is a pretty bit of garden behind the house,” Montrose said. “Perhaps we could have our talk there? I think your mother might even be willing to extend our time to twenty minutes, since we are out of doors and she can spy on us from the window. The parlor, you know, does not afford her quite the same opportunity for oversight.”
“Yes, Mother would like that,” Adelaide said, laughing. She clasped her hands together, hoping he did not notice their tremble. The worst of it was, she truly did like the duke. “Shall we, then?”
The garden was full of roses in various stages of bloom. The white bush, which smelled the sweetest, had bloomed first, and now the creamy white petals were tinged with brown. The peach bush, however, was covered in half-opened buds. Adelaide regarded it with interest, having never seen its particular shade before.
But she could not avoid Montrose’s gaze—or his question—forever. She turned to him with a smile. “What did you wish to ask me, Your Grace?”
“The same question I asked your father, which is whether you have any interest in being my duchess. He assured me that it is your dearest wish, but I have lived long enough to know that fathers are often quite ignorant of their daughters’ hearts.”
And thank heaven for that. She would be mortified if her father could see into her heart to the wickedness within.
But this was her dearest wish, was it not? Marriage to a good, kind man who could provide her with a home of her own—a home where she could bring James to live with her.
So why could she not force the words past her frozen lips?
“I should not be so blunt. You would prefer a pretty speech, no doubt. I can’t swear I love you, but I do think love will come in time. And I believe we will get on quite well together.” He paused, contemplating the gravel path beneath their feet. “Last night I came home to an empty house, with no wife and no children. It has been this way for many years, since my first wife died some time ago. But it struck me last night that I would be happy never to return to an empty house again. I don’t want to be lonely, Miss Bursnell.”
He looked up at her. “I came here hoping I am not too late. I know you are fond of Mr. Eastwood. A man would have to be blind not to see that. If there is an understanding between you, please tell me, and I will not force my attentions on you any longer.”
She did not know how to answer that. Was blackmail and betrayal an understanding?
“Oh.” Adelaide made a choked sound between a laugh and a sob. “I daresay we don’t understand each other, at all.”
Montrose tilted his head as he regarded her. “A lovers’ quarrel? Such things have a way of blowing over quickly. The question remains, however. Has Mr. Eastwood offered for you?”
She dodged again. “He has not yet spoken to my father.”
“But he will.” Montrose’s shoulders lifted. “No doubt your father would be just as pleased with a marquess for a son-in-law as a duke, especially if the marquess is the wealthier man.”
“No doubt you are correct as to my father, but Mr. Eastwood will never be a marquess. His father is an earl, but it is Viscount Abingdon who inherits.”
Montrose looked at her oddly. “I was not speaking of the earldom.”
“Pardon?”
“Ah, so he did not tell you,” Montrose murmured.
She tilted her head. “Tell me what?”
“He is to be a marquess. A reward for his service to the Crown.” The duke paused. “I’d have thought he would share that. I wonder why he did not.”
Adelaide wondered, too. Truth be told, she cared not one bit whether Nick was a marquess or a mere mister. It was the why more than the what that suddenly bothered her. It changed nothing for her that Nick possessed a title.
But what did it change for him?
Everything.
It changed everything for Nick.
He was so eager to prove his worth to a family who had rejected him, and this would be that proof. Here was his validation that he was, if not exactly good, then at least worthwhile.
“The letters patent have not yet been signed by the Prince Regent,” Montrose continued. “So, of course he must be careful. Safeguarding his reputation and avoiding scandal are of utmost importance. And since King George is known to be, shall we say, fickle by nature, perhaps Eastwood thought it best to keep such hopes to himself. After all, he wouldn’t want to be accused of trapping you in a marriage to an untitled gentleman when you were expecting a marquess.”
“Trap me,” Adelaide murmured wearily. No, quite the opposite, she suspected. He did not want her to trap him.
And yet…just last night, he had claimed to want to marry her. He was to speak to her father—today, as a matter of fact. Any moment now, he might arrive.
“What other reason could there possibly be than to protect you from dashed hopes? You are hardly scandalous yourself, so he had nothing else to fear,” the duke said at her comment.
She went very still.
No, Nick had everything to fear. If her scandal was discovered before the letters patent were signed, he would be forced to choose—the lady or the title. He could not save both.
If he married her, she would drag him down with her.
She would ruin him.
“Miss Bursnell, are you quite well?” Montrose laid a hand on her arm.
She shook her head. “No…no.”
“I have given you an unexpected shock, and I am sorry for that. You need not answer me now. We have time. I will visit again tomorrow, unless you wish it otherwise?” He peered questioningly at her.
“Thank you, Your Grace. Please do.”
He bowed and took his leave.
She sat there for long moments, gazing numbly at nothing.
“Adelaide.”
She looked up with a start. Her father had not spoken to her for so long that she had nearly forgotten what her name sounded like in his voice. “Father.”
He looked from the bench upon which she sat to the gray sky above her head. “Has Montrose spoken with you?”
She bit her lip. “Yes, Father.”
“I gave him my blessing.” He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Your mother is quite beside herself that you have landed a duke. But I care less for his title than for his character. He is a good man, Adelaide. I wouldn’t ask a daughter of mine to marry anything less.”
“That’s good to hear. Thank you.” Her chest felt tight. Once he had looked at her with the pride and tenderness of a loving father. Now he couldn’t bear the sight of her. It broke her heart anew every time he avoided her eyes.
He turned away to pace the length of the small patio. “He is advanced in years, but I believe that will serve you well. Age tempers lasciviousness, you will find. You will learn prudence and restraint in such a marriage.”
Hot shame prickled her skin. Her own father thought her a lustful, unladylike creature. It was humiliating.
His gaze shifted to the space between her right earlobe and shoulder, which was, she supposed, as close as he would ever come to looking her in the face. “Will you accept him?”
No! shrieked her heart. But her heart was wickedly wanton, and best ignored.
“Yes, Father,” she said quietly.
He paused. “Eastwood is here.”
Now, at last, she knew what she must do.
“Tell him I’m not at home.”