A Duke In Need Of A Wife. ANNIE BURROWSЧитать онлайн книгу.
a conspiratorial tone. ‘And it’s not as if Sofia’s going to have her head turned by the prospect of a coronet. She dotes on Jack.’
Dotes? Hah! She might have done, once, before the scales fell from her eyes. She reached for a slice of toast to stop herself from blurting out the truth—that the prospect of being leg-shackled to an oaf like Jack filled her with revulsion. And, since she’d put the piece of dry toast straight into her mouth, there was a good chance that if either of them noticed the little grimace she made, they’d put it down to lack of butter. Not that they ever did pay her much heed once they’d embarked on one of their squabbles.
‘And you need not fear that a man like the Duke of Theakstone is likely to choose our Sofia over all those other girls you say he’s invited.’
They both turned to look at her in that rather pained way that was their habit. In attempting to avoid catching anyone’s eye, she managed to brush her hand against her teacup, spilling its contents into her saucer.
‘See? A man of his rank is bound to want a truly elegant female to preside over his homes, not a...well, a...someone like Sofia. I am sure there can be no harm in accepting his invitation.’
Sofia watched the tea stain spreading along the fibres of the once snowy-white tablecloth, rendering it a muddy brown. She didn’t have a burning desire to become a duchess. But hearing her closest relatives, the aunt and uncle whose approval she’d tried so hard to gain, declare the unlikeliness of such a thing ever happening, filled her with an all-too-familiar feeling of failure, made worse by the belief that Aunt Agnes was correct. She could never become a duchess. If even a callow boy like Jack could only stomach the prospect of marrying her because he would be compensated by getting his hands on her fortune, she was never going to win what sounded like a competition, against better-bred, better-trained girls, to win the regard of a sophisticated, attractive man like the Duke of Theakstone.
‘See, even Sofia knows it, don’t you?’ Now it was Aunt Agnes’s turn to wave her butter knife in her direction. ‘There can be absolutely no danger to your plans... I mean, for Jack and Sofia’s future happiness, in accepting the invitation. And much to be gained. I mean, a week at Theakstone Court, Ned! Can you imagine what Mrs Chalfont will say? Or General Benning, when they find out?’
‘Hmm...’ Uncle Ned took a thoughtful pull at his ale. ‘I do hear that there’s some very fine country round the Court. No shooting at this time of year, but the fishing is supposed to be excellent. And I must say, this place is cursed flat.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Nothing but a pack of invalids and elderly spinsters wanting you to play whist and wittering on about their quack medicines.’
And so it was settled. She and Uncle Ned and Aunt Agnes were to spend a week at Theakstone Court so that the Duke could decide she wasn’t good enough to become his Duchess.
How ever was she going to contain her excitement?
With modestly downbent head, she left the breakfast table and went to her room to prepare for her morning dip.
Life definitely had a way of pushing you in directions you would really rather not go, she reflected later, as the two burly women ducked her beneath the waves and held her there for several seconds, reminding her that once again she had no escape. No choice. She never had. Her very earliest memories were tinged with the helpless feeling of being uprooted whenever Papa’s marching orders had come.
* * *
Her mood had not improved by the time the Duke came to take her for the promised drive in his carriage. What was more, instead of feeling rather pleased at doing something rebellious in going out with him alone, she was inclined to add him to her list of people who pushed her around without once consulting her. Fancy speaking to her uncle about his intentions, rather than making them known to her! And handing out an invitation to his stupid Duchess decision-making party without even asking her if she actually wanted to be his Duchess.
He angled her a perplexed glance as she heaved herself, with resignation, into his curricle, and pulled Snowball on to her lap. ‘Are you not feeling the thing today, Miss Underwood? You seem rather subdued.’
‘The thing?’ She sighed. The thing that was the matter with her today was actually no worse than it had been the day before. It was just that she felt more conscious of being stuck in her personal version of limbo. The stay in Burslem Bay had actually started to revive her spirits, in spite of not dishing up the beaux Uncle Barty had predicted. Simply getting away from Nettleton Manor had been enough to break her out of the depression that had dogged her since she’d stopped assuming her whole future would revolve around Jack.
It was just that the conversation at breakfast had brought it all back with a vengeance—what was she to do with herself, until she came into her money, if she didn’t marry Jack? Not that she could share such a personal matter with a man she barely knew.
And he was still waiting for a response from her. ‘I am just a touch blue-devilled, I suppose,’ she said, taking a measure of comfort in using a phrase Aunt Agnes would consider vulgar.
‘Perhaps I have some news that might cheer you up,’ he said, without showing by so much as a flicker of his eyelid that he disapproved of her choice of vocabulary. ‘I have instructed my secretary to include you on a very exclusive guest list. You should be receiving the invitation to attend a select house party at Theakstone Court today.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about that,’ she said morosely. ‘It came at breakfast.’
The look he directed her way was most definitely affronted this time.
‘And it has not pleased you?’
Pleased her? No, at no point today had she felt pleased about the invitation. Though how could she explain her reaction to what he clearly felt should have sent her into raptures? ‘It is just...’ She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the gleaming backs of his matched greys. ‘I mean, Uncle Ned said...’ As she recalled what Uncle Ned had said, followed by what Aunt Agnes had said, she felt something very like a brownish stain seeping across her soul.
‘I sincerely hope,’ bit out the Duke, affront flowing from him in waves, ‘that he explained that all the other families I have invited are in possession of a daughter who has attracted my notice, for one reason or another.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted glumly. And they would all outshine her so much that she couldn’t see what point there was in her going, except to provide Uncle Ned with a week’s fishing and Aunt Agnes with the chance to boast of her stay at Theakstone Court to the principal families in the region of Nettleton Manor, when they returned.
‘And you are not flattered?’ Now he looked positively annoyed.
She supposed she ought to explain...
She shook her head. ‘I... I cannot... I mean...my feelings upon the matter are...’
‘Oh, please,’ he said with heavy sarcasm, ‘do not hesitate to express your feelings. My own, I do assure you, are immune to anything you might say.’
It had nothing to do with his feelings. She just could not confide in a man who she’d only met a matter of days ago. And his arrogant assumption that he was the cause of her dilemma made her see red. ‘Very well,’ she said, flinging up her chin. ‘For one thing, I find it extremely hard to believe you can seriously be considering me as...as...well, as your wife, when we hardly know each other.’
‘That is the whole point of inviting you to Theakstone Court. So we may get to know each other better.’
Oh. That was a fair point, actually. ‘Yes, but what can you hope to discover in a week? Or I about you? I mean, in a week, you could easily conceal all sorts of vices from me.’ After all, Jack had successfully done so for years and years and years. If she hadn’t been swimming in the lower lake and if Snowball hadn’t barked a warning so that she’d just had time to duck under the jetty and hide, and Jack hadn’t chosen to dismount and water his horses at that particular spot, she might never have learned the truth about him.
‘Vices?’