Page 9 of A Family Bargain with the Duke

Fiona’s mouth fell open.

For a long moment, she said nothing at all, which Louisa considered something of an achievement, since she could not recall the last occasion on which her friend had been rendered speechless.

“He asked for time,” Fiona repeated, as though the words required careful handling. “Louisa. A woman he had known for three-quarters of an hour proposed marriage to him in his own study, and he did not laugh in her face, did not have her shown to the door, did not send a very firm letter explaining that he had misunderstood the nature of her visit. He asked for time to consider it.”

“That is what I said, yes.”

“Do you understand what that means?”

“It means precisely what it says. He wishes to think before he answers.”

“It means,” Fiona said, with the triumphant patience of a woman explaining something painfully obvious to a slower friend, “that he is seriously considering it. No man asks for time to think over a proposal he intends to reject, Louisa. A rejection costs nothing and requires no consideration whatsoever. A man only asks for time when the answer he expects to give is not the answer he thinks he ought to give.”

“You are building an entire theory of the Duke of Ashvale’s character out of one polite sentence.”

“I am building an entire theory of the Duke of Ashvale’s character out of the fact that he did not throw you out of his house, which, from everything I have heard of him, is precisely what I would have expected.” Fiona sat forward again, delighted despite herself. “He must be either mad or brilliant, Louisa. There is no third explanation. Either he has taken leave of his senses entirely, or he has heard your proposal and recognized, faster than most men manage in a year of courtship, that it is the most sensible offer he is likely to receive in this lifetime.”

“Or,” Louisa said, “he is simply a practical man who does not waste time on outrage when a solution is standing in front of him.”

“That is what I said. Brilliant.” Fiona grabbed a biscuit from the tray with the satisfaction of a woman who considered the matter settled. “Now, tell me the important part.”

“I have just told you the important part.”

“You have told me the practical part, which I am sure is very significant to whatever calculations occupy your head at all hours, but you have entirely neglected the part I actually wish to know.” Fiona fixed her with a look of pure, unrepentant curiosity. “Is he as handsome as they say?”

“That is not remotely relevant.”

“It is very relevant. You are potentially about to marry the man. I should think his face falls well within the scope of things worth discussing.”

“I did not go to his study to study his features, Fiona.”

“No, but I imagine you noticed them regardless, since you have eyes, and since I have heard from no fewer than three separate sources that the Duke of Ashvale is widely considered one of the more tolerable views in London, on the rare occasions he permits himself to be viewed at all.” Fiona’s grin widened. “So, is he handsome or not?”

“I have no comment to make on the subject.”

“That is not a no.”

“It is not a yes, either.”

“Louisa.” Fiona set down her biscuit, abandoning even the pretense of eating it, fully given over to the pursuit of an answer. “You have turned the shade of pink you do when you are trying very hard not to smile. I have known you for years. I know exactly what that color means.”

“I am not smiling.”

“You are smiling with your entire face while your mouth remains stubbornly flat, which is more convincing than an actual smile would be.” Fiona looked positively gleeful. “He is handsome. He is dreadfully, unfairly handsome, and you have just proposed marriage to him under the guise of practicality, and you are sitting there pretending the matter never crossed your mind.”

Louisa reached for the nearest cushion and threw it at her.

Fiona caught it against her chest, laughing so hard she nearly slid off the settee, and pressed the cushion to her middle as though it might help contain the laughter now shaking her shoulders.

“There,” she gasped, breathless, entirely too pleased with herself. “I have my answer.”

CHAPTER 5

“There you are.”

Kit did not look up. He stood in Rosalind’s stall, the curry comb moving in slow, careful strokes along the mare’s flank, utterly absorbed in the work, as though his guardian had not just spoken directly to him.

Julian stepped inside, careful of the straw, careful of the boy’s space, the way he had learned to be over three years of trial and considerably more error. “She looks well groomed.”