Page 72 of His Grace, the Duke
“Just ask your question, Miss Harrow.”
They stopped at the edge of a sprawling flower bed, still bright with fall colors. Claret-colored dianthus mixed with purple asters, sprays of bright yellow goldenrods, and soft pink shrub roses. It was pretty as a painting.
Rosalie focused her attention back on her companion. “How are you? Since the ball... since the engagement?”
Olivia stiffened, both hands holding tight to her parasol. “It’s not made the papers yet, which is a small mercy, I suppose.”
“You don’t want to marry Mr. Burke.” It wasn’t a question.
“Of course, I don’t,” Olivia huffed. “Marry a man with no social standing, no name, no title or wealth? It is unconscionable.”
Rosalie held her breath, even as her heart thrummed nervously. She had to know. “That is your assessment of his social status... what of Mr. Burke the man? Is he wholly disagreeable to you?”
Olivia turned her gaze on Rosalie. “Do you mean to ask whether I find the penniless, bastard son of a disgraced steward to be otherwise charming and handsome enough to marry?” She laughed. It was an empty sound, full of bitterness.
“So, for you, status is all that matters,” Rosalie probed, feeling a flutter of relief. “You would marry a man of status,even if he had a cloven hoof. With big enough pockets, all personality failings can be ignored...”
Olivia gave her an incredulous look. “You think I get to select from a cornucopia of handsome lords with healthy estates and witty personalities? I’m sorry, Miss Harrow, but that cornucopia does not exist.”
“But what if—”
“It does not exist,” Olivia snapped. “Not for me anyway,” she added under her breath. “And why should you care? We are not friends. Why are you so curious about my plight?”
“Mr. Burke is my friend,” Rosalie replied. “Lord James is my benefactor. This is hurting them as much as you. And you and I... we have an understanding. I understand—”
“You understand nothing. How can you?”
“Don’t treat me like I’m simple,” Rosalie countered, not backing down. “I was there on the floor with you in that water closet. I held you as you cried—”
“Quiet, you fool,” Olivia hissed, glancing around with sharp eyes. “I’ll thank you not to speak of my business again. I can’t believe I was so unguarded,” she muttered. “I don’t even know you.”
“I will not betray your confidence. Olivia, I mean to help you—”
“No one can help me. Lack of marriage for a lady is a slow kind of death. I must—” She took a steadying breath, blinking back her tears. “I must marry, and there’s an end on it. I’ve run out of all my good chances.”
Rosalie was trying desperately not to let her own mistrust of matrimony cloud her judgment. Did Olivia truly believe there were no single men of quality worthy of marriage? Or was the lady revealing some deeper sentiment, perhaps a fear that she could never hope to win such a man?
The wind picked up a bit, whistling through the trees. Rosalie put a hand on her bonnet, holding it in place as she studied Olivia’s expression. “What if there was a way out? You don’t have to marry him, Olivia. I promise you, the duchess can be persuaded—”
“You have known the duchess for thirty days,” Olivia snapped. “I have known her for nigh on thirty years. She is as cold as she is ruthless. She’ll follow through with her threats if I don’t marry Mr. Burke-Corbin-whatever his name is now. Besides,” she added, “word is already spreading of the engagement. The papers will soon seal my fate. No, I must marry him, or I am ruined.”
Rosalie took the lady’s arm. “Please, Olivia—there is a way for you both to get what you want. If you will but trust me, I think I can see you clear of this.”
Olivia turned, her fair brows raised in curiosity. Quickly, the brows lowered. “Miss Harrow... what are you scheming in that pretty little head of yours?”
Before Rosalie could reply, a huge gust of wind swept over the flower beds. It knocked Rosalie’s bonnet back. Only the ribbons tied under her chin kept it from flying away. She scrambled to right it as Olivia screeched.
“My parasol!”
The wind had plucked the fancy lace parasol right from Olivia’s hand. The ladies watched as it was swept away on the breeze, tumbling across the grass. Olivia ran after it in a flash, her hands fisted in her skirts.
“Olivia,” Rosalie called. “Wait—”
“It was my grandmother’s,” Olivia cried.
“Be careful!” Rosalie’s bonnet flopped down her back again as she followed Olivia’s zig-zagging pattern through the grass.“Oh no,” she huffed, glancing up. “Olivia, the trees!” Olivia shrieked, reaching for the parasol with both hands, but another gust of wind tumbled it higher. Riding the wind, it flew up into the branches of an obliging chestnut tree.
“No!” Losing all sense of decorum, Olivia did a few little hops, snatching for the handle that hung just out of reach.
