Page 62 of How Not to Marry a Duke

Nelson opened the double doors and Adeline stepped inside. And froze.

It was a ballroom unlike any other she’d ever seen, and her eyes widened at the sight. Shelves had been built against the walls, and machines, tools, and bits of machinery crammed every surface. The high-pressure steam engine had been moved from the country, but other pieces of machinery were also displayed in the sizeable room. Workbenches lined one wall and the surfaces were crammed with tools. On the opposite wall, rows of shelves held glass jars containing various chemicals. Some were colorless, others were blends of the color spectrum from yellow to green to blood red. Sunlight streamed through French doors, and the light reflected off the jars, creating a kaleidoscope of color on the hardwood floor. She recognized some of the other inventions—the electric magnet, the rifling of a gun barrel, his lawn-cutting machine. There were others, of which she had no idea as to their name or function.

Warwick turned away from a wall of shelves. Dressed in linen shirtsleeves, his coat and waistcoat discarded on a chair, his broad shoulders strained against the linen. “Thank you for coming, Adeline.” His green eyes intense, he grinned as he came forward to greet her.

Her stomach fluttered and her pulse leaped. Why did he have to be one of the most arrestingly handsome men she’d known? As he approached, she was conscious of his tall, athletic physique and the power that coiled within him. He exuded a confidence in his domain. She swallowed.

“You seem surprised. I told you I would visit.” She scanned the shelves. “You took over the entire ballroom.”

“It’s the largest room in my home and serves my needs. It otherwise would have been a wasted space.”

Her brows knotted. “It’s a ballroom. Its purpose is to accommodate dancing.”

“Which I do not do.”

“Has there never been a ball here?”

“Yes, this mansion belonged to my parents, and they had lavish parties, balls, and gatherings in this room with hundreds of guests. None of them were true friends. The mansion was not a warm place to grow up as a child. I’ve managed to make it my own.”

Her heart ached at his words. She pictured him as a neglected young boy while his aristocratic parents entertained Society. Had he hovered at the landing of the grand staircase, listening to the revelers, longing for the duke and duchess to visit and read him a bedtime story or tuck him in bed?

No! She shoved her concern aside. His past was not her concern. She shouldn’t care about his upbringing, whether it was full of love or devoid of it. She shouldn’t care.

But she did.

She envisioned a clever boy who’d loved learning and adored books. Rather than be praised for his intellect, he’d been chastised by his own father and mother for his interest in book learning over riding, hunting, and shooting. She couldn’t help but wonder: if he’d been loved and accepted, would he have turned out differently?

“Lady Heywood cared for you. She still does,” Adeline said.

“The lady is special.”

Her stomach twisted, a different feeling than the heightened attraction she’d experienced walking into the room. “Yes, she is. I feel guilty lying to her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it, his fingers holding back the golden brown strands before releasing them. A lock fell rakishly across his brow, and she had a strong urge to smooth it in place. To touch him.

“I’m sorry for that part of our agreement. I assure you that you will not be misleading my godmother for long. I understand perfectly well that I will have to pick a future duchess sooner rather than later.”

For some reason, his comment pricked her conscience more. She must greet Lady Heywood each morning with a smile, knowing she was lying to the woman. And Warwick’s admission that he would take a wife caused a different discomfort in her chest. An ache she wanted to rub away. What in God’s name is wrong with me?

Perhaps she was still upset over the ill-behaved ladies at the dressmaker’s, or even more likely, over the distressing exchange with her sister in the publisher’s office.

Warwick tilted his head and regarded her. His piercing green eyes seemed to penetrate her soul. “What’s amiss? I understand misleading my godmother is concerning, but I sense something else is wrong.”

Could he tell? Not for the first time she found his perception startling. She’d spent much of her life protecting herself from society, from those who didn’t understand her cultural roots and treated her differently—oftentimes rudely. And here was a man who could look past her barriers and pluck her thoughts from her head.

She paused to catch her breath, her misgivings increasing. Could sharing her concerns with him be beneficial? What would he say about the publisher?

“My sister Mary wrote a novel,” she blurted out.

Warwick arched a dark eyebrow. “That’s an achievement.”

Once she began, the words flowed easier. “She’s published short stories under a male pseudonym. For the first time, she went to see her publisher with a full-length novel she’d written. I accompanied her. The visit was not a good one.”

“Why?”

Adeline rubbed her temple as she envisioned the encounter. “Mary had corresponded with the publisher, Mr. Elder, for her short stories only as M.J. Price.”

“M.J. Price? I’ve read his…or her short stories. They are well-written and entertaining.”