“Well, I need the money,” she blurted. “To go to London.”
He propped an elbow on the arm of his chair, observing her sharply. “I… see.”
“My situation is a precarious one, as you may imagine.” She changed tack. “If this did belong to your late wife, perhaps it holds some sentimental value, and you might wish it back? I would happily part from it—for a small sum, of course.”
Whatever stillness had been in his face, it sharpened to offense. “If I hadintendedto keep it for sentiment, Miss Fairbourne, rest assured I would not have permitted its sale.”
Her face burned hot. “Sorry… Excuse my presumption.”
He rose and crossed to a sideboard to pour a drink. “So… Were you intending to be married?”
Isadora may have walked a mile to a duke’s home like a pauper, prepared to beg for what amounted to charity, but admitting that her bridegroom had abandoned her this morning at the altar to this handsome stranger was still a step too far. “I, um—not today, Your Grace.”
“But that was perhaps the plan for you,” he murmured. “So, tell me, who is your family, Miss Runaway?”
“I live with my relatives, Your Grace… b-but I do not intend to go back to their household, because—” He arched a brow at her repeated presumptions, and under the sternness of his gaze, she quailed. “I live with my aunt and uncle, the Chesters… But my late father was a baron. Baron Weatherby.”
“Hm. A baron’s daughter, selling her wedding gown in a stranger’s house.” He strummed his fingers against the oak sideboard, deep in thought. The words should have shamed her. They did. But there was no mockery in his voice. “You’ve had quite a day, I gather.”
Isadora stared at her clasped fingers on her lap, waiting for the inevitable bell that would summon the butler to return her to the road—and with any luck, still in her wedding gown. She could perhaps pawn the dress then, but any pawnbroker would want the gown for the material only and would pay a pittance, if they deemed it necessary to pay a desperate lady at all.
At last, the duke turned back to her. “I shall not be purchasing that dress,” he started.
Her heart sank.
“However,” he interjected, his voice quiet enough to make the next words feel dangerous, “I have an urgent need for a duchess. So, I’d like to make a new proposition.”
Nicholas had made the proposal badly.
He knew it the instant Miss Fairbourne stared at him, color high in her cheeks, her honey-brown eyes wide as if he had set a pistol on the table between them. There ought to have been delicacy. A few civil sentences to soften the blow. Some gentlemanly preamble aboutmutual advantage, protection, suitability.
Perhaps he could have approached the topic from a more elegant angle, but there was very little elegant about her, and truth be told, the proposal had been a spur-of-the-moment decision.
She very obviously sought a husband. Alone and unchaperoned, she had no more sense of self-preservation than a lamb strayed from its flock, and every vulture in Mayfair would have her within a fortnight if he let her go off to London.
He would rather not send this slight creature away from the house, knowing she might come to harm.
Yet he could not buy back the gown she wore, either. Even seeing it on her now came as a fresh jab to his healing heart. Making the decision to dispose of Grace’s clothes and belongings had been a challenging one, and once he had made it, he could never go back on that decision. Cut for a taller, slighter woman, it pulled tight where it oughtn’t, the bodice straining over more than the fabric had ever meant to hold. Sunlight caught the fraying lace at her collar, gold against tired satin.
He dragged his eyes back to her face. Seeing that gown on her, filling it out in ways Grace never had, turned something over hard in his chest.
“Do you… like children?” The question came out rougher than he’d meant it.
She blinked damp lashes as she peered at him. “Children—?”
“—that are not your own,” he quickly put in. “I have a daughter.”
“I… yes.” She cleared her throat, and a flush chased itself down the long line of her throat toward her collarbone. Shewas pretty, with auburn hair in tight curls and those dark eyes set in contrast to her oval face. Very different from Grace’s ethereal spun gold, blue-eyed beauty. Good. He could not have stomached a wife who reminded him of her over breakfast every morning.
“I have a great fondness for children,” she said, quietly.
“Excellent. If you accept my proposal, you will find me a generous husband. Anything that will add to your happiness, I shall do my utmost to provide. You need not even reside with me after Sophia has come of age and found a household of her own.”
“You… need a nursemaid for your daughter?” she puzzled out slowly, comprehension lighting her eyes. Her fingers tightened on her lap. She ought to be wearing gloves, but for some reason she wasn’t, and he could see the reddened skin beside her nails where she had evidently chewed. She brought her bottom lip into her mouth and sucked, hollowing her cheeks as she mused, and he directed his gaze away before he could notice anything else about her.
Ifit came to be, their marriage would not be a passionate one. They would keep separate beds, separate wings if necessary, and in time, they would part forever.
That was the only way he could survive another marriage—if it was not a true marriage at all.
