Regency Redemption: The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer. Christine Merrill

is at hand. And it was our mother’s dying wish, was it not?’

      ‘Damn the woman. Damn her to hell. Damn the vicar. And his pinched-up shrew of a wife. Damn. Damn!’

      St John patted his apoplectic brother. ‘Perhaps the vicar needs to explain free will to you, Marcus. They are not the ones forcing your hand.’

      The duke shook off the offending hand. ‘And damn you as well.’

      ‘You do have a choice, Marcus. But Haughleigh?’ The title escaped St John’s lips in a contemptuous puff of breath. ‘It is Haughleigh who does not. For he would never choose common sense over chivalry, would he, Marcus?’

      The duke’s face darkened. ‘I do not need your help in this, St John.’

      ‘Of course you don’t, your Grace. You never do. So say the words and get them over with. Protect your precious honour. Waiting will not help the matter.’

      The duke stiffened, then turned towards Miranda, his jaw clenched and expression hooded, as if making a great effort to marshal his emotions. There was a long pause, and she imagined she could feel the ground shake as the statement rose out of him like lava from an erupting volcano. ‘Lady Miranda, would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’

       Chapter Three

      ‘But that’s ridiculous.’ It had slipped out. That was not supposed to be the answer, she reminded herself. It was the goal, was it not, to get her away from scandal and well and properly married? And to a duke. How could she object to that?

      She’d imagined an elderly earl. A homely squire. A baron lost in drink or in books. Someone with expectations as low as her own. Not a duke, despite what Cici had planned. She’d mentioned that the Duke of Haughleigh had a younger brother. He had seemed the more likely of the two unlikely possibilities.

      And now, she was faced with the elder brother. Unhappy. Impatient. More than she bargained for.

      ‘You find my proposal ridiculous?’ The duke was staring at her in amazement.

      She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t ridiculous. Of course not. Just sudden. You surprised me.’

      She was starting to babble. She stopped herself before she was tempted to turn him down and request that his brother offer instead.

      ‘Well? You’ve got over the shock by now, I trust.’

      Of course, she thought, swallowing the bitterness. It had been seconds. She should be fully recovered by now. She looked to St John for help. He grinned back at her, open, honest and unhelpful.

      The duke was tapping his foot. Did she want to be yoked for life to a man who tapped his foot whenever she was trying to make a major decision?

      Cici’s voice came clearly to her again. ‘Want has nothing to do with it. What you want does not signify. You make the best choice possible given the options available. And if there is only one choice …’

      ‘I am truly ruined?’

      ‘If you cannot leave this house until morning, which you can’t. And if the vicar’s wife spreads the tale, which she will.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he added as an afterthought.

      He was sorry. That, she supposed, was something. But was he sorry for her, or for himself? And would she have to spend the rest of her life in atonement for this night?

      ‘All right.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘If that is what you want.’

      His business-like demeanour evaporated under the strain. ‘That is not what I want,’ he snapped. ‘But it is what must be done. You are here now, no thanks to my late mother for making the muddle and letting me sort it out. And don’t pretend that this wasn’t your goal in coming here. You were dangling after a proposal, and you received one within moments of our meeting. This is a success for you. A coup. Can you not at least pretend to be content? I can but hope that we are a suitable match. And now, if you will excuse me, I must write a letter to the vicar to be delivered as soon as the road is passable, explaining the situation and requesting his presence tomorrow morning. I only hope gold and good intentions will smooth out the details and convince him to waive the banns. We can hold a ceremony in the family chapel, away from prying eyes and with his wife as a witness.’ He turned and stalked towards the door.

      ‘Excuse me,’ she called after him. ‘What should I do in the meantime?’

      ‘Go to the devil,’ he barked. ‘Or go to your room. I care not either way.’ The door slammed behind him.

      ‘But I don’t have a room,’ she said to the closed door.

      St John chuckled behind her.

      She turned, startled. She’d forgotten his presence in the face of his brother’s personality, which seemed to take up all the available space in the room.

      He was still smiling, and she relaxed a little. At least she would have one ally in the house.

      ‘Don’t mind my brother overmuch. He’s a little out of sorts right now, as any man would be.’

      ‘And his bark is worse than his bite?’ she added hopefully.

      ‘Yes. I’m sure it is.’ But there was a hesitance as he said it. And, for a moment, his face went blank as if he’d remembered something. Then he buried the thought and his face returned to its previous sunny expression. ‘Your host may have forgotten, but I think I can find you a room and some supper. Let’s go find the butler, shall we? And see what he’s done with your bags.’

      She’d done it again. Marcus had been sure that six feet of earth separated him from any motherly interventions in his life. He’d thought that a half-promise of co-operation would be sufficient to set her mind at rest and leave him free.

      Obviously not. He emptied a drawer of his late mother’s writing desk. Unused stationery, envelopes, stamps. He overturned an inkbottle and swore, mopping at the spreading stain with the linen table runner.

      But she’d cast the line, and, at the first opportunity, he’d risen to the bait like a hungry trout. He should have walked out of the room and left the girl to St John. Turned her out into the storm with whatever was left of her honour to fend for herself. Or let her stay in a dry bed and be damned to her reputation.

      But how could he? He sank down on to the chair next to the desk and felt it creak under his weight. He was lost as soon as he’d looked into her eyes. When she realised what she had done in coming to his house, there was no triumph there, only resignation. And as he’d railed at her, she’d stood her ground, back straight and chin up, though her eyes couldn’t hide the panic and desperation that she was feeling.

      He’d seen that look often enough in the old days. In the mirror, every morning when he shaved. Ten years away had erased it from his own face, only to mark this poor young woman. She certainly had the look of someone who’d run afoul of his accursed family. And if there was anything he could do to ease her misery.

      He turned back to the desk. It was not like his mother to burn old letters. If she’d had a plan, there would be some record of it. And he’d seen another letter, the day she suggested this meeting. He snapped his fingers in recognition.

      In the inlaid box at her bedside. Thank God for the ineptitude of his mother’s servants. They’d not cleaned the room, other than to change the linens after removing the body. The box still stood beside the bed. He reached in and removed several packs of letters, neatly bound with ribbon.

      Correspondence from St John, the egg-sucking rat. Each letter beginning, ‘Dearest Mother …’

      Marcus marvelled at his brother’s ability to lie with a straight face and no tremor in the script from the laughter as he’d written those words. But St John had no doubt