Page 41 of The Wallflower Ruse

“On the contrary,” Restive said. “Lucinda is astonishing. Intelligent, well-educated—only fancy, she reads Latin and Greek!—and knowledgeable upon any and every subject. Fearless, forward-thinking, even, may I say it, brilliant! Thanks to me and my aunt, Lady Alice Turlow, many people now know how wonderful she is.” He sighed. “Such a pity.”

“A pity indeed. She has none of the qualities of a proper lady.”

“Oh, but she does. She’s beautiful, accomplished, exquisitely polite, is kind to even the most foolish of men—such as a poet who is infatuated with her, but don’t try to convince her to marry him. That would be a dreadful mistake.”

“Indeed I shall not, whoever he is, for you ruined her, and therefore she must marry you.”

He shook his head, adopting a mournful pose. “If only that were possible. I adore Lucinda, truly I do, but alas, she is far too good for me.”

Lady Belair huffed. “You won’t weasel your way out of it that way.”

“My dear ma’am, I never weasel. I merely consult my conscience, which would never permit me to marry such perfection. I am not a good man.”

“What does goodness have to say to anything? You are a peer!”

“A mere baron, hardly worth considering. She intends to marry the right man or no one, and reluctantly, I applaud her decision.”

“Such nonsense. There is no such thing as a right man.”

“You may be correct—there may be no man good enough for her—but I’m a crude, unkind, cold-hearted sort. She deserves better.” Which was the truth, and well he knew it.

He wiped his mouth, set his napkin down, and stood. “It’s kind of you to call on me, but I fear I must refuse your offer to give me your lovely daughter.”

She rose. “You shall marry her. I insist!”

“Insist all you like, madam, but even were I to agree—which I won’t—one insuperable obstacle stands in your way.”

“And what is that?”

“Lucinda doesn’t like me.” He heaved a dejected sigh.

She cast her eyes heavenward. “It’s only marriage. You need only get an heir or two on her, nothing else. What does liking have to do with it?”

“Everything,” he said. “Everything, alas.” He walked to the door, and the eavesdropping footman flung it open. “Show Lady Belair out.”

~ * ~

“That man!” Lucinda’s mother said as she stormed once again into Dorothea’s drawing room. “If he hadn’t ruined you, I would utterly refuse to allow you to wed him.”

“Good,” Lucinda said, “because he didn’t ruin me.” Coding the message was slow going, because she kept thinking about Restive. He had received her note—Dorothea’s footman had given it to his valet—but would he believe her?

It didn’t matter, she told herself, while knowing full well that it did. Which in itself was stupid of her, but that didn’t stop her from fretting.

Mother plumped herself onto the chair indicated by Dorothea. “He used the oldest, stupidest excuse in existence. He said you are too good for him.”

Lucinda didn’t know what to think of that.

Yes, she did. Mere flummery, nothing more.

“He sang your praises. Said how beautiful you are—which you are not, merely pretty—and how intelligent, but what use is intelligence to a woman, I ask you? And other such nonsense.”

What a strange strategy, Lucinda thought. She’d never heard of him avoiding marriage that way before. He was known for giving unkind rebukes to foolish maidens and their matchmaking mothers.

“What a weasel the man is!” Mother cried. “But if he thinks he’ll get away with this, he’d best think again.”

“He is not a weasel!” Lucinda said. “He’s a gentleman who doesn’t wish to marry, and why should he?”

“To get an heir, of course, so why not on you?” In a voice of loathing, she added, “As if marriage has anything to do with liking one’s spouse.”