Page 11 of A Duchess Worth Ruining
“Even better!” Cordelia teased, clapping her hands in delight.
Evelyn tried to shorten the tale as much as possible while still providing her friends with all the details necessary for them to agree with her.
Hazel frowned, clearly the lone voice of reason. “I’m still not entirely certain this is the tragedy you seem to think it is, Evelyn. He is a duke and wealthy and… well, from what you’ve shared, striking. If one likes the brooding sort.”
“He is a walking threat, Hazel,” Evelyn pouted.
“He sent you flowers.”
“I don’t care if he sent me a throne carved of sapphires. He’s manipulative, controlling, arrogant?—”
“So are most titled men,” Cordelia pointed out brightly, unwrapping a biscuit.
Hazel tilted her head, hesitant. “Is this… is this about Lord Ashworth?”
Evelyn went still. That silence stretched like a wire.
When she finally spoke, her voice was low and hard. “The only way in which he matters is this: because of him, I know what a selfish man looks like. And what a selfish man is willing to do to get what he wants.”
Cordelia’s biscuit paused halfway to her mouth upon hearing those words. Hazel’s face softened, but her chin lifted with resolve.
“Well,” Cordelia said briskly after a moment, “in that case, we’ll help you. Obviously.”
“Of course, we will,” Hazel added, squeezing Evelyn’s hand.
“Now,” Cordelia said, eyes gleaming, “we need a plan. How does one frighten off a brooding, powerful, intimidating duke?”
“Poison?” Hazel offered half-heartedly.
“I was thinking of something with fewer potential gallows.”
“Bore him?” Evelyn suggested. “Talk endlessly about bonnet trims and the comparative merits of lawn and muslin.”
“Or become suddenly obsessed with beetles?” Cordelia mused. “Talk about nothing but insects. Preferably dead ones.”
“I could take up writing sentimental poetry about our imaginary future children,” Hazel suggested with a straight face.
“That might terrify me,” Cordelia laughed.
Evelyn’s lips twitched despite herself. “I could fake a wasting illness.”
“You are too healthy and ruddy. No one would believe it,” Cordelia declared.
“What if I take to weeping at the sight of him?” Evelyn mused.
“He might think you’re in love with him.”
They all shuddered.
Hazel leaned forward. “What about asking outrageous questions about his finances? Men hate that.”
“Oh yes,” Cordelia agreed. “Ask how many bedrooms he has and how many wives he’s buried in them.”
They erupted into laughter which was that sharp, bright, helpless laughter that bounced off the wallpaper and curled like smoke into the room’s corners. Evelyn wiped a tear from thecorner of her eye. For the first time in days, she felt like she could breathe. He might have been a duke. He might have been a storm in a tailored coat. But she was not alone.
“I suppose,” Evelyn mused with mock seriousness, “I could challenge him to a game of cards. Let him suffer the indignity of losing to me in front of a crowd.”
“Ooh,” Cordelia agreed with her eyes gleaming, “humiliation. Delightful. Make him cry over spilled dice and lost coin.”
