The Wallflower Duchess. Liz Tyner
Читать онлайн книгу.
claiming it to be true, people had assumed Edge would marry the younger Hightower sister. It had suited Edge’s purpose to let people believe the tale. It deflected false hope in mothers angling their daughters to catch his eye and kept him from having to dodge flirtations. Besides, he’d always known he would some day marry Lily. He’d decided it and the idea had flickered through his thoughts on occasion, seeming more perfect each time, and he’d just known Lily felt the same way. How could she not? True, he always danced with her sister first, then Lily last so he could linger with her without Abigail fluttering around waiting for her dance.
And they’d not said much, but he’d not thought there was a need. They’d stood by each other, companionably, watching the others. If that did not signal a deep interest then he did not know what could have. He’d stayed late at a noisy soirée with music and chatter drowning out all words so he could spend a few moments at her side. Never had he done that with another woman.
‘Stop looking so grim.’ She mocked his face, a forced snarl to her lips. ‘It hasn’t hurt my sister to be considered as your potential bride. Quite the opposite. She received the best education and the envy of so many people.’
He shrugged internally, realising he didn’t quite understand women as well as he’d thought. ‘So, on the day you mentioned that your father would be so happy to have a duke in the family...’ Well, he’d misinterpreted that statement. Her sister had been the last person on his mind as he’d waltzed with Lily that night.
He knew without question she’d always been pleased to have a private word with him. And when she’d spoken about how well Abigail was growing up, he’d noted it as a statement of how well Lily had taken care of her sister and how Lily would be a good mother...to his children. He’d not imagined her as assuming he had any interest in Abigail. Abigail?
‘Edge.’ This time her lips pressed firmly before speaking and he knew she didn’t jest. ‘I know you’re an honourable man and, since you’ve said nothing, I started to worry we’d misunderstood. No one will court her because they think you have her planned for a bride. Father has frowned upon any other suitors. She’s going to end up a spinster if she waits almost for ever for you and then after she’s rejected everyone else you look in a different direction.’
‘I have never once indicated any intention to marry Abigail.’ He’d treated her with extra notice because he did plan for her to be family. His wife’s sister.
‘Well, Father has so much money I suppose we could purchase a husband for her later on.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘I do feel you should have told me, though.’
‘I thought I indicated my intentions to you.’
‘That you intended to marry Abigail.’ Her words accused. ‘Yes. And she’s said she’s tired of waiting on you and she’s determined to wed before the year is out. It is on her list.’
‘Her list, or your list?’
‘It is on her list, above finishing the embroidery sampler. That sampler will never make it to the wall. However, Abigail will make it to the church... And it is on my list, too. Finding my sister a suitable match.’
‘I will attend the soirée, but—’ The same feeling of the ground crumbling beneath him he’d had when he’d fallen into the water overtook him. His breath shortened. What if Lily didn’t—wouldn’t marry him?
She walked closer, a form he could not decipher behind the dark clothing, and reached out, again stopping just before touching his arm. ‘Thank you for letting me know,’ she said. Her voice quavered.
‘Lily—’
She smoothed the edge of the veil and the view of black covering her eyes shot into his body, the same as another brush with death. Darkness choked him at the thought of her not being in his life.
Lily moved away, walking towards the door. The air stirred and a light floral scent swirled around him.
The whiff of the perfume jarred him to his boots. He couldn’t have spoken even if he could have thought of something to say.
He kept from moving forward. He’d thought himself delirious after he’d been burned and when he recovered he’d shoved the memory aside, not wanting to accept that his mind had been so addled.
But it hadn’t been an angel sitting at his bedside. He knew the second the trace of flowers touched his nose that Lily had been in his sickroom, comforting his mother.
He slightly remembered his mother leaning over his form in bed and wishing him a happy birthday and dripping a tear on his face and then smudging it off and bursting into loud sobs and running from the room.
Foxworthy had spoken from somewhere in the chamber and said that there wasn’t anything to worry about because Edge’s brother had three sons to pass the title to.
Anger had blasted over his last embers of life, giving him strength to move his hand. He was going to do one last thing and then die.
He’d tried to curl the fingers down, except for the middle one, but he didn’t think he’d made it before an angel had taken his hand, pressing, covering his fist. A feminine touch held his fingers. The skin was cool—refreshing after the heat that smothered him. An angel to ease his pain and take him from life.
He’d squeezed the fingers twice.
The angel had grabbed him and jostled him, sending aches throughout his body. But then she’d hugged him, pressing closer. A wisp of her hair had tickled his nose and the flowery soap she used had masked the sickroom scent. Her touch worked better than laudanum and the pain had abated. He’d breathed in, trying to keep the scent of her locked inside him and the feel of her cheek imprinted on his.
‘Hurry and get better,’ she’d whispered, her lips at his ear.
The touch made his blood flow and his heart beat, but when her hands left him, he’d been unable to move to follow her.
He’d wanted her to stay. Ached for her to stay, but it was a different kind of pain than the jagged throbs that had sliced him.
She’d told him to get better and he’d done it. For her. For the angel. For Lily. And he’d be damned if he didn’t ask her to marry him.
‘Gaunt.’ Edgeworth stepped from the window when his valet entered. ‘Are my things prepared?’
‘Your Grace?’ Gaunt tilted his head forward in question.
‘For my neighbour’s little...’ he waved his hand in a circular motion and sat at his dressing mirror, pleased that his face had regained the look of health ‘...soirée. Surely you have my clothes ready.’ Keeping his eyes on the mirror, Edge asked. ‘You do have my clothing ready. You have not forgotten?’
‘Um, yes, Your Grace. Of course.’ Gaunt stepped away, feet brisk.
Edgeworth didn’t move. In one brief moment, he’d seen Gaunt’s eyes reflected in the mirror. Even as he answered with the usual unruffled respect, the valet’s eyes had briefly looked heavenward. Exasperated.
Edgeworth stared at the looking glass. Gaunt had been Edgeworth’s only valet—ever. And the servant never forgot a—Edgeworth thought back. He’d not told Gaunt of the soirée. No. He had no memory of mentioning it. He’d been busy catching up with all the duties that had fallen by the wayside while he recovered and he’d been planning his proposal. But it didn’t matter. Gaunt was always prepared.
When Gaunt returned, he had the same stoic expression as always—except for the few moments before when he’d not known himself observed. Now Gaunt whipped things about just as if he’d been told earlier of their need. Warm water appeared. Clothes were readied. Shaving was quickly accomplished, with the little splash of the scent which Gaunt said was nasturtiums and Edgeworth suspected was merely an ordinary shaving soap put in an expensive