Page 32 of The Work of Art

The library was Uncle Edgar’s private lair. The furnishings in it were larger, darker, and far more masculine than those in the rest of the townhouse. Across from the three heavy chairs in which her uncle, Moreland, and Pritchard had been sitting was a velvet-upholstered sofa. Philly perched as delicately as she could on the edge of it lest the outsized piece of furniture swallow her up.

Moreland resumed his seat. Uncle Edgar and Mr. Pritchard remained standing.

“Phyllida,” Uncle Edgar said. “His Grace wishes to speak with you alone. Your Grace.” He bowed low to Moreland. “I shall remain nearby. Mr. Pritchard? If you’d care to repair to the drawing room for some refreshment?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Mr. Pritchard blotted his forehead with a large white handkerchief as Uncle Edgar led him out of the room. “So many details to agree upon. It’s all quite taxing.”

A footman closed the doors behind them with all of the ominous significance of the sealing of a tomb.

“Miss Satterthwaite.” Moreland’s sharp voice cut through the silence.

Philly jerked her head to look at him.

He was watching her closely. “My intentions will be of no surprise to you.”

Her pulse skittered. “No, indeed.” His intent couldn’t be plainer. He’d brought his solicitor with him, for heaven’s sake. A gentleman with a solicitor in tow wasn’t thinking of courtship. He was contemplating marriage. “But I do own to being a little confused, Your Grace.”

“In what respect?”

“After the ball and our drive in the park, I thought you realized, as I did, that we have precious little in common to justify a courtship, let alone a—”

“I haven’t come to court you, Miss Satterthwaite. I’ve come to make an offer for you. My solicitor has spent the last two hours settling all of the details with your uncle.”

Her breath stopped in her chest. “The details? What details?”

“The settlements and so forth. It has all been arranged.”

“How can it be? I’ve only a small stipend left me by my grandfather. It barely suffices as a dress allowance. And, as for a dowry, I haven’t anything at all.”

“Indeed, you do not.”

Philly clasped her hands together in her lap. She’d forgotten how uncomfortable the duke was capable of making her, and just how much it seemed he enjoyed doing so. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

Moreland continued to watch her with the same unblinking, emotionless expression. “Miss Satterthwaite, have you any idea what I might be willing to pay for a work of art?”

“No, Your Grace.”

“Rest assured that your uncle does.”

She stared at him, stunned. “Do you mean to say that you’ve settled money on my uncle? So that you might marry me?”

“I’ve shocked you, I see.” Moreland’s mouth twisted at the corner in a faint mockery of a smile. “You think it distasteful, perhaps. Or is it that you fear you’ve been undervalued?”

“Your Grace, I…”

“Have no doubt, Miss Satterthwaite, you didn’t come cheaply. Your uncle has got full value. In truth, I would have paid far more had he demanded it.”

A rare spark of anger flared within Philly’s breast. “I’m no work of art, Your Grace, no matter what people have been calling me. You can’t simply acquire me from my uncle like you would a painting or a porcelain figure.”

He raised a brow. “You think not? What do you suppose I’ve spent the last two hours doing?”

“I think you’ve very likely been wasting your time.”

“No, indeed, Miss Satterthwaite. I believe I’ve made a wise investment of both my time and my money.” He leaned forward in his chair. “I have a consuming passion, you see. If something exceptional catches my eye, I must have it. I cannot rest until I possess it utterly; until it’s mine alone.”

Philly drew back into the cushions of the sofa. “It sounds an unfortunate condition,” she said with more bravery than she felt. “For you must know that there are some things that cannot be bought.”

“That has rarely been my experience. Everything has its price.”