Page 12 of Must Love Dukes
Muriel swallowed, wishing to be anywhere but in Lady Savorton’s drawing room—not that the Savorton estate and especially the enormous drawing room wasn’t elegant, their host and hostess welcoming. But knowing that her only purpose at this gathering was to meet Todson put a damper on things.
Todson drew his fingers over the edge of his chin as if intently listening to Father while side-eyeing Muriel.
Ugh.
Nora had spent the entire remainder of the journey to the Savortons’ extolling Todson’s virtues—that he was attractive, well-regarded, and would provide a steadying influence. True, he had something of a reputation, but that was all in the past, she’d said lightly. After Muriel provided Todson an heir, she would be able to pursue her own interests. Lead a separate life. Why, Muriel might even be permitted to travel to Florence and pursue her art. Todson had inferred as much.
The freedom you desire, Muriel. As a countess, you may live as you see fit.
Sounded splendid, except that in order to gain her freedom, Muriel must wed and bed Todson.
Her stomach curdled.
Had Todson an ounce of the charm or a keen wit, marriage to him might not be so terrible. Were he…Buxton, for instance.
Muriel’s lips twisted at the thought of the arrogant man she’d met over meat pies. In all likelihood, she would never see Buxton again, and if even if they did cross paths in London, it was doubtful he’d remember her.
Todson laughed once more, the braying sound echoing in her ear.
Dear God.I cannot listen to that for the rest of his days.
“I understand you paint, Miss Bell.” Her unwanted suitor turned his attention back to her.
“I do, my lord. Portraits, mostly. I am a student of?—”
“Art.” Nora interrupted smoothly. “A way to pass the time, my lord. Every young lady should have a hobby, I think.” She nudged Muriel’s foot with her own. “She has a great many talents.”
“Does she?” Todson’s gaze roamed over her once more.
Muriel winced and tried not to make a face. Todson clearly believed himself to be quite charismatic, though she could have disabused him of that notion. She didn’t find him fascinatingor particularly droll. Nor did he have hair that reminded her of a sunset. But Todson and Buxton did share one commonality: hugely inflated opinions of themselves.
Yes, but in Buxton’s case it is justified.
“Do you have any hobbies, my lord?” Muriel inquired politely. She must find something—anything—to dissuade Todson from marriage, but she feared the only way to rid herself of the earl would be the presence of another, better suitor. Convincing her parents that such a gentleman existed would be difficult if not impossible unless she produced said gentleman. Their earlier laughter in the carriage informed her of such.
“Cards, mostly,” Lord Todson replied. “I also enjoy my club. The horse races.”
Wonderful. Unappealing and boring.
A great wave of self-pity filled Muriel. Here was her future unless something monumental happened to save her. Father and Nora weren’t intentionally cruel. They honestly believed that in wedding her to Todson, Muriel would eventually be allowed to have her dream. Study in Florence. Paint. Possibly sculpt. But that might well take years, in which Muriel would stay trapped, likely in the country writing out menus and sketching the servants.
Muriel took note of a handsome footman standing guard at the door.
I don’t care if I must seduce a member of Savorton’s staff, I’m not marrying Todson.
Emboldened by the thought, though she’d never seduced anyone in her life, Muriel looked about for any gentleman she might know, one friendly to her who might not be opposed to pretending great affection for her over the course of the week, long enough for Todson and her parents, to be sufficiently deterred. Finally, her gaze landed on Mr. Epcot, the son of Viscount Epcot. They’d met a few months ago while Muriel waspurchasing new paint brushes and bonded over a shared interest of the Renaissance, though Epcot was a sculptor, not a painter. He was nice enough—not to marry, of course, but kind. Muriel was reasonably sure she could induce him to?—
Her eyes caught on a flash of deep auburn near the refreshment table. Her breath hitched slightly in her chest.
Buxton?
No, it couldn’t be. That would be far too lucky.
Buxton had shown little interest when she’d mentioned her destination, except to say he deplored house parties. Nor had he mentioned knowing Savorton. But few men had hair that particular shade. None Muriel could think of, in fact. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.
She drew in a slow breath, mostly to calm her racing heart. Rescue was at hand.
Maybe.
