Page 15 of Mad Duke March

Emily was not convinced, but she was grateful for the attempt. “Thank you for helping me.”

“No need to thank me,” he answered with a smile as he rapped the roof of the carriage, prompting it to a start.

“Oh, yes, there is. I cannot fathom why you would do this for me when you have absolutely no incentive to do so.” She turned toward him and something in his expression made her add, “Unless, you do.”

The earl laughed hoarsely. “You are quite perceptive. And very clever. Not to mention agreeable, polite, and charming. And those are the reasons why I am helping you.”

“Because I am charming?” Emily raised her brow.

He chuckled again. “I made a few inquiries about you after the incident, and some more after that paper came out and plunged you into ruin. And I think you shall be a good fit as a wife to my friend.”

“You do?” Emily remembered the disheveled, drunken duke and wondered how she would be a good fit for him. “What have you learned that led you to this conclusion, may I ask?”

“Certainly. I learned that your father was a baronet, which means you are a part of the gentry and capable of running estates. I learned that you have three younger siblings and an ailing mother whom you’ve been looking after since your father’s death. I know that you basically took over your father’s land that your brother will inherit in ten-odd years because your guardian is rather useless. You’re a very determined young lady, firmly planted on your feet. And I think your influence would be beneficial to my friend. He has the power to save you from ruination, but perhaps you have the means to save him from his demons.”

An involuntary laugh left her lips. “I am not looking to save anyone, my lord. Except for my family, of course, and myself.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “Your family is very important to you, isn’t it?”

“They are everything,” she said emphatically.

“Well, your husband will be your family, too.” He shrugged. “At least, I hope you shall come to see it that way.”

“I am sorry, my lord. I do not mean to give you false hope. But I don’t believe in miracle rescues. And I don’t believe that a woman can save a man from his own vices. Especially if he is not willing to save himself. I cannot promise you that I shall expend my energy on that endeavor.” Perhaps she should have lied and told the earl that she would do her best, that she would try to save his friend so that he’d try even harder to push the duke to marry her. Except she couldn’t lie to the man who was trying to help her. She couldn’t lie, period. It was one of her major flaws.

“Be that as it may,” the earl said over the loud rattle of the carriage. “Some men need but a nudge. I hope you shall come to appreciate my friend Tyrone for more than his shortcomings. You’re more than your ruined reputation, Miss Fitzwilliam. And he is more than his scandalous one.”

Emily chewed her lower lip in thought before raising her face to the earl’s. “Couldn’t… you marry me instead?”

She’d been gathering the courage to ask him that from the moment she appeared on his doorstep. And she fully expected him to laugh in her face.

Instead, his face took on a pained expression. “I would have done it in a heartbeat,” he said, his eyes glinting with some unfathomable feeling. “Alas, I am already married.”

Tyrone had been waiting for Steeplechase races for as long as he could remember.

Horse riding had been his escape ever since he was a child. He loved racing. He was good at it, and he was praised for it. In fact, it was the only thing his father had ever approved of when it concerned him.

Not only was riding his favorite pastime, but as Steeplechase races were an Irish invention, they brought on pleasant memories of his homeland. And he didn’t have a lot of those.

Most reminders that place brought were rotten. And rot was exactly what he was willing to let the lands do in his absence. He wasn’t ever going back home. That just was not going to happen.

But he wasn’t going to miss these races. He—and by he, he meant his money—helped organize this event, after all. He even brought his prized mare, and he was going to race it himself.

He uncorked his flask and took a swig of whisky, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

“Are you certain you want to drink before the race?” came a familiar female voice.

Tyrone turned slowly and beheld Miss Emma… something. He didn’t remember her last name. He wasn’t certain he correctly remembered her first name either. The only thing he remembered was that she was an extremely desperate miss who’d begged him to marry her.

“I shall drink after, so what difference does it make?” He looked around, trying to figure out what this woman was doing here. How did she even get here? He’d thought he was rid of her.

“I think the difference is between finishing on top of the horse or being dragged across the finish line,” she said rather matter-of-factly.

Tyrone snorted. “What would you know about any of that?”

“I won’t pretend to know much about racing,” she said bitingly. “But I would imagine that falling off a horse would hurt more than being tumbled against the cobblestones by a duke.”

“I doubt you know anything about being tumbled,” he grumbled under his breath. “What are you doing here, Miss Desperate?”