Page 34 of The Work of Art

Philly recoiled at his words. Her uncle had never been warm to her, that was true, but she hadn’t thought him cruel or unreasonable. He’d taken her in, after all, and even allowed her to bring her dogs. “I have every intention of making a suitable marriage, if I can.”

He gave a humorless laugh. “And yet you think to refuse the Duke of Moreland? Do you expect to do any better? A prince, perhaps? Or do you have designs on a king?”

“I didn’t refuse him because I think I can do better, sir. I refused him because I know we’re not suited. I don’t expect a great romance or a young, handsome man, but I cannot marry someone who gains pleasure from tormenting me.”

“From tormenting you!”

“Yes. He seems to enjoy it.” She hesitated before continuing, uncertain of her uncle’s reaction. “And that isn’t all. He seems to be laboring under the delusion that he has bought me.”

Uncle Edgar fell into an ominous silence.

“He claims to have settled a large sum of money on you in exchange for my hand in marriage. If he’s promised you something, sir—compensation for all you’ve laid out on my behalf, perhaps—I’m sorry you must be disappointed in your expectations, but I—”

“I shall not be disappointed, Miss Satterthwaite. You may depend upon it.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sir, for I cannot marry him. I won’t. Not on any terms.”

Uncle Edgar observed her for a few moments. “Do you know how I earn my daily crust, Miss Satterthwaite?” he asked at last. “I discover investment opportunities. Some would say I have a preternatural skill for it. But investments are not without risk. With each failure, I lose the confidence of the gentlemen who invest with me. And I lose money. The very coin that keeps my daughters in pretty frocks. That serves to provide their dowries.”

Her conscience panged. “I hadn’t realized you were in financial difficulty, sir.”

“We’re not paupers yet, though last night’s debacle has certainly not improved our circumstances. Had Heywood stayed the course—” Uncle Edgar stopped short. “But none of that matters. Not in light of your impending marriage to the Duke of Moreland. Such an alliance will undo every failure of the last six months. It will also secure my position in society—and that of my daughters.”

Philly didn’t know quite what to say. She didn’t wish her cousins to suffer because of her choice. Truly she didn’t. But to marry the Duke of Moreland? A man who was cold and cruel? Her spirit rose up in objection at the very thought of it.

She’d spent her whole life being obedient and obliging. Always doing what was expected of her, no matter the sacrifice to her own happiness. But this was too much. “I want to help you. But I can’t do what you ask of me.”

Uncle Edgar’s eyes turned cold. “Is it possible you can be so insensible to your position? I must say, I find that astounding. You have no fortune of your own and no connections. In short, nothing at all to recommend you except for a rather unique beauty.”

She suppressed a rush of indignation. “My grandfather was a gentleman, sir. And my grandmother, as you well know, was the daughter of an earl. I may have no great fortune, but I’m a gentlewoman of good family.”

“You have no family, Miss Satterthwaite.”

He might as well have struck her. Indeed, Philly felt as if he had.

“I would have you think carefully about what would become of you if I were to turn you and your four mongrels out of my house. To whom would you go? There is no one who will take you in, and London is not a very hospitable place for a young woman alone.”

She tightened her hands in her lap to stop their trembling. “You needn’t consider turning us out, sir,” she said, unwilling to show how much his words affected her. “I have every intention of making a good marriage. However, I’ve only attended one ball. If you would but have patience, I’m sure that, in time, I shall meet a gentleman who is much more suitable. At the next ball—”

“Oh, there will be no more balls, Miss Satterthwaite. No more parties. In fact, I believe it would be best if you kept to your room until the duke returns on Saturday.”

Philly sat very still on the sofa as the full import of her uncle’s words sank in. Her thoughts raced over all that had happened to her since the day Edgar Townsend had first come to Satterthwaite Court. With a sickening clarity, everything suddenly fell into focus. She had only to wonder how she could have been so blind—so very naïve—as to have not seen it before.

“I thought I was brought here for the season to make a suitable marriage with someone,” she said. “With anyone. That’s not so, is it? All of this preparation hasn’t been for the season. It’s been for one man alone.”

“I won’t deny it.”

“That’s why I’ve attended no ball but the Worthings’, and why you haven’t allowed me to go out visiting with Elizabeth and Abigail. That’s why my walks must be so heavily chaperoned. Why I’m not allowed to meet anyone or speak to anyone.” Philly’s brows drew together in distress. “You haven’t wanted me to meet any other eligible gentlemen, have you? I’m to be for the duke and no one else.”

“Moreland is one of the wealthiest men in England,” Uncle Edgar snapped with a touch of impatience. “Is it such a surprise that I’ve brought the two of you together? That I’ve taken the trouble to arrange a match?”

“No,” she said softly. “No surprise at all. I’ve known for some time that you and Mrs. Vale cherished hopes in that direction. But I never imagined…” She shook her head in disbelief. “When you came to Satterthwaite Court, you said you’d finance a season for me so that I might make a suitable match. You didn’t tell me I’d have no choice in the man I married, and you most certainly didn’t tell me you’d already chosen for me. If I’d known the whole of your scheme, I’d never have agreed to come here.”

“Nevertheless, you’re here now. In my home. Upon a few days’ reflection, I believe you’ll do what you must.” He rose. “We’ve discussed this enough for today, Miss Satterthwaite. You’re becoming overset.”

Philly stood, as well. Her eyes were tearing, but she was in no danger of having the vapors. “I’m not overset. Nor am I a child. I’m three and twenty. It’s my right to marry where I will.”

“Your right?” He looked down his nose at her. “Would you care to know of my rights? It’s my right to evict you from my home this very moment. To turn you out without a ha’penny. It’s my right to have those four mongrels in my garden destroyed. We both of us have rights. I trust you won’t forget that.”