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Authors: Donna MacMeans
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voice sufficiently to extend to her mother. “Under the circumstances, I see no reason to call off the engagement.” His gaze shifted back to her. His appreciative stare warmed her in places unseen. “Indeed, I see every reason to hasten the wedding.”
“But that’s impossible,” Fran gasped, recognizing that he proposed hurrying the one thing she hoped to avoid. “It will take at least a year to arrange everything. There’s the matter of the invitations and my gown—”
“One month should be more than sufficient,” her mother said behind her.
“Maman!” Fran turned round on her.
“Did I neglect to mention that I ordered your wedding gown that last visit to Paris? The local modiste can make the final adjustments. We’ll have the wedding here. Invitations will be delivered within the week.” Alva looked steadily at the Duke. “One month.”
He nodded, then reached in his pocket before lifting Fran’s left hand. “I will forgo asking for your hand on bended knee. Such an unbecoming formality would serve no purpose with an arranged merger.” He slipped a ring onto her finger. “Shall we go and make the formal announcement to your friends? At least, to those that didn’t follow the promenade out here.”
She stared, still in shock over the outcome of her desperate plan to claim a future of her own choosing. The thin band felt alien and cold and less of a symbol of love than a symbol of how her future had suddenly narrowed. Gone were her dreams of a meaningful academic pursuit of languages and translation. Instead she was to be the wife of a stranger picked out by her parents and mired in the endless ennui of society’s expectation. This man, this duke, stood in her way, blocking the path of her planned pursuits. She studied his face, suddenly realizing why he had looked so familiar. She grimaced. “You’re the man who blocked the egress from the tobacco shop!”
His smile sent a shiver down her spine. “And you are the goddess in the window.”
SO THE LITTLE MINX HAD TRIED TO DERAIL THE ENGAGEMENT. William gripped her hand tighter so she couldn’t escape before the official engagement announcement was made. He pulled her toward the crowded ballroom. Not that he supposed even a public announcement would stop her if she was willing to sully her own reputation to avoid a wedding. He’d have to watch her like a hawk until the deed was done.
Perhaps news of his father’s disreputable debts had spanned the Atlantic before his arrival, spooking her desire to be linked forever with his name. Perhaps she doubted the integrity of someone who would marry for money. He glanced her way with empathy. He supposed he could forgive her that. Hadn’t he entertained similar Thoughts?
He imagined he could forgive her many things with both beauty and a sizeable dowry to match. Many men would. So then why was she still available? He frowned. Something was being hidden from him, he guessed. Something that the mother thought might reverse his decision.
They neared the ballroom and her steps faltered. He glanced at her face and saw a beautiful woman, albeit a terrified one. Terrified of what? Of him? She certainly wasn’t terrified when she almost seduced him into unpinning that costume of bed linens. If the others hadn’t intruded . . . his gaze dropped lower to the breast that had begged for his ministrations earlier. Although the enticing nub no longer pushed its defining shape through the fabric, he could respect her desire not to show others what he now considered his alone. He removed his dinner jacket and slipped it over her delicate shoulders.
She glanced at him, her brows lifted in question.
“I hardly think this . . . costume . . . is befitting a future duchess,” he explained, not sure how else to convey his concern with her father and familiars so close at hand.
“You find exception to my attire?” she challenged him. “You would question the way I dress?”
“Really, Francesca,”
“But that’s impossible,” Fran gasped, recognizing that he proposed hurrying the one thing she hoped to avoid. “It will take at least a year to arrange everything. There’s the matter of the invitations and my gown—”
“One month should be more than sufficient,” her mother said behind her.
“Maman!” Fran turned round on her.
“Did I neglect to mention that I ordered your wedding gown that last visit to Paris? The local modiste can make the final adjustments. We’ll have the wedding here. Invitations will be delivered within the week.” Alva looked steadily at the Duke. “One month.”
He nodded, then reached in his pocket before lifting Fran’s left hand. “I will forgo asking for your hand on bended knee. Such an unbecoming formality would serve no purpose with an arranged merger.” He slipped a ring onto her finger. “Shall we go and make the formal announcement to your friends? At least, to those that didn’t follow the promenade out here.”
She stared, still in shock over the outcome of her desperate plan to claim a future of her own choosing. The thin band felt alien and cold and less of a symbol of love than a symbol of how her future had suddenly narrowed. Gone were her dreams of a meaningful academic pursuit of languages and translation. Instead she was to be the wife of a stranger picked out by her parents and mired in the endless ennui of society’s expectation. This man, this duke, stood in her way, blocking the path of her planned pursuits. She studied his face, suddenly realizing why he had looked so familiar. She grimaced. “You’re the man who blocked the egress from the tobacco shop!”
His smile sent a shiver down her spine. “And you are the goddess in the window.”
SO THE LITTLE MINX HAD TRIED TO DERAIL THE ENGAGEMENT. William gripped her hand tighter so she couldn’t escape before the official engagement announcement was made. He pulled her toward the crowded ballroom. Not that he supposed even a public announcement would stop her if she was willing to sully her own reputation to avoid a wedding. He’d have to watch her like a hawk until the deed was done.
Perhaps news of his father’s disreputable debts had spanned the Atlantic before his arrival, spooking her desire to be linked forever with his name. Perhaps she doubted the integrity of someone who would marry for money. He glanced her way with empathy. He supposed he could forgive her that. Hadn’t he entertained similar Thoughts?
He imagined he could forgive her many things with both beauty and a sizeable dowry to match. Many men would. So then why was she still available? He frowned. Something was being hidden from him, he guessed. Something that the mother thought might reverse his decision.
They neared the ballroom and her steps faltered. He glanced at her face and saw a beautiful woman, albeit a terrified one. Terrified of what? Of him? She certainly wasn’t terrified when she almost seduced him into unpinning that costume of bed linens. If the others hadn’t intruded . . . his gaze dropped lower to the breast that had begged for his ministrations earlier. Although the enticing nub no longer pushed its defining shape through the fabric, he could respect her desire not to show others what he now considered his alone. He removed his dinner jacket and slipped it over her delicate shoulders.
She glanced at him, her brows lifted in question.
“I hardly think this . . . costume . . . is befitting a future duchess,” he explained, not sure how else to convey his concern with her father and familiars so close at hand.
“You find exception to my attire?” she challenged him. “You would question the way I dress?”
“Really, Francesca,”
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