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Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

" I suppose we shall be brothers then, shan't we?" Lord Rodworth chuckled with what seemed like incredulity, brandy in hand, as the men gathered in Rodworth Place the next morning. "I rarely drink this early, but I suppose this is cause for celebration."

"What a lark." Percy laughed. "Here we were troubled about marrying off old Burgess, and he was pining for your wife's sister all along."

"I would appreciate not being called old, at least not within my hearing, thank you," said Frederick, lifting his own glass as the two others chuckled. It was perhaps unmanly to feel as giddy as he did, but he hardly cared. An involuntary grin spread over his face every time he thought of his recently engaged state, accompanied by a buoyant joy that lifted his spirits.

As engagements went, it was indeed unexpected. But it was a most welcome surprise.

All this time, his search for the perfect duchess had led him in complicated, worrying circles—when the answer to all his troubles had been beside him all along. He should have known from the moment at the drapers that only a lady who knew more places than the drawing room and ballroom would do for him.

The circumstances of their betrothal could have been better, of course. He'd hardly had time to talk to Rose before Lady Cordelia's interruption had prompted him to propose prematurely. He also barely had time to say two words to her afterwards before the curious onlookers, so eager to condemn Rose earlier in the evening, had suddenly decided they desperately needed to be in her good graces instead—so eager that their enthusiasm had ended up separating Rose and Frederick altogether for the rest of the event.

Having never contemplated offering marriage proposals before, Frederick had not had time to mull over what it would be like to be engaged. But he'd rather expected, subconsciously or otherwise, to at least get to spend some time with his newly betrothed after having just christened her thus.

As things stood, he felt as if everyone else was getting to revel in his impending marriage more than he himself was. Even his intended call at Nottingham House that morning had been thwarted by Percy arriving at his breakfast table, restless as a puppy to drag Frederick out to celebrate.

"I take it you would like to see the settlement papers, Rodworth?" Frederick tried to focus on the tasks at hand instead. Perhaps, once everything was settled, he would finally have Rose to himself once more.

"Eventually, yes," answered the master of Rodworth Place. "One cannot shirk such things just because a relative is marrying a friend. I trust you understand."

"Of course."

"The funds for the Nottingham sisters' dowry remain intact, to my knowledge, although the amounts might potentially be difficult to extract given how it is the income off those very funds that is supporting the three ladies at the moment."

"I understand completely. I do not need Rose's dowry. I am not marrying her for that."

Rodworth's lips twitched. "Should I congratulate you on a love match then?"

"I would think that was obvious. I would never have pursued her onto the terrace if I had not cared for her well-being."

Rodworth nodded. "You deal with honor—good."

"Is there nothing but papers and duties and honor with the two of you?" Percy groaned. "Surely, there are other things to concern yourselves with rather than what your solicitors suggest about your endless properties and assets. A wedding is a rather festive event."

"Well, I hardly need a trousseau," said Frederick.

"True," said Rodworth, "though my wife would probably have a word to say about that. I dare say she had me order three different morning coats for the wedding trip alone. I cannot imagine she would allow her sister to wed without at least demanding a dozen new outfits for her, and perhaps half a dozen more for you."

"Would that not take overlong to produce?"

"A few months, perhaps. In a hurry to get to the altar, Duke?"

"Rather," admitted Frederick, only realizing what he sounded like when the two other men snickered. "Well, not like that—or at least, not only so."

The idea of being married to Rose—in heart and name and body—was altogether too charming of a prospect to keep at bay for long. Frederick wished he could have the banns read this very instant.

"It is almost preposterous that the ton so readily believed you were looking for a mistress ." Percy shook his head, still chuckling over his cousin's eagerness to marry. "You are as strait-laced as they come—perhaps apart from Rodworth here."

"I take no issue with the description." The viscount sipped his drink. "But that does not explain to us why His Grace is in a hurry to be leg shackled. Pray, do not tell me the rumors about my sister's physical condition are true."

"Most certainly not!" Frederick could feel his temper flare just at the thought of the choice speculations in particular papers, papers that Frederick had found despite Mrs. Flambert's efforts to hide them from him this morning. "But I have never been shy about the fact that I do not like London. I came to establish my presence in Parliament, and I came for a duchess. Now that I have succeeded in both, I see no reason not to return to my preferred way of rustication."

"You could not have chosen a better Nottingham sister then."

"I would most certainly like to think so."

"I love my wife," said Lord Rodworth with so much candor that Frederick felt newly encouraged for the promise of future marital felicity. Whoever said true love matches did not exist in the higher echelons of society? "But I would be the first to admit that she is the sister who is least suited for the countryside. It does us good to remain in London."

"And it does the babe good too, I reckon. All the best doctors and such."

"Indeed." Rodworth leaned down to check his pocket watch. "And while we are discussing my very pregnant wife, I do believe it time for me to collect her from Nottingham House. I take it at least one of you would like to accompany me?"

Frederick didn't even bother hiding his blush in the midst of his eagerness to do just so.

"My daughter, a duchess—what a coup!" Mama exclaimed for what had to be the sixth time this morning. Violet and Brooke's laughter and comments did little good in cooling their mother's fervor, and Rose tried her best to hide her sigh as delicately as she could.

Three parts of her warred with each other. The first segment wished to let her mother be—for did she not deserve her triumph after the past months of suffering under the ill will of her peers? The fact that almost all of society turned from disdaining the displaced viscountess to begging her favors as the mother of an impending duchess was the most comical form of retribution, equally appalling and amusing to witness.

Another part of Rose wished to allow herself a chance to bask in her newfound reality. She had never longed for high connections or luxurious provisions—it was not the title but the man that appealed to her. Frederick, her dear Frederick, kind and scholarly and considerate—as pure a soul as was to be found amidst the beau monde —was himself the truest prize of this potential alliance. The thought of spending a lifetime with him warmed her heart even as the memories of his arms charged her senses. If she were willing to pretend, to allow herself to be convinced, that this outcome was as desirable to him as it was to her—her happiness would be complete.

But she could not.

The fabric of her apron twisted under her hands.

If she truly cared for the Duke of Burgess, and she did , then the third part of her—the part which reminded her with an aching consistency that he had only been forced into declaring them engaged—would have to be the part she heeded most. She couldn't entrap him, not after she'd seen him painstakingly protect his honor in the face of other such attempts. She couldn't be his true friend and allow for such a thing to befall him. She, who had tried so hard to help him navigate a Season free of compromise, could not be the hypocrite now just because the cards had fallen in her favor.

"And we shall have the wedding banquet here, of course—while we still reside in Nottingham House. It truly is impeccable timing!" Mama swooned into a chair in her cloud of happiness, leaving her daughters to shake their heads in her wake.

Rose smoothed out her apron and gathered her courage. "Perhaps we ought not to get so very far ahead of ourselves just yet. His Grace's proposal was offered under duress—under Aunt Cordelia's duress, mind you, which we all know to be a terrifying thing. One can hardly fault the man if he wishes to rescind it."

"Rescind it?" Mama's rounded eyes looked ready to pop out of their sockets. "My dear, pray, do not even suggest such a horrifying thing. Surely, His Grace's honor is better than that."

"We cannot hold him to such standards when it is our own relatives who have acted with such dishonor."

"Relatives we have long disavowed. Heather had her wisdom, after all."

"Heather was only the first to be betrayed amongst us." Rose sniffed, discovering within her a newfound understanding of her eldest sister's actions a lifetime ago. "Lady Cordelia dislikes being thwarted—and we have all played into her hands once more."

"You cannot be thinking of jilting the duke now, can you?" Brooke asked loudly, finesse the last thing on her mind, as usual. The girl was practically a bluestocking. "Unless you have your reasons? You dislike an arranged marriage—is it that?"

"It is hardly an arranged marriage."

"Is it the rumors then? We all know them to be false, of course—but it is entirely unfair that society condemn you for being his supposed mistress while elevating him for being willing to keep a woman."

"Brooke!" Mama scolded, clearly scandalized.

"I am no innocent, Mama," the youngest sister argued. Mama paled even further. "Well, at least not in what I know, though my actions remain above reproach, I assure you. I am thoroughly aware that men can be all sorts of brutes."

"It is not the rumors—though they are horrid." Rose sighed. For once, her family was running faster than her reason could rein in.

"What is it then, child?" Mama asked again in her bewildered tones. "Do you have any reason to believe the duke would not honor his promise?"

"On the contrary, I have every reason to believe that he would."

"Then I fail to see what is so uncertain about all of this."

Rose sighed. She loved her family dearly, with every fiber of her being—but the racket of their grand personalities often prevented them from truly noticing the nuances of her own quiet one. She never felt bothered about it before. But trying to explain herself and her need to take the higher road while a room full of other women tried to insist that there was entirely no need to even consider such a thing was getting rather inconvenient.

"I'm not quite sure how to put it into words," admitted Rose.

"I can help. I like words," said Brooke.

"Just say whatever is on your mind," said Mama.

"It is not anything the matter with the duke at all," said Rose.

"Of course not," said Mama.

"But whatever could be wrong with you? You need not defend him, you know," said Brooke.

Rose heaved another sigh.

And then Violet asked—after her long, uncharacteristic silence. "Is it his affections you fear? You think he might not love you?"

Rose met her sister's eye, surprised to find warm shades of sympathy and perceptiveness in Violet's usually flippant blue gaze. "Perhaps."

"You don't have to worry, you know." Violet grinned. She shifted herself upwards, at least as much as the chair allowed her and her vastly extended belly to. "I'm surprised I missed it earlier, but perhaps it's the babe's fault. It is constantly distracting me. But the duke—he smiles so much more around you."

"That is because he's my friend."

"And can you not love a friend? Can you not wish to marry someone whom you can esteem as a companion?"

Rose wished dearly to believe her sister—but could she afford to without earning herself even more heartbreak? "I do not know if he esteems me."

"Nonsense, of course he does."

"You cannot be certain."

"Then you can ask him."

"Ask him ?"

The knocker sounded. Old Mr. Yeats's faithful footsteps followed after it.

"If I'm not mistaken," said Violet, cheeky grin in place, "that would be my husband—and, more likely than not, your future husband with him."

"He is not my future husband."

"But he would like to be, I think."

"Again, Violet, how would you know?"

Violet shrugged, looking altogether nonchalant. "A married woman knows sometimes."

The butler announced the gentlemen before Rose could argue further.

Frederick struggled not to rush too indecorously into the famous pink drawing room of Nottingham House, distinct despite its worn appearance these days. His feelings, blinded before, had taken immediate full flight upon seeing the light—and now he spent every breathing moment looking forward to seeing Rose, to holding her and to sharing with her all his hopes and dreams for their future.

He greeted the room at large as patiently as he could. He even allowed Rodworth to rush to his wife first, watching with admirable long suffering as the two shared pecks on the cheek so sweet they might as well have been newly married. He gave deference to Lady Shallingsworth, who invited the gentlemen to sit with them. He bowed and thanked her and tried to draw himself towards Rose's side of the room with as much subtlety as he could.

Then he finally met her eye—eager to revel over their shared joy.

His face fell.

His future bride looked nothing close to sharing the ebullient emotions he felt welling within him. Instead, she appeared pained, and uncertain, and almost near tears.

Whatever was going on?

"Miss Nottingham," he reverted to a formal address before settling down beside her. She sat down slowly, as if nervous of what was to come.

Frederick's mind scrambled. She had accepted his proposal, had she not? And before that, she had burrowed into his arms as if she had always belonged there—an act that confirmed Frederick's private epiphany that she most certainly belonged in his life—as his friend, his ally, his duchess. It was true that he had never courted her properly before, despite their friendship. It was true that the inordinate amount of time they'd spent in each other's company this Season was mostly passed in crowded ballrooms or crowded events—devoid of the romantic touches of private promenades or courteous, gift-bearing calls.

But surely, he would be allowed to make up for all of that for the rest of their lives?

"Your Grace," Rose answered back, looking as pensive as she did at their arrival.

She said no more. She did not welcome him or acknowledge his presence. She did not express any sort of sentiment that she was happy about their state of betrothal.

Frederick was bewildered.

And in the next breath, Frederick panicked.

She had said that she did not aspire to be a duchess, had she not? She had made it clear over and over the past few months that she never expected him to court her. He had thought the notion a sign of her modesty, a trait he deeply admired. But what if it were an expression of her preference?

The drawing room was cool, with the large windows opened, no doubt for the pregnant viscountess's sake—but Frederick felt as stifled as if he were in the middle of a ballroom crush.

"Your Grace," said Lady Shallingsworth, no doubt realizing her guest was in distress, "I hope you had a restful morning?"

"I did," said Frederick on impulse, before realizing he had not. "That is to say, I—I rose early and wrote to consult my solicitor. I wished to ensure that the settlement papers were in order, and I?—"

The rest of the room and Rose traded knowing looks, confounding Frederick further.

Then Lady Rodworth, glamorous despite her condition, pushed herself to her feet with the dutiful assistance of her husband. Frederick rose quickly.

"I do believe it high time I return home," declared the lady. " Thank you, Mama, for the company. Brooke, would you be a dear and help me?"

"I believe I need to help Mama with—with the menu," answered Miss Brooke.

"The menu?" It was Lady Shallingsworth's turn to frown. Lady Rodworth volleyed an almost reprimanding look at her mother. "Oh, yes, the menu!" The dowager rushed to her feet. "I need to see to the menu. The soup—in particular."

"And the fish, and the mutton," added Miss Brooke.

"Right, right."

"So off we all must go, except poor Rose." The youngest Nottingham sister took command as if she were a maestro of an orchestra. "Well, not poor Rose, exactly, but just Rose, really. Your Grace, do excuse us. I pray you keep our sister company, if you would be ever so kind."

And in a whirlwind of skirts and whispers, Lord and Lady Rodworth, Lady Shallingsworth, and Miss Brooke all promptly paraded out the room—and shut the door tightly behind them.

Frederick stood, dumbfounded, in the center of the ocean of faded pink, not moving a muscle until he heard Rose sigh behind him.

"You must forgive my family," she said softly, at last sounding closer to her usual self. "I promise they mean well."

Given that her family had conveniently and efficiently, if a little inexplicably, left him in prime position to talk with the one person he wished most to talk to, Frederick had no reason to question the benevolence of their intentions.

"Shall you sit, sir?"

Hearing Rose address him so formally after believing them to be on the most intimate of terms stung, but there was clearly something amiss about the situation, and Frederick wished very much to get to the bottom of it.

"Thank you." He sank down beside her. She shifted slightly away, not quite enough to be snubbing him—and yet odd for a woman engaged to be his wife. He tried not to wince. "I hope you slept well last night?"

"I cannot lie and say I did." Rose's smile seemed rueful at best. "But I cannot imagine my distress being in any way equal to what yours must have been."

This time, Frederick was unable to avoid his frown. "I do not think I understand you. I—after the events of last night, I can only imagine any sort of distress belonging only to you."

"You do not need to be so kind, you know." She sniffed as if avoiding shedding tears. "I appreciate your gallant deliverance, but it is hardly necessary to sacrifice yourself to a lifetime with me just to protect my reputation from malicious rumors."

"The rumors were far beyond malicious! The heinous accusations—Rose, truly, you cannot imagine that I could have stepped aside?"

"There are other ways to squelch rumors." She tugged at her sleeves. Frederick desperately wished to be holding her hands instead. How perfectly her small fingers fit between his own! "My family is not expected to remain in London past this Season. People will forget once we move away."

"But is that what you want?"

"No one wishes to be spirited away under a cloud of scandal, of course. That is contrary to anything and everything a lady could want. But if it would allow us to clear your path to another match?—"

"Another match." Frederick's laugh felt bitter even to his own ears. "I've had difficulty enough finding one, mind you. I do not think I am of a mind to seek another quite so soon. "

"But it is not a match you wish for!" Rose shot to her feet, her voice clearly tearful now. "Frederick—Your Grace—I cannot claim to be your friend and yet allow myself to entrap you so shamelessly. I did not realize my words on the dance floor would be so badly misconstrued. I did not expect you to find me on the terrace. If I had known how the events would affect you?—"

"Is it truly so horrid to be married to me?" Frederick cried, rising along with her.

"What?"

They stood side by side, staring at each other with soul-searching eyes. Frederick stood considerably taller, with Rose barely to his chin, and yet he felt almost as vulnerable and fragile as a child. His mind catalogued the events of last night's ball. Had his desire to claim her hand clouded his ability to perceive if she wanted the match as much as he did?

"You said you did not aspire to be a duchess," said Frederick softly. He did not particularly like feeling so very exposed, but he rather disliked being guarded around her even more.

"I am not ambitious that way—no," she answered just as gently.

Frederick nodded. He steeled himself further and inched a minuscule step forward. "But if the situation were to present itself—where a duke happens to know you—and happens to like you—and happens , purely by coincidence, that is, to think it would be a great honor to marry you—" He watched with uneven confidence as Rose's breathing seemed to quicken along with his. "Would the idea truly be so horrid?"

A small, involuntary smile seemed to tug at the edges of her lips, sending a shot of relief through Frederick's stomach.

"I suppose that depends," she said.

He paused, teetering on the edge of hope, and opted for a lighter tone. "Depends on the estate, perhaps. Is that it? Or on the size of the marriage settlement? Perhaps the pin money can be doubled—if necessary."

Her smile brightened. Frederick took the chance to reach for her hands, his own smile growing when she let him tug her closer.

"I hardly think any of that matters," she whispered.

He ran his thumbs over the back of her palms. "And what does?"

She tilted her head to the side, pretty as a picture. Once married, he would do all sorts of delicious things to that porcelain neck. "Probably on whether said duke happens to want to marry the forgotten daughter of a late viscount, with no dowry, reputation, or any foreseeable accomplishments to her name."

"She sounds delightful. Would you happen to know one then?"

"I must admit your tastes border on the eccentric, Your Grace."

"Forgive me." He stepped close enough to trap their joint hands between their bodies. He leaned forward until his forehead pressed against hers. They inhaled as one. "But a duke must have his eccentricities."

She smiled, and he could not wait a minute more to press a kiss against her lips. Her mouth yielded gently under his, sweet and dear and brimming with the promise of a bright and tender future. He dropped her hands to draw her in by the waist. Her hands pressed against his chest, her touch as warm and inviting as the breath they shared between them.

He pulled back, just by the tiniest of fractions. "Will you have pity and marry me, Rose?"

"I do not think I have the heart to pity the most eligible bachelor of the Season."

"Do you not? And here I thought it was your compassion alone allowing you to help me all this time."

"Well, I suppose if you put it that way."

"I love you." Her eyes shot up at his admission. "I did not know it myself—not until last night—not until the murmurs around me pushed me towards a future that almost everyone thought I must have dreaded—and yet I found more desirable than anything else. I could not bear the slander against you—nor the tears of your anguish. I revel in your happiness and despise your sorrow. And if you would let me, Rose, please—allow me to love you. Allow me to strive to bring you only joy for the rest of our lives. I know you do not aspire to be a duchess—but I would like it very, very much if you would make an exception and agree to be mine."

He could only hope the tears she shed right now were tears of joy. Her lips trembled even as she smiled, her breath shaky. "Do you wish it then—truly, truly wish it?"

"More than anything in the world."

"Very well, since you put it that way—" Her face brightened. "I suppose I shall be more than happy to marry the man I love as well."

He could hardly wait to kiss her again after that.

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