The Duchess War (Brothers Sinister #1)(28)

But she shut her eyes and looked down again. Her breaths came a little louder; her fists clenched at her side. She shook her head. “Lucky you,” she said bitterly. “Lucky you that you can plan and think and plot without pretense. That you can want openly, that you don’t have to stuff it all inside yourself to molder. Lucky you that you can lift your eyes to the sky without singeing your wings. Lucky you that you can consider the future without terror.”

Her hands were beginning to shake.

“I have looked high.” Her voice was an urgent whisper. “And I have fallen farther than you can imagine. So don’t you lecture me. All I want is to pretend that this is enough—that I can be satisfied by the scraps that remain to me. ”

He had that sense again, of a great beast pacing in its cage. He wanted to touch her cheek, to turn her face up to his. He wanted to whisper that all would be well.

“Minnie,” he said instead.

She winced. “Don’t say my name like that. Please, Your Grace. If you have any care for me at all—pretend to flirt. But don’t actually do it.”

“Minnie,” he repeated instead. “Who would you be if you didn’t devote three-quarters of your attention to hiding what you could accomplish?”

She shook her head. “Don’t tell me to look up. Don’t ask me to want. If I do, I’ll never survive.” Her voice was shaking. He would have thought her on the verge of tears, by the sound of her. But her eyes were dry and clear and fixed on the pavement.

In that moment, he longed to take her in his arms and hold her close, to make her safe from whatever it was she feared. If she’d looked up at him again for even one second, he would have kissed her, and to hell with everyone around them.

She didn’t. Instead, she seemed to gather in that unnatural, graceful calm with every breath.

“Marybeth Peters is waiting for me by the pump,” she said, her voice smooth once more. “If I might withdraw, Your Grace?”

It wasn’t a question. He didn’t have a choice.

And so he watched her walk away, letting her return to pacing the confines of her cage.

Chapter Seven

When Minnie arrived home, her great-aunts met her at the door, all aflutter. The reason for their excitement quickly became apparent when they told her that Walter Gardley was waiting in the front room. Alone.

Gardley. At this, of all times!

Minnie set her hand over her abdomen. It felt as if a fire raged inside her, as if she’d gorged herself on all the things the duke had said.

You’re an intelligent, brilliant woman.

Look up.

I want you. God, I want you.

She couldn’t go to Gardley feeling this way. But she had little enough choice in the matter. If she sent him away, he’d only return. And if he didn’t…

She smoothed her skirt and went in to see him.

He stood as she entered the room. “There you are,” he said—precisely as if he had mislaid her, and only now discovered her amidst the dust balls under the divan.

She tried to tell herself that he wasn’t so bad. He was handsome enough, as these things went. He was only a few years older than she, and didn’t look as if he would lose his hair.

You’re the one that’s pretending, she could hear the duke whisper behind her back.

“Mr. Gardley,” she made herself say, with all the warmth she could muster. “How can I help you?”

He fixed her with a nonchalant look. “Well, Minnie,” he said. “My mother’s pushing me to settle things. I’ve done what’s pretty. I’ll call the banns this Sunday for a December wedding.”

He was so sure of her that he didn’t even wait for a response. He adjusted his coat and sat down again, before she could take a seat.

“Middle of the month, I think, would be best for us.”

Who would you be if you didn’t devote three-quarters of your attention to hiding what you could accomplish?

It was stupid to compare the ever-possible Walter Gardley to the unattainable Duke of Clermont. Still, Minnie couldn’t help doing it. Gardley paled in every way. There was that hint of a paunch just above his belt, the lazy way he’d thrown himself back in his chair without waiting for Minnie to sit down first. There was what he’d said about her. He thought her a quiet little mouse who would stay where she was put. Who wouldn’t complain about his mistresses.

And then there were the things he didn’t do.

He didn’t make her belly flutter. He didn’t make her catch her breath. He’d never even pretended to flirt with her.

That’s not just a sense of tactics. That sounds like actual tactical training.

It was her entire future at stake. She couldn’t afford to be irrational. Every woman in her position would have to put up with imperfections in a mate. A bit of a paunch, a few women on the side—these were not things to trouble herself over. He wanted her because he believed she would be pathetically grateful. And he wasn’t wrong. She was grateful. She was pathetic. Wasn’t she?

“No,” Minnie heard herself say.

Gardley shrugged. “After Christmas, then—I assume you want to spend the holidays with your great-aunts? I suppose I can allow that much.”

She had spoken aloud in answer to her own question—No, she wasn’t pathetic. But speaking those words aloud brought clarity to the endeavor. He wanted her because he believed she was pathetic. And if she married him, she would be.