Page 2 of Must Love Dukes
“Goodness, Muriel,” Father sputtered. “Of course you do. Habersham would have done nicely. But those paintings you insist on creating….”
Oh, no.Not Habersham again.
“I did not care for Habersham, Father.” Muriel had declared her dislike for him on at least a half-dozen occasions. Sometimes loudly. But Nora and Father had turned a deaf ear to her complaints. “He’s…self-important. Preening, if you will.”
“Preening?” Nora scoffed. “Habersham is an earl from an old and prestigious family. Entirely suitable. A splendid match, if I’m being honest. You merely wished to be difficult. Going on about that mad Italian?—”
“Arcimboldo wasn’t mad. He was a genius.”
“Regardless…” Nora flicked her wrist. “I thought Habersham exhibited a great deal of patience, given the circumstances.”
Muriel tilted her chin to take in the world outside the window once more.
Habersham was tedious. Dull.Pompous. And those were his good qualities. He spent nearly every call paid upon Muriel reciting his achievements, of which there were few, and none were notable. Who cared that Habersham raced his curricle faster than Lord Bannister, for instance? Or that the sky blue of his new coat was the envy of every lord at his club? He droppedthe names of various persons in society with great aplomb, touting his connections and the fact that he danced divinely.
Muriel did not care for dancing and thus was unimpressed.
Habersham said nothingat allof substance. He didn’t read. Not even the newspaper. Politics bored him. As did anything of a scientific nature. He had little curiosity about the world, stating plainly that there was no reason whatsoever to leave England because there was nothing interesting beyond her shores. Muriel dreamt of traveling abroad, especially to Florence.
“You embarrassed Habersham,” Nora said. “Which was entirely unnecessary.”
“He embarrassed himself by bragging at every instance of his close connection to the Duchess of Corkwood. How was I to know Habersham had lied about their growing up together?”
“The polite thing to do would have been to ignore his mild exaggeration.”
“Mild exaggeration? He claimed as children that they spent every summer together picking berries and flying kites. I am hardly at fault for inquiring, after meeting the duchess at a musicale, if she’d enjoyed picking berries with Lord Habersham. How was I to know the duke was within hearing?” Or that His Grace would take offense and consider ‘picking berries’to mean ‘clandestine affair’.
“Corkwood nearly challenged Habersham to a duel,” Father declared. “Things could have ended badly. Which would have been entirely your fault. You spoke out of turn.”
Muriel threw up her hands. “Out of turn? Habersham shouldn’t have lied.”
“What about Lord Gates?” Nora said. “You barely spoke to him when he called upon you. He’s handsome. Athletic.”
“Smells overmuch of horse. He had hay stuck to his coat and mud on his boots.”
“Heridesin the park every day,” Nora said through gritted teeth. “It is not unusual he might carry the aroma of leather and horse. Riding along Rotten Row is a gentlemanly pursuit.”
Muriel wondered why bathing was not.
“You see, my lord…” There was a self-satisfied lilt to Nora’s words as she turned back towards Father. “Muriel needs our assistance.”
“Dora wasn’t nearly as difficult,” Father said. “She never gave us a moment’s trouble. Finding her a husband barely took any effort at all.”
“That is entirely unfair.” Muriel crossed her arms. “Dora always found Lord Morrow appealing, mooning over him at balls and the like. She wanted a husband.”
Lord Morrow was a lovely gentleman. A moderately wealthy viscount who shared her sister’s love of nature. The pair were deliriously happy tromping about Morrow’s estate in Hampshire, looking for various species of birds.
“As should you, Muriel,” Nora said with a sigh. “I knew what was best for Dora.” She touched the place above her heart. “In here. Just as I do for you.”
That sounded rather ominous. “Mother Nora?—”
Nora was saved from further explanation when the coach rocked abruptly as it entered the courtyard of a small inn set against a thick line of trees. The ground was littered with the remains of carriage wheels, horse’s hooves, and booted feet, not unusual since it had rained yesterday and this was the main road from London.
“Ah, I believe I’ll stretch my legs while the horses are changed,” Father said. “Lady Allred, would you care to join me?” He stepped out of the coach, holding his hand aloft to help Nora down. “Muriel?”
“I must see to my needs,” she answered, anxious over the conversation with Nora and Father. Grabbing the sketchbooktucked into the seat, she hopped out of the coach, determined to stroll about and perhaps find inspiration for her next portrait. Drawing helped calm Muriel’s nerves. Sort things out.
“Shall I go with you?” Nora offered turning to Father. “She shouldn’t go alone.”
