Page 33 of The Work of Art

“An object, perhaps, but—”

“You get right to the point, Miss Satterthwaite, and therein lies the dissatisfaction I have with my present collection. Objects can be bought. Paintings or porcelain figures, as you say. You can own them, display them, touch them, but you cannot truly possess them. They have no body. No soul.” He leaned incrementally closer, just enough to see her cringe. “A woman, on the other hand, is something a man can wholly possess in every sense of the word—”

Heat flooded Philly’s face. “Your Grace, I must protest—”

“Your uncle is a clever man to have struck on this. I’d never considered it myself. But then, how many women, however beautiful, would qualify as a work of art? I’ve seen none but you.” Slowly, and with obvious reluctance, Moreland reclined back in his chair. “A long engagement won’t be possible. I have business in the West Country I must attend to in August, and then I return to Moreland Park. We shall marry in the second week of June.”

“Really, Your Grace, you go too far.” Philly martialed her courage. “You’ve given me no opportunity to make my answer.”

“Your answer?”

“You’ve asked for my hand in marriage.” She ignored his apparent incredulity, forcing herself to continue lest she lose her nerve. “I’m aware of the great honor you have bestowed upon me, but I cannot marry you. Not in June or any other month of the year. I regret you have wasted your afternoon—”

Moreland rose abruptly from his chair. “You mistake me, Miss Satterthwaite. I require no answer from you.”

She looked up at him in astonishment.

“I didn’t come here this afternoon to ask for your hand in marriage, as you so charmingly put it. I came here to make an offer for you. An offer no different than I would make on any other piece of art I desired for my collection.” He smiled, his black eyes glittering. “That offer was accepted two hours ago.”

Philly watched in stunned silence as the Duke of Moreland gave one rapid jerk to the tasseled bell pull that hung by the fireplace. Within seconds, a footman opened the library doors and Uncle Edgar strode into the room.

“Your Grace—” he began.

“Townsend, your niece has a mind to refuse me.” Moreland betrayed no emotion except that of mild irritation. “I’ll spend no more time on the matter. Expect me Saturday afternoon. I trust that will give you sufficient time to make her amenable.”

Uncle Edgar’s face hardened. “I will see to it.”

Moreland bowed curtly to Philly, and without another word, walked out of the library.

Philly’s gaze found her uncle’s. She hadn’t expected he would be sympathetic to her refusal. Indeed she’d anticipated a harsh reproof. But she wasn’t prepared at all for what she saw. He appeared to have transformed into a complete stranger. A man she’d never met before in her life.

“Am I to understand that you have objections to this match?” Uncle Edgar lowered his cadaverous frame into the chair where the duke had been sitting only moments before.

A shiver of foreboding went through her. She had a sense that something was terribly wrong. It was true that she didn’t know her uncle very well. She’d met him for the first time only two months before. But he’d always seemed an impassive, rather indifferent man, consumed with his investments and schemes, and sparing little emotion for the ladies in his household. As he looked at her now, she had the distinct impression that another man was staring out from behind her uncle’s eyes.

“Well, Miss Satterthwaite?”

Miss Satterthwaite?

She couldn’t remember when her uncle had ever addressed her so formally. He’d made free with her given name since the moment of their first meeting. That he was no longer doing so only intensified her feeling of his being a stranger. “We scarcely know each other,” she managed to say.

“Many marriages are made after a single meeting in a crowded ballroom. You’ve met the duke on three occasions already. You’re acquainted with him well enough. There will be plenty of time to know him better after you’re wed.”

“I suppose, but he’s so very…” She wanted to tell her uncle that the duke had scared her. That he might, perhaps, even be mad. But she was so disconcerted by the change in Uncle Edgar’s demeanor that she had difficulty finding the words. “He’s so very…”

His eyes narrowed. “So very old?”

“No! Well, rather, he is old, but that isn’t what I was going to say—”

“Were you expecting a love match? Some handsome young man of large fortune, perhaps? Come now, I’d thought you a practical-minded lady.”

“I hope I am practical, sir, but I—”

“When I brought you back with us from that miserable little village in Devonshire, it was on the understanding that once here in London, you would make a successful marriage. Now you’re here and I’ve spent a small fortune on seeing you made presentable for society, do you intend to go back on your word?”

“No, of course not, but—”

“For I must warn you, Miss Satterthwaite, I’ve kept a record of every farthing I’ve spent on you, and if you don’t fulfill your end of the bargain, I’ll expect every single farthing repaid.”