Page 8 of How Not to Marry a Duke

“I see.” Only she didn’t. No halfway responsible businessman would make that mistake. Why had he traveled all this way? Edwin must know she didn’t have funds to aid him, and what did all of this have to do with her marrying—

“The moneylender, Mr. Stan Slade, seeks respectability and entrance into Society this season. Despite your mother’s lineage, you are the daughter of an earl. Your marriage to the moneylender assures he gets what he needs. Fortunately, he had seen you walking in the park and finds no objection to you. In exchange for your hand, he has graciously agreed to forgive the entire debt.”

She blinked. A sinking sensation settled in her stomach. For all the bad blood between them, she’d never believed he would treat her with so little regard. “You’re jesting. Tell me you are jesting.”

Edwin turned to fully face her. He was tall, a good foot taller than she, and he used it to his advantage as he towered over her. “I am the head of the family now, Adeline. Father is no longer here to coddle you. You will do as you are told.”

Her anger rose, and her fingers clenched at her sides. She refused to be cowed. This was her future and her happiness they were discussing. “No, I will not. Since your bad business decision caused the problem, it’s up to you to find a solution.”

His lips curved into a smug smile. “From the looks of your new home, you aren’t in a position to argue. The roof may fall down upon your head this winter.”

“Then I’d rather live in a barn. My answer is still no.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “You were always ungrateful. You will marry the man. It will be done before the end of the Season. Nothing else will satisfy Mr. Slade.”

Her temper flared, hot and vivid. He was supposed to protect her, to have some amount of responsibility for her happiness, not to bargain her off to a moneylender. “Get out.”

When he didn’t move, she picked up the vase of buttercups and tossed it at his head. Edwin ducked and it crashed against the wall, shattering into shards of porcelain and splotches of yellow flowers across the wood floor. Panting with rage, she pointed to the door and bellowed, “Out!”

…

Warwick settled behind his desk in his study and reached for the stack of correspondence that Nelson had delivered. He had come to the country to work on his inventions. Never one to neglect his ducal responsibilities, his ledgers were already balanced, he met regularly with his stewards, and he ensured the multitude of staff that oversaw his numerous estates were cared for.

His duty to produce an heir and spare was another matter entirely.

Warwick sorted through the letters, then froze. On the fifth one, he recognized the flowing script as belonging to his godmother, Lady Heywood.

With hesitation, he broke the seal and read.

Warwick,

Your desire to remain in the country during the Season is ill-timed. If you do not hurry and return to Town, all the good ones will be taken.

Lady H

Good riddance, he wanted to write back to his well-meaning godmother. Let them be taken. He felt the beginnings of a headache at his temples, an irritable throbbing. If he didn’t love his godmother, he’d rip the letter in half and toss it into the wastepaper basket.

But Lady Heywood had never abandoned him, even when those closest—those with a stronger responsibility—had cruelly neglected him. She’d been there when his mother had sent him away to Eton soon after his eighth birthday. His keen intelligence was apparent at an early age and, rather than encourage his inquisitiveness, the duke and duchess had never understood him, viewed him as odd, and had treated him coldly.

Lady Heywood had been his mother’s best friend when they’d attended the same finishing school for ladies. They had stayed friends and his mother had chosen Lady Heywood to be his godmother upon his birth. Things had changed between them, however, when Lady Heywood had disagreed about his upbringing.

It was his godmother who’d come to visit him during holidays and invited him to her residence over the summers. His godmother who’d never once forgotten his birthday, and his godmother who’d been proud when he’d received the highest marks at Eton and then at Oxford. And his godmother who’d stood by his side at the burial when he’d lost his parents years later in a carriage accident.

How could he deny her now?

Warwick scowled at the letter. He knew he’d eventually have to concede. He was a duke, after all, and the continuation of the title required an heir. To get an heir, he needed a wife.

But he sought one more Season of freedom. One more Season to focus on his work.

Was that too much to ask?

An image of a dark-haired virago flashed in his thoughts. Frustrated, he rubbed the back of his neck. He kept thinking of his neighbor when all he wanted to do was shove the memory deep in the recesses of his mind.

The headache shifted to the base of his skull. He covered the letter with a stack of other papers. If he didn’t see it, he wouldn’t have to address it.

Childish? Yes. Did he care? Not today.

A strange noise sounded outside. He lifted his head and squinted at the study’s open doorway. Other than Nelson and a limited staff, there was no one to disturb him here. So what was that sound?