“I do. I also know he and his brothers are trying to regain their place in Society and their reputations.”
“Not to great effect, I am afraid.”
Clara studied her fingernails again. “Not yet, sir. No.”
“Not yet. So you have hope for them? He is still nothing but a rake in many eyes. Including mine.”
She met his face again. “I have heard much about their efforts. It is not an easy thing they seek to do.”
“I am glad you understand that.”
A spark of worry nagged at the back of Clara’s mind. “Sir?”
“Reputation, once ruined, is not an easy repair. Often the stains remain, like glue on a mended vase.”
She stiffened. He was no longer talking about the Ashtons. “Papa—”
“Your mother’s concern is not unwarranted. You create chaos wherever you go because of your attitudes and your interests in things a young woman should never find intriguing.”
“But I—”
“The clear answer to this is for you to find a place, a husband, and settle before ruination finds you in an irreparable way. You are in your fourth season, and inquiries have stopped coming as often, even with the amount of your dowry and my good name.”
That spark became a raging fire. “Papa, please—”
He held up a letter. “I have an inquiry here from the Duke of Wykeham. Christian name Owen Colbourne. I believe you met him not long after we returned to the city.”
Clara’s eyes narrowed as she racked her memory for a face—ah, there it was. “Yes, sir. At the first ball. He’s a great deal older. A widower, if I remember.”
He put down the letter, the skin around his mouth tightening. “You make him sound ancient. I believe the man is just beyond forty.”
“Papa—”
“No.” He pressed both hands flat on his desk, any humor leaving his eyes. “Listen to me, Clara.”
She stared at him but nodded, her mouth tensing as she held back her words.
“You are our last unmarried child. My health, as you well know, is not what it used to be, and will only continue to decline. When I die, your brother will take over the estate. He will take care of your mother as the dowager countess, but we do not want to burden him with you as well. So we need you settled. You have pushed aside every potential suitor that you did not otherwise offend or terrify.”
Terrify?The fire of her worry settled on her shoulders. She grew hot as dread seared through her.
He tapped the letter. “This is a serious inquiry. From a duke. None of your other recent callers have been as well set in life. His wife died two years ago in childbirth with their fourth child. He would like to remarry soon and return to his estate. It would be the countryside you adore, and he will not even expect an heir from you. He will call on you this afternoon. If he thinks you are well suited to him, he will make an offer, and I will accept it. It is a good position for you, the best you will likely receive. If he proposes, you will not be allowed to turn him away. Do you understand?”
Clara stared at him, at the intensity in his face, his words absorbing into her soul. He did not want her brother “burdened” with an unmarried sister. They saw her as nothing but a problem to be rid of. Sold to the highest bidder. A duke.
Understand?God help her, she did. She understood to the depth of her being.
She stood, swallowing the first lump growing in her throat. “I do understand, Papa.” She backed away from the desk, wanting to be out of the room before the first tears came. “I will do as you instruct.” Two more steps and she would be at the door. “I will do my best to help you relieve yourself of this unfortunate burden.”
“Clara—”
She did not wait for his next words. She pulled the door closed just as those tears slid free, but she managed to hold on to the sobs until she had passed through the rotunda and up the grand staircase to the second floor, then the third. But they had consumed her, blinding her, as she found the door to her bedchamber and locked herself in. She sank down on the bench at the end of her bed and released them, indulging herself in a cry that lasted a good long while, exhausting her strength and clogging her nose and throat.
As they ended, Clara pushed away from the bed and found a handkerchief. She poured water into her washbasin and finished cleaning away the signs of her sorrow. Then she sat down at her escritoire and reached for her journal. She had a lot of thoughts about her impending doom—this disastrous betrothal to a duke who had made so little impression on her that she could barely recall his face—and she knew that she needed to express them in writing before the man arrived on her doorstep. Otherwise, they might just find their way out of her mouth before she could stop them.
And she had been serious about her promise to her father. Since her family obviously saw her as more an incumbrance than a beloved daughter, then she would make sure she did everything possible to relieve them of her presence.
If marrying an unknown duke was the answer, so be it. But Clara suspected there were other options as well, and no time remained to decipher them. She had to discover them now. Whatever it took.
