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Authors: Donna MacMeans
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her mother intervened. “The Duke is correct. Your attire is most unsuitable. Lady Liberty indeed.”
“She symbolizes escape from oppression,” she replied, defeat evident in her voice.
William glanced askance at his future mother-in-law, grateful that she would remain an ocean away once the wedding was completed. That was not at all the reason he objected to the costume, but this was not the time for such confrontations. Instead, he worked the three buttons of the jacket front so Miss Winthrop’s pert attributes would be covered. “Trust me in this,” he said quietly, for her ears alone. “I know what is best.”
She blanched. Even in the moonlight, he saw her eyes widen and the color drain from her face. He thought she might swoon and prepared to catch her should she fall. Bloody hell, if the woman was sick, she shouldn’t be out in the night air.
But she turned way from him and stood facing the sea. He thought this might be another ploy to escape, but she made no effort to run. Instead her spine stiffened and her perfect posture became more rigid. She raised her chin and all vestiges of emotion fled her face.
Belatedly he realized that by fastening the jacket he had effectively trapped her arms inside the overlarge covering, rendering her much like a deranged women at Bedlam. But even that did not stop her as she followed her parents into the ballroom, moving with a grace that would define a queen. Her father announced the news of her engagement with great charm. He himself smiled and waved to the well-wishing crowd, but his future bride merely nodded at the appropriate moments. Even in the oversized coat, she appeared detached, cold, and distant, as if she were above them all in status and breeding. He suddenly understood the impetus of that ridiculous nickname. Silly Americans, they simply did not recognize proper carriage and decorum when they saw it.
Satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment rippled through him. Even his father, had he lived to witness this occasion, would be proud. Miss Winthrop’s haughty public demeanor, her perfect posture and grace, and most important, her fat purse, meant he had found his perfect duchess.
Still, one niggling thought intruded. This cold and arrogant woman bore little resemblance to the passionate seductress he had lusted for just scant moments ago. Was that just a ploy to escape the arranged marriage? Which woman would show up for the marriage, or more important, the marriage bed?
“Congratulations, Your Grace.” Percival appeared by his side. “It appears fortuitous that we exchanged costumes.”
“Fortuitous, indeed,” he said, considering the ramifications of her ruse. He glanced at Percival. “I would prefer that we keep my intended’s attempts to forestall the engagement a private matter between us. Should word leak out, I will insist that it was a planned dalliance between two secret lovers.”
“Agreed,” Percival said with a wide smile. “Though one wonders why she would be inclined to avoid such an advantageous engagement?”
William wondered the same, though he didn’t offer a reply to Percival’s query. Perhaps there was another in her heart? Only a woman of some experience would be able to play that sweet seductress as well as she had, and her age would suggest she’d had ample opportunity to test her feminine wiles on others . . . and what of that sudden, unexpected bout of illness? He frowned, working the facts to their logical conclusion. Perhaps there was a reason that the mother was anxious to marry off her only daughter so quickly. Could his intended be ruined goods in need of a quick husband? Not that it would deter him from the wedding—the money involved was too significant to ignore. However, he had a right to know if Miss Winthrop already carried the seed of another inside her belly.
“You promised me an introduction to your intended,” Percival said, glancing at the sea of faces. “But she seems to have
“She symbolizes escape from oppression,” she replied, defeat evident in her voice.
William glanced askance at his future mother-in-law, grateful that she would remain an ocean away once the wedding was completed. That was not at all the reason he objected to the costume, but this was not the time for such confrontations. Instead, he worked the three buttons of the jacket front so Miss Winthrop’s pert attributes would be covered. “Trust me in this,” he said quietly, for her ears alone. “I know what is best.”
She blanched. Even in the moonlight, he saw her eyes widen and the color drain from her face. He thought she might swoon and prepared to catch her should she fall. Bloody hell, if the woman was sick, she shouldn’t be out in the night air.
But she turned way from him and stood facing the sea. He thought this might be another ploy to escape, but she made no effort to run. Instead her spine stiffened and her perfect posture became more rigid. She raised her chin and all vestiges of emotion fled her face.
Belatedly he realized that by fastening the jacket he had effectively trapped her arms inside the overlarge covering, rendering her much like a deranged women at Bedlam. But even that did not stop her as she followed her parents into the ballroom, moving with a grace that would define a queen. Her father announced the news of her engagement with great charm. He himself smiled and waved to the well-wishing crowd, but his future bride merely nodded at the appropriate moments. Even in the oversized coat, she appeared detached, cold, and distant, as if she were above them all in status and breeding. He suddenly understood the impetus of that ridiculous nickname. Silly Americans, they simply did not recognize proper carriage and decorum when they saw it.
Satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment rippled through him. Even his father, had he lived to witness this occasion, would be proud. Miss Winthrop’s haughty public demeanor, her perfect posture and grace, and most important, her fat purse, meant he had found his perfect duchess.
Still, one niggling thought intruded. This cold and arrogant woman bore little resemblance to the passionate seductress he had lusted for just scant moments ago. Was that just a ploy to escape the arranged marriage? Which woman would show up for the marriage, or more important, the marriage bed?
“Congratulations, Your Grace.” Percival appeared by his side. “It appears fortuitous that we exchanged costumes.”
“Fortuitous, indeed,” he said, considering the ramifications of her ruse. He glanced at Percival. “I would prefer that we keep my intended’s attempts to forestall the engagement a private matter between us. Should word leak out, I will insist that it was a planned dalliance between two secret lovers.”
“Agreed,” Percival said with a wide smile. “Though one wonders why she would be inclined to avoid such an advantageous engagement?”
William wondered the same, though he didn’t offer a reply to Percival’s query. Perhaps there was another in her heart? Only a woman of some experience would be able to play that sweet seductress as well as she had, and her age would suggest she’d had ample opportunity to test her feminine wiles on others . . . and what of that sudden, unexpected bout of illness? He frowned, working the facts to their logical conclusion. Perhaps there was a reason that the mother was anxious to marry off her only daughter so quickly. Could his intended be ruined goods in need of a quick husband? Not that it would deter him from the wedding—the money involved was too significant to ignore. However, he had a right to know if Miss Winthrop already carried the seed of another inside her belly.
“You promised me an introduction to your intended,” Percival said, glancing at the sea of faces. “But she seems to have
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