Chapter 8

8

E verywhere Meg looked there were flowers.

Flowers on the mantel, flowers on the tables, flowers in the entry, flowers along the drive.

"Perhaps someone ought to tell that lovely Duke that flowers give you hay fever," her mother mused.

Meg sniffled. But it was as much from an effort to hold back tears as it was from the flowers.

Even her father's study was filled with the brightly colored bouquets. But they did nothing to cheer her as she faced her father's censure.

"You will visit with that gentleman the next time he comes to call," her father said.

His tone was one she knew well. She and Charlie called it the Earl voice .

He wasn't the Earl yet—her grandfather was still clinging to life, God bless him. But when her father used this tone, it meant he would not budge.

She swallowed hard, and when she made no attempt to protest, she saw her father's features soften ever so slightly. "This is a boon, child. You should be pleased."

Her mother's expression brightened at the change in his tone. "Oh yes. Just think of how many young ladies would be delighted to receive such attention from His Grace."

Meg had to take a moment to breathe deeply before she trusted herself to speak. When she did, she tried her best to sound as mature and reasonable as she was able…with a runny nose and teary eyes. "I understand that. And I am…grateful."

Oof. That word did not come out easily. But it seemed to appease her parents, so she continued in the same vein. "It is merely that I do not believe His Grace is bestowing this attention for the reason you might think. He's merely…"

She trailed off as she tried to find the right word.

But honestly, she was flummoxed. Was it guilt? Or was this some new game he was playing? Was he even now trying to make sport of her?

Doubt flickered in her belly and she found herself unwillingly picturing the look in his eyes when he'd held her, the way he'd only seemed to be aware of her. Not the crowds, not the ramifications, just…her.

For a moment there, she'd been fooled into thinking they were alone and that he'd been…

Kind.

She cleared her throat. "His Grace cannot truly favor me."

She hadn't expected her parents to argue, but their utter lack of protests for the sake of her pride still stung just a little.

"He's only doing this to…to…" Her hands flailed as if the answer might be hidden in the hothouse flowers on her father's desk.

"Of course he could have any young lady of his choosing," her mother said. "But at this particular moment he seems to feel beholden to you."

Beholden.

Meg's lower lip quivered before she mashed her lips together. He felt beholden.

How romantic.

"Child, it matters not why a powerful Duke has you in his sights." Her father's expression wasn't unkind. In fact, he looked almost regretful to have to spell this out for her. "Whether it is to win favor with me, or to save face after that debacle you got yourself into the other night…"

Meg winced. She wasn't sure her parents would ever forgive her for that. For years she'd excelled at being a disappointment to them, but a quiet one. A dutiful one.

She might not have been the daughter of their dreams, and she certainly wasn't the male heir they'd hoped for. But she'd managed to avoid scandal, at least.

Until recently.

"It matters not why His Grace has singled you out," he finished. "What matters is how you take advantage of this gift you've been offered."

Her eyes stung, and only partially from all these dratted flowers. Gift. Was that what this was?

Because it felt an awful lot like she was at the center of some cruel joke.

Maybe this was one of those dares Ann's sister Franny had told them about.

Maybe Carver had been dared to send her flowers and make it seem like he was going to court her, just like her friends had dared her to say yes to his offer of a dance.

She bit her tongue to keep from arguing any further because her father had been unusually kind just now, but his patience was clearly waning.

"Now," he said as he strode toward the door. "You've kept your honored guest waiting long enough, I should think." He paused at the door, holding it open for her. "You will visit with that young man and you will do everything in your power to ingratiate yourself and make him see that you are a respectable, dutiful young lady. Do you understand?"

Meg had no choice. "Yes, Father."

And that was how Meg found herself sitting across from the most handsome man she'd ever met…trying not to cry.

The silence was broken only by the sound of her mother's knitting needles as she steadily worked away in the corner. Far enough for some privacy if they kept their voices low.

But Meg didn't wish for privacy. Not with this man. Not ever.

As if to deny that statement, her heart did a little flip when his lips curved up in a small smile. "Miss Taylor?—"

"Please don't."

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and she just barely held back a sigh.

She took a deep breath. "If you are here to apologize?—"

"I'm not."

Now she was the one to stare in surprise.

"All right, I am," he conceded, and…blast it all if her heart didn't do a backflip when he gave her a rueful little smile. "But I would also like to explain."

She smoothed her skirts, simply because it gave her something to do. "Very well."

He leaned forward so suddenly she jerked back in surprise. "You said the other night that your options were limited."

Her brows drew down. "Did I?"

He lifted a shoulder. "In so many words. But you made it clear that you'd felt rather…dispirited about your lack of suitors?—"

"I beg your pardon." She kept her voice just as low as his, and spared a glance for her seemingly oblivious mother. "Did you come here to insult me?"

"No, I?—"

"Because this is a horribly inappropriate topic, and for you to use my own words against me?—"

"I know," he interjected swiftly. "It is not my intention to insult you. Er…again. On the contrary," he hurried on. "I find it intolerable that you felt that way to begin with, and I cannot abide the fact that I may have made your situation worse."

She was torn between laughter and tears at the ridiculousness of this moment. The most eligible, and so-called charming Duke in all of England, and he was…

Well, he was blundering through this speech in a way that was anything but charming.

"I want the world to know that I am in love with you," he said so loudly and so abruptly, Meg's mouth fell open and her mother's knitting needles clattered on the ground.

"Pardon?" Meg squeaked.

"As a ruse, that is," he said, pausing to clear his throat.

Her insides fell flat. "P-pardon?"

And then he launched into what must have been a rehearsed speech about how he was even now having his friends spread the word that she was the fairest and kindest and most lovely of them all, and?—

"What?!" She interrupted with a squawk, and for a moment they stared at each other in mutual surprise.

His expression grew frighteningly determined, his gaze grim. "I don't expect you to approve of me, or wish for my company, let alone my…er, my suit."

Meg blinked. Was this truly happening? Was the Duke of Carver talking to her about courtship?

"And so, of course, I won't be surprised when you reject me," he said. "But by that point, I fully expect that any man you have set your cap on will be happy to fill my spot."

Meg wasn't certain how to feel after this pronouncement, but she was sure this sinking disappointment was uncalled for.

He was attempting to make amends. That much she understood.

And it wasn't as though she'd ever thought he truly wished to court her. The visits and the flowers had all been to appease her father. She'd always known that.

Hadn't she?

Or had some silly far corners of her dratted imagination been quietly hoping for some other explanation? Something straight out of a fairytale?

She squashed the errant thought like a bug.

He watched her closely, and Meg chose her next words with care. "You have much confidence in your ability to sway the opinion of society."

He didn't try to deny it. To do so would be false humility. "I have confidence in the fact that you are beautiful, well-spoken, clever, and kind."

Her heart felt like it was being berated with each compliment. He was only being polite. His words were just that. Words. They didn't mean anything.

"You don't know that I'm clever," she finally muttered.

His lips twitched and his eyes glinted. "I know you've handled every encounter we've experienced together with far more grace and poise than I have."

Despite her best intentions, her lips twitched with amusement at the rueful laughter in his eyes when he added, "You cannot deny that."

"No," she murmured. "That would be difficult to deny."

His smile made her heart gallop. He leaned in closer. "Miss Taylor, you are a true beauty, with a kind heart, and a quick wit. Not to mention, your decorum and talents and?—"

"I do believe you have made your point," she interjected.

He dipped his head with a chuckle. "What do you say, Miss Taylor? Will you allow me to set things right?"

Her mother's needles clicked once more, but Meg had no doubt she was straining to hear every word.

Did she have any choice then?

Humiliation might be burning her skin and making her stomach churn, but if her mother and father knew she'd rejected a Duke's suit merely for the sake of her pride…

She swallowed down the sick sensation that made her feel more pitiful than ever, and forced a smile. "What exactly did you have in mind?"