The Wallflower Duchess. Liz Tyner
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The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’
‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.
‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.
‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.
He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.
‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.
She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.
‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.
He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.
She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.
He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.
‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’
‘To what particular one might you be referring?’
‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’
His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’
She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.
He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.
‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.
‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’
The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.
‘Soon?’ she asked.
‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.
‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’
‘None of us is.’
Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’
‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.
Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.
‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’
Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’
‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.
He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.
Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’
‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.
‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.
‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.
‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.
‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’
‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’
He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.
He’d thought.
Now Lily stood in front of him and she must have seen something on his face. She put her hand out, not touching him, but hovering above his sleeve. She smiled. ‘So you will be at our soirée next week and consider courting my sister?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ She stepped back, eyes widening before the lids lowered, her hand falling to her side. ‘No?’
Neither spoke.
‘Are you certain?’ The words came out carefully, hesitant. ‘You’re not going to marry Abigail?’ She examined him closer than Gaunt had when he’d been checking Edge to see if he had a pulse.
‘I can’t believe you ask that.’
She took in a breath and somehow managed to hold it. ‘Do you have any plans for marriage?’ Her voice rose, her arm moved out and she patted as if touching the top of small heads. ‘A family of your own. Little heirs. A little group all snuggled together at bedtime.’
‘I do not think of it quite the same as going to a litter of kittens and picking out the one with the healthiest yowl.’ Then he thought of Lily falling from the tree and hid his smile. ‘Although I’m not opposed to a healthy yowl.’
‘Agreed,’ she said. ‘But you have to admit my sister would make a good duchess.’
‘Your sister is a pleasant person. But I’ve never seen her as a duchess. Ever.’
Mouse-brown eyes stared up at him and a flutter in the area of