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He reached out a hand and gently cupped her chin, tilting her face towards his.
“You are most pretty, Miss Buckland,” he said softly, his eyes holding hers. “Perhaps a bit greener than my usual type, but I can overlook
such things when a lady is as comely as you are”
It took a moment for Emma to realise what the Duke was proposing, but when she finally understood his insinuations she batted his hand away from her person most firmly.
“Well really,” she snapped, thoroughly annoyed, “That is not what I meant. What type of lady do you think I am?”
“The type who calls to an unmarried man’s home unchaperoned…” the Duke replied sardonically, watching her bluster with an amused expression.
“I did not intend to offer myself to you as your mistress,” she retorted, her eyes flashing in anger.
“Then perhaps you meant to compromise your reputation, so that I would have to offer for you? If that was your intention Miss Buckland, then I’m afraid your actions have been quite foolish. I could not give a jot about any scandals you wish to create.”
“Oh, just stop,” Emma exclaimed, her face heated in annoyance. “I do not wish to be your mistress, and the last thing I want to do is create a scandal. I came to appeal to your sense of decency, and ask that you accept my yearly annuity in exchange for our family eastate.”
Silence fell between them as Emma finished her outburst, the Duke watched her closely as she struggled to regain her composure. Why was this man making her feel so agitated? After a moment, he gave a low chuckle of amusement. “You are probably the first person who has ever appealed to my sense of decency Miss Buckland,” he said wryly, “Most people assume that I don’t have one – and they’re right.”
Emma exhaled the breath she was holding. “So I am to take it that you are refusing my offer?”
“Yes,” the Duke replied, and Emma nodded her head, making to push past him so she could leave.
With a quick hand the Duke reach out, and grabbed her wrist. “And am I to take it that you are refusing my first offer Miss Buckland?”
His grip around her wrist was gentle, so Emma was easily able to tug herself free from his hold. Her usually soft features were clouded with anger as she gave him one last parting glare. “I would tell you to go to the devil sir,” she snapped, “But it seems you are the devil himself.”
With a turn of her calfskin boot, Emma hurried out of the room, away from the infuriating Duke of Daventry, whose amused laughter could be heard even after she had slammed the door behind her.
Alexander cursed his poor behaviour as he urged his stead through the misty, morning air. What on earth had he been thinking, propositioning Miss Buckland so?
He had known from the instant he saw her, nervously pacing the floor in his morning room, that she was a lady in every respect, even though her behaviour in calling on him had been most scandalous.
The memory of Miss Buckland, and her wounded blue eyes as he propositioned her made him very uncomfortable. He was too much used to associating with the demimonde, he was beginning to to forget how one should behave when around an actual lady.
What was she thinking, calling on him unchaperoned? He had watched her through the window as she made her hurried escape, carefully scanning the square to see if any prying eyes were watching.
It had not been his intention to gamble Christopher Buckland out of his fortune, but a casual game of piquet had unexpectedly turned into a high stakes affair, and as the night wore on and the stakes rose even higher, Alexander had been pleased to find he held the winning hand. Mostly because he loved to win, but also because the young Buckland was in over his head, and Alexander was probably the only gentleman at the table with any sympathy for the young lad.
The next morning, Alexander had woken to find out that the whole ton was gossiping about how the Duke of Daventry had gambled a poor, orphaned lad out of his inheritance.
He was tired. He had arranged to meet his mother for afternoon tea. And he could not get the thought of Emma Buckland out of his head.
Chapter Three
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Alexander Randall and Henry Thorne had ridden out from Camden House, Henry’s family home.
Henry’s mother had been friend to Alexander’s mother, and the two boys had been raised almost like brothers.
“Is your mood really still so very low?” Henry asked with concern. “Of course it is, what a ridiculous question, forgive me. Of course your mood is still low.”
“Henry, my mood is low, it is true, but I have reached the point at which I recognize the fact that I shall survive. And the fact that I feel better alerts me to the idea that things shall improve, and time is all that is needed.”
“Well, if that is the case, then I am glad that I asked this question,” Henry said. “But I cannot help thinking there is something on your mind, something that you would wish to discuss. You have a look, and I recognize it well.”
“I suppose it is difficult for me to hide things from you. Perhaps that is because we are almost as brothers.”
