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Chapter Sixteen
Charles was shown into the Duke’s study. He was nervous, but he hid it. He’d had lots of practice, in chambers. This was much the same.
“Mr. Conolly, what is the matter?” the Duke asked.
“Nothing, Your Grace,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’m here on a more personal errand.”
“Very well.” The Duke sat down, gesturing for Charles to do the same. He was frowning in confusion.
“I am not a titled gentleman,” Charles began, going over the speech he’d rehearsed over the past six months. “But I am very well off, as a result of my work. I am able to provide for a wife, and to keep her comfortable.”
The Duke frowned even deeper, staring at Charles for a long beat before speaking. “What are you saying, Mr. Conolly?”
“I’m saying that your daughter and I have fallen in love,” he said. “And I’m asking for your permission to court her, with the intention of marrying her.”
The Duke was utterly quiet, his mouth hung open. Charles waited while he recovered. When he did, though, it was like a cannon had gone off.
“Get out,” the Duke hissed, standing up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over.
“I beg your pardon?” Charles asked.
“I never believed you to be a social climber, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke stated. “I have never been so wrong in my life.”
“I am not, Your Grace.”
“Then why, pray tell, are you romancing my daughter, without my permission?” the Duke demanded. He was going a deep shade of puce that was quite shocking.
“I am asking you for it, Your Grace” Charles replied.
“You could never be worthy of my daughter, sir,” the Duke stated coldly. “You are the son of ordinary, low people. You are a barrister. She is of noble blood.”
“I am well aware—” he began, but the Duke wasn’t going to let him finish.
“Clearly, you are not aware, or you would never have attempted to pursue her. How dare you?” The Duke was looking at him as though he were finally seeing him for what he was. But he was mistaken. Charles genuinely loved Arabella.
“It was my understanding—” he began again.
“How dare you presume that you are on such a level as my daughter? Do you presume that because she wears breeches and rides astride that she is low enough for you to catch?”
Charles stared at the Duke for a very long moment. Seeing nothing but rage, there in the Duke’s face, he then stood up. “I apologize, Your Grace. I can see that I was mistaken.”
“Yes. From now on, you come when you are called. No other time,” the Duke ordered, making a chopping motion with his hand.
Charles bowed to him, feeling the sting of that rebuke. To be spoken to like a dog was a low hit. He stepped out into the hall. The butler stood there, wide eyed. He said nothing, just led Charles to the door.
As he passed the parlor, Arabella came running out. She was pale, and looked as though she were going to cry.
“Mr. Conolly? What did he say?” she asked, reaching out for his arm. Charles didn’t dare touch her. Not there, in the house of her father.
He simply gave her a stern shake of the head, and then walked out the door that was held open for him. Charles walked quickly down the steps, then paused on the sidewalk. His hands were fists at his sides. He had expected to put up with a little bit of a fight from the Duke. But to have been treated in such a manner…
He shook his head, and then began to walk. It was, in all ways, much worse than he had imagined it would be. He might have lost both the Duke’s business as well as his good opinion.
She’s worth the risk, as well as the loss.
* * *
As Mr. Blankley, the butler, closed the door after Charles, Arabella ran up to her father’s study, knocking on the door. Perhaps she would be able to talk some sense into him. She hadn’t ever thought that he would say no…
