everyone believes that we will be betrothed, Your Grace.” She posed dramatically with her hands to her heart, hoping that he would notice how attractive her bosom was in her low-cut French gown.
Ignoring her affected posturing, he asked with quiet determination, “Whose fault is that, Lady Madeline?”
“Papa?” Madeline turned to her father for confirmation that this man did not want to marry her. The idea was completely preposterous. The duke could not treat her this way. Surely her father would make him marry her. Her father always got her what she wanted.
Lord Maxwell could not meet his daughter’s eyes and sank lower into his chair. “I’m sorry, my dear.” He finished off his whiskey and stared at the empty glass.
This is impossible, Madeline thought. Everyone knew that they were getting married. She was going to be the Duchess of Woodborough. Her mother had said so. Her father had said so. Her friends had said so. Yet here was the duke himself saying it was not true.
He was not going to marry her.
What in heaven’s name was she going to say to everybody? How could she ever show her face again?
If he didn’t love her, her mind reasoned quickly, he must be in love with someone else. But who could it possibly be? There wasn’t a girl in the ton who even came close to matching her in beauty or style. There had to be somebody though. Nothing else made sense. Madeline would find out who she was eventually. There could be no other logical explanation for him to spurn her. White-hot tears of humiliation stung behind her eyes, but she held them back. She clenched her hands so tightly her fingernails cut into the flesh of her palms. She would not cry.
Her pride and vanity bolstered her now. No one could think that the duke turned her away. No, no, no! She had to be the one to turn him down! Yes, that was it! Wouldn’t that be something? The beautiful Lady Madeline Maxwell refused the Duke of Woodborough’s hand in marriage! Why? She simply did not love him! And, oh, but he was devastated, completely crushed by her rejection! The gossips would love that. She would be renowned. Gentlemen would flock to her, wanting to be the one she chose in his place! Yes…Yes. This could work.
However, she would have to marry very quickly to give the impression that she was in love with another all this time, that she had just been torn between her parents’ wishes and her true love. But who? Who…? John Talbot? He was young and handsome but would only be a baron. Besides, he was too serious. Maybe Oliver Parkridge? He was rich, young, somewhat handsome, and would at least become an earl when his father died. She could win him over in no time since he was in love with her already.
Yes, Oliver Parkridge would have to do.
She promptly composed herself and faced the duke. “Well then.” She smiled brightly, while smoothing the silk ruffles of her blue gown.
From the depths of his chair, Lord Maxwell offered in a thin voice, “We can say you refused his hand, my dear.”
Madeline gave a look full of sweetness, addressing her father, yet staring directly at the duke. “Papa, how can I refuse him if I have not yet been asked?”
The duke stared in disbelief at her outrageous implication. “I beg your pardon?”
“I cannot simply lie to everyone,” Madeline stated as if speaking to a small child.
“Now, now, my dear…” began Lord Maxwell, stunned into rising from his chair. It would not do for his daughter to anger the already irritated duke. “Be reasonable.”
Madeline sauntered to the tea cart and calmly poured herself a cup of tea, confident that the duke would do what she wanted. “I must be asked before I can refuse, Your Grace.” She posed prettily with a delicate china teacup in her hand, fluttering her eyelashes with just the right amount of innocence.
The duke muttered something under his breath. “Let me understand this, Lady Madeline. You wish for me to propose marriage to you now, so that you can refuse me honestly?”
“Yes.” She used the full force of her baby blue eyes to appeal to him. “Is that too much to ask?”
The clock on the mantel ticked rather loudly, echoing the silence of the elegant library. Madeline watched the tense emotions play across his face. He did not know what to make of her. Nevertheless, she knew him to be a gentleman. She waited patiently.
“Will you marry me, Lady Madeline?” The words were harsh, his voice like ice.
She set down the teacup, fluttered her long lashes again, and spoke with soft earnestness. “Thank you, Your Grace. You do me a great honor, but I fear that I cannot accept your proposal in good faith, although our families dearly wish for us to marry. To state it quite simply, I am in love with another. I hope you are not too disappointed. Please consider me your friend. I could not bear for anyone to believe that there were any ill feelings between us. Now if you will please excuse me, I must return to our guests. Good evening, Your Grace. Papa.” Lady Madeline turned and glided from the library, leaving the two men standing there quite speechless.
“How did she take it?” Lily Sherwood asked, handing the Duke of Woodborough a crystal glass filled with the finest bourbon his money could buy.
“Thank you.” He kissed her cheek as he gratefully accepted the drink from her. “She handled it better than I expected. Lord Maxwell actually seemed to take it harder than she did. But then again, he has to live with her and her disappointment. Poor old man.” He shook his head grimly as he sipped his bourbon.
Lily gave a little laugh. “Well, as I said earlier, all of London is under the impression that you are going to marry this girl. You’ve been buried out at Ridge Haven and Summerfields since Christmas and have ignored all the talk about you and her.” Lily’s dark eyes sparkled with a seductive gleam. “You have to admit, it was rather an ingenious plan. She even had your father’s consent. You can’t blame the girl for trying.”
With her silky black hair, clear white skin, supple body, and long legs, Lily Sherwood had once been an acclaimed ballerina. But she was over thirty years old now and well past the time when she could dance for a living. The duke met her six years ago after one of her performances at the theater. He had been taken by her stunning beauty and quiet manner. So much so that he set her up in an elegant house in a fine neighborhood and provided very well for her, an arrangement of which she did not take advantage. They had a good relationship and they enjoyed each other’s company immensely, both in and out of the bedroom.
“I’m going back to Ridge Haven tomorrow. I need to get out of London.” He laid down on his back, settling into the comfortable pillow-strewn sofa.
“But you only arrived a few days ago.” She brushed her hand along his arm. “We’ve hardly seen each other.”
He groaned at the prospect of remaining in the city. He could not stomach another Season of greedy women vying for his attention. The first Season he had participated in during his early twenties had soured him on the whole marriage business. It wouldn’t matter if he were a miserable miser with a hump and one eye, as long as he was the Duke of Woodborough and had money, women would seek him out to be his wife. Since his father’s death, his obligation to marry had been brought to light with more urgency, and he had steeled himself to participate in the coming Season. And once again, he found himself the object of acquisitiveness in women. The last straw had been that conniving Madeline Maxwell and her mother. The entire situation left him with a sordid feeling. Imagine the gall of that girl in demanding that he propose so that
