Page 23 of Must Love Dukes
She paused, rubbing at her paper. The curve of his ear wasn’t correct. “Not that it is any of your concern, Buxton—Your Grace. But it isn’t that I’m opposed to having a husband.”
“Hmm.”
“But I do not want a match purely for the sake of making one. Shouldn’t I have some say in the matter? Find common ground with a gentleman before I am given over and the rest of my life is dictated for me? I hope for a semblance of affection. Friendship. I don’t think that too much to ask. Do you, Your Grace?”
“I do not. My own parents, as it happens, adored each other, so much so that society found their excess of affection to be unfashionable. What duke should be chasing his duchess around the gardens for a kiss while the servants watched?”
Muriel’s fingers halted. “Seems entirely undignified. You’re jesting.”
“I am not. Mother would shriek and pretend Father some great beast as he caught her, so effusive in his regard, they once rolled down a hill and into a fountain. I may have been ten or so. My older sisters were horrified. That is perhaps when I decided.”
“Decided what, Your Grace?”
“That I also did not wish to wed simply out of necessity or because it was expected. I’m often reminded of my duty to title and family. Producing the requisite heir and all that.” Buxtonsent her one of his lazy, sensual grins. “But I wish to emulate my parents, much to the dismay of the young ladies throwing themselves at me.”
He really does resemble a cat lounging in the sun.
“No one inspires feeling in you, Your Grace?”
“Possibly. I’ll keep you informed.”
Lady Lavinia, no doubt, given how cozy the pair had looked in the drawing room before Muriel’s untimely interruption. They’d been together again this morning. Muriel felt a bit of envy for Lady Lavinia, followed by a triumphant sensation at setting their courtship back by a week.
“Don’t turn around, Miss Bell,” Buxton murmured after another quarter hour had passed. “We’ve attracted a great number of onlookers. I’m sure Savorton expected bowls to be the highlight of today.”
Muriel cautiously tilted her chin to peek over one shoulder. The game of bowls had moved…closer to the greenhouse. So had three young ladies engaged in a game of shuttlecock. Nora sat perched on a chair situated only a short distance from the greenhouse, neck craned as she sipped a lemonade, Father hovering nearby.
Lady Lavinia, bow in hand, an arrow dangling from the other, stalked back and forth, features tight, eyeing the greenhouse and Muriel with no small amount of fury.
“Goodness.” Muriel returned to Buxton. “Should I be concerned that Lady Lavinia has not yet relinquished her bow?”
“You might wish to stay out of range, as she rarely misses her mark. Also, Lavinia is rather good at bowls, which hurt quite a bit if aimed at one’s foot.” A sound left him. “She aspires to be a duchess, as do Lord and Lady Fabel on her behalf.”
Just as Muriel suspected. She had interrupted their courtship. “If your…assistance is interfering with your interestin Lady Lavinia, I apologize, Your Grace. I can speak to her, if you like, and explain?—”
“You are not.” Buxton’s lips lifted into a soft smile. “Her ambitions do not match my own, Miss Bell. Lavinia is akin to a beautiful, expensive vase which everyone covets. One that is admired and is certain to enhance my drawing room. But alas, I don’t care overmuch for vases.”
Muriel regarded him over her sketchpad. So, it was not Lady Lavinia who stirred Buxton. Difficult to believe since Lord Fabel’s daughter was perfect in every conceivable way. “Someone else then, in London,” she asked.
Buxton shrugged unwilling to disclose more. “Are we finished for today, Miss Bell? I’ve been sitting here for at least three hours, and I’ve a cramp in my leg. And I’ve promised Lavinia a walk through the gardens.” He came to his feet, the green of his eyes fixed on Muriel. “I am a man of my word, so I dare not disappoint.”
“Though you do not care for vases,” she said softly, that strange, wonderful sensation filling the air between them once more.
“Yes, but I can appreciate them all the same.” His chest rose as Buxton took a deep breath, smiling down at her. “Until tomorrow, Miss Bell.”
9
Muriel did not see Buxton that night at dinner.
Nor did he appear in the greenhouse the following day. After a handful of discreet inquiries, most of which took the remainder of the day, Muriel was informed Buxton had disappeared, along with Lord Savorton, to visit an old friend.
Odd, that Buxton hadn’t at least mentioned as much to her, though, she reminded herself, he was under no obligation to do so. The attachment between them wasn’t real. He has no reason to inform Muriel.
Lady Savorton gave little explanation for her husband’s sudden absence, only saying that Lord Savorton and Buxton would return in a day or two. Speculation arose among the other guests as to who the mysterious friend might be or why their host would desert a house party at his own home. But no one was brave enough to question Lady Savorton.
Todson didn’t hover about in Buxton’s absence, for which Muriel was grateful. He’d been watching with the others while she’d sketched, and that had compelled him to focus his attention elsewhere. Miss Marybeth Phipps now held his attention, yet another young lady, like Muriel, who was havinga mediocre Season and whose parents wanted her to wed. Miss Phipps didn’t seem to mind being pursued by an aging libertine.
On the second full day of Buxton’s absence, Muriel sketched out the tomatoes she meant to use for Buxton’s cheeks. She filched a radish from the Savorton kitchens so she could get the shape correct. Her vision of Buxton was still that of an oak, so his hair would resemble the leaves of a tree. That evening, Muriel retired early, asking for a tray to be sent to her room. The sketches were ready to be transferred to the canvas sitting in her room, one Buxton had begged from Lady Savorton, just as he’d said he would.
