Page 13 of How Not to Marry a Duke
“As I told you before, I doubt a pig can express affection.” He heard the surliness in his voice.
“As I told you before, you don’t have much experience with pigs. Henry is my pet. I allow him in my own home at times. He must have thought he was welcome to enter yours.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You may be a lady, but you need a lesson in manners.”
“Me! What about you? I do not care if you are a duke. You are truly ill-mannered.”
Her eyes were dazzling with fury. Rather than respond with anger, he found himself entranced. His heart thundered as his eyes raked boldly over her. There was no rationale behind these feelings. None at all. He cleared his throat. “If the former duke and duchess were alive, I believe they would agree with you.”
His parents had hired numerous tutors in Greek, Latin, mathematics, geography, and other subjects the young men of the aristocracy were expected to learn. His tutors had lasted only a few weeks, some even less, before departing—often fleeing—the ducal mansion. Warwick had swiftly mastered the subjects and grown bored and restless. His inability to focus had often been interpreted as a challenge to their authority and a lack of discipline. Those hired to teach him gentlemanly manners often became even more frustrated by his lack of interest.
Her expression softened momentarily, but then she let out a huff. “Do not change the subject. Why did you tell Edwin that you are courting me?”
He hadn’t a clue. But he needed to find an answer not just for the lady but for himself. True, his godmother’s letter had been rattling around his brain, but that wasn’t enough to blurt out their courtship to Edwin. It had been something more that had made him act, and—after more thought—he precisely knew the cause. The moment Edwin had grasped Adeline’s arm and her blue eyes had met his, a tightness had spread within his chest. He couldn’t leave her at Edwin’s mercy, couldn’t allow him to force her against her will. All rational thought had fled and had spurred him to act.
“You do not wish to marry the moneylender, Mr. Slade. My godmother, Lady Heywood, is pressuring me to marry.”
“So? Your godmother is right. You are a duke and must produce an heir and spare. And what does that have to do with me? I do not want to be your wife.”
“I understand my duty all too well. However, I wish to put off marriage for the Season to finish my work.”
Her delicate brows drew together, and she threw her hands up in exasperation. “What work? Dukes don’t work.”
He took offense. “Untrue. Other than the management of my estates, overseeing my staff and tenants, my seat in the House of Lords, and other ducal matters, I am an inventor. My current innovations are the sole reason I’m in the country. I seek temporary peace and quiet away from the hubbub of London.”
She eyed him warily. “What types of inventions?”
He shook his head. “They are of no importance to you.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “You don’t think a woman is intelligent enough to comprehend your work?”
“More that I don’t have time to explain my work.”
A flash of anger lit her gaze. The tension stretched even tighter between them. “Then let me see if my simple female mind can summarize your dilemma. You wish to avoid your matchmaking godmother and the bevy of debutantes who are no doubt after your title and wealth? A duke is the ultimate prize, after all.”
He didn’t miss the continued censure in her voice. He chose to ignore it. “Precisely. Which leads me to my offer. If we agree to a fake courtship, Society will believe I have every intention of proposing marriage and you have every intention of accepting. As you said, what woman wouldn’t want to catch a duke? It’s the perfect plan.”
“Oh, really? The perfect plan, you say?”
“Yes.”
“You are forgetting one glaring question.”
“Which is?”
“What happens at the end of the Season?”
That part felt easy enough to understand. “Mr. Slade is seeking to marry by the end of this Season, correct?”
“Apparently.”
“Then after the Season ends, we go our separate ways. You return to the country and your home here.” He tried not to flinch as he waved a hand around the disheveled parlor. “I shall finish my work, then return to my London residence. It’s a logical plan. What do you say?”
Adeline unfolded her arms and shot him an incredulous look. “Logical? I don’t think there is one smidge”—she held up a forefinger and thumb pressed tightly together—“of logic in your outrageous plan.”
He bristled at her choice of words. No one had ever had the nerve to challenge his decisions. “I’d hardly call it outrageous.”
She held up a hand and started to pace. Warwick imagined all the scenarios flitting through her pretty head. As she moved, his gaze roved over her face, and lower to the swell of her breasts above the foreign-looking garment. From the side, the curve of her breast was visible beneath the fine linen.
