Pride & Passion. Charlotte Featherstone
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way of a recommendation for marriage?”
Finally she forced herself to meet her father’s eye. “Is there anything other than commodities to recommend our union, Papa?”
Stonebrook flustered and gripped the head of his walking stick with his gloved hand. “Come now, it’s time you gave a serious thought to marriage, Lucy. I won’t live forever, you know, and I would like to meet my maker knowing you’ve been set up in a proper home.”
“With someone to love me? Someone who will give me solace when you are gone?” she asked quietly, which made her father grumble and shift his weight on the seat.
“With someone who will keep you safe and fed, and well in hand,” he growled.
Of course. Well in hand. Someone to control her, to make her live in the confines of polite society, just like her parents had done all her life—like her father continued to do. To Stonebrook Sussex was the ideal candidate for her husband. It didn’t matter that they had not a flicker of attraction, or affection for one another. Why, Lucy still recalled the night Sussex had informed her of the fact that once they were married, there would be no more séances or anything of the like. Then he had kissed her, and she had felt nothing but his firm lips pinched into a straight line as they mashed up against hers. It had not been the stuff of dreams. In fact, his grace had been stiff and rigid as he held her, leading Lucy to believe that he had felt the same thing she had—distaste.
“I’ll have Sussex and his sister to dinner, and you shall see, my dear. His grace will make you a fine husband.”
“And am I to have any say?” she asked.
“No,” her father answered, “after that debacle two weeks ago we cannot trust your judgment. You will marry Sussex just as I wish. And you’ll be happy. You’ll see, my dear. Ah, here we are,” her father said with a great air of relief. “I see the footman is already opening the gates. Good,” her father muttered as he pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flipped the lid open with his thumb.
“Father, we are not done with this conversation, and I am perfectly capable of walking up the drive,” she said, annoyed by the fact her father kept glancing at his watch.
“Nonsense. Won’t be but a minute and I’ll be on my way.”
“I am not a child,” she mumbled as she watched the rivers of drizzle snake down the carriage window. From the corner of her eye, she saw her father turn his head. He was watching her from beneath his bushy white brows, and the thick mutton chops he was so fond of twitched with aggravation. While watching her, his lips thinned, and she could almost hear his thoughts. Yes, you are, or you wouldn’t have gotten yourself into trouble a fortnight ago.
Trouble, Lucy mentally snorted, wasn’t the beginning of what she’d gotten herself into. She’d been impulsive and headstrong, and yes … childish.
“My dear, I worry for your health is all,” Stonebrook said as the horses pulled the carriage up the sloped drive of Black’s town house. “You’ve not been yourself for months now, and while I know you would wish to have your mama here for these sorts of discussions, surely you must know that Lady Black would listen and help you with anything that might be troubling you. If it is Sussex, then may I suggest you talk with your cousin about it? Isabella will affirm what I’ve always believed, that you and the duke will get on well.”
Lucy hid her grimace. Her father had no idea what had happened all those months ago with Thomas, and she prayed he never would. He would never understand, never credit the notion of love and unbridled passions. That he was fobbing her off onto Isabella was very typical of the sort of parent he had always been.
“Ah, look, there she is now, waiting for us.”
Sitting forward, she saw Isabella standing just inside the covered alcove of her new home. She was looking radiant, and carried the expression of a woman well-loved—and loved passionately. A bitter tang of envy resonated through Lucy’s soul. She wanted the very same thing. And she would have it.
“Uncle. Lucy,” Isabella called as the footman opened door. “Come in.”
“I daresay I cannot, Lady Black,” her father returned as he ushered Lucy through the door, and out into the chilly drizzle. “But Lady Lucy is more than eager to take up your generous offer.”
Seconds later, Lucy found herself ushered up the steps, and into the warm entrance hall. Billings, the butler, was taking her bonnet and cloak, and Isabella was tugging her along, into the private salon she used to entertain Elizabeth and herself.
“When was it arranged that you would child-mind me for the day?”
Isabella’s lovely eyes widened with feigned shock. “Oh, Lucy, how can you say that?”
“Very easily, you’ve been my companion—I daresay my governess—for the past two weeks. And no doubt my father’s coconspirator in arranging my marriage to the Duke of Sussex.”
Flopping down onto the settee, Isabella began toying with the thick fringe of tassels that decorated a pillow. “Your father wants only the very best for you, and after you … well, after you were poisoned he became consumed with worry. He knows something is wrong, Lucy.”
“I don’t know how. He’s never home, and when he is, he spends hardly any time engaged in conversation. He’s perpetually buried in his study.”
“Do not be cross with his lordship, Lucy, for he is not the only one who is worried about you. I am, as well.”
Isabella reached for her hand; her smile was kind and filled with sympathy and it made Lucy want to run away and hide. She didn’t want to be pitied. “Is there anything I might do for you, Lucy?”
“Well, you might start talking some sense into my father.”
“About?”
“His dimwitted idea to thrust me onto Sussex as his duchess.”
“Dimwitted? I think it brilliant.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you were the one that was being forced to marry him.”
Isabella glanced at her slyly. “The duke is very handsome, I dare say.”
Lucy glowered. “Handsome is only enticing when you are eighteen and a naive ninny.” Or twelve, and experiencing the pleasures of your first crush, and yes, absolute adoration if she must be honest with herself. She’d never forgotten Gabriel, and the sad, haunted look in his lovely gray eyes that were always a little too sunken from hunger.
“Lucy, handsome is an attribute appealing to any female, of any age.”
“I am afraid my requirements in a husband are rather more lengthy than just being handsome.”
“But you do agree he is handsome?”
“Among other things,” she muttered.
“Like?”
“Boring, staid, proper, passionless—”
Laughing Isabella held up her hand in defeat. “Lucy, you are unfair! How can you surmise the duke passionless? You aren’t even betrothed—well, not formally—ergo you cannot reasonably believe Sussex devoid of … well, the more amorous emotions.”
“Oh, and the lack of a formal betrothal stopped Black from acquainting you with his ‘amorous emotions’?”
“That’s different,” Issy sniffed. “And you know it.”
“No, Issy. That is touché.”
“We are not talking about myself and Black. We are talking about you.”
“Well, then, allow me to inform you of what I desire. I know that I want a man like Black, who looks at me with blistering heat, as your husband does you. I know I want a marriage based on love and trust, and a deep, abiding passion. Like yours. Would you so willingly deprive me of it, Issy, after tasting such bliss for yourself?”