Page 134 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Miss Illingworth, sometimes I thinkyoushould be teaching us, instead of your brother,” Ned exclaimed, clamping Camilla’s arm in a poor copy of his brother’s courtesy. “Mr. Illingworth, beg your pardon. I meant no offense.”
“Joseph knows all the tragedies and can recite every soliloquy fromHamletandMacbeth,” Amaranthe said. “Besides which he can endure the history plays, which drive me to despair.”
She cast a teasing look over her shoulder, meant for her brother, but her eyes landed on Grey, taking his place in the procession behind Ned. The smolder in his eyes made her lose her thought completely.
“We have discussed the issue at length, and this is the conclusion we have come to.” Hugh began his recital as they processed to the formal dining room, which had been laid for six. Amaranthe blinked at the dazzle of light on shimmering porcelain and polished silver. The sight of a dozen candles dancing in tall branched candelabras standing against the walls made her recall the figure she’d entered into the householdaccounts that day, an extravagance when a few candlesticks on the table would do just as well.
But that was the thrift of a tradeswoman dining at a nobleman’s table, she reminded herself. Her eyes sought Grey, taking his place at the head. Which was he, really? The sober would-be barrister whiling away his days in study, or the duke’s profligate bastard son?
“…and the only solution we can see…” Hugh paused for the culmination of his speech, and Amaranthe realized she hadn’t been listening to a word he’d rehearsed with such care.
“Marriage!” Ned exclaimed, rushing in over his brother’s weighty pause.
“Marriage,” Hugh confirmed.
“I beg your pardon,” Amaranthe said. “Who is getting married?”
“You and Grey, of course.” Hugh jerked his chin at his elder brother.
Grey stood woodenly behind his chair. His drawn-back hair showed the red tips of his ears. She rather liked seeing these chinks in his armor. But that was not to the point.
Blood roared in her own ears, drowning out her voice. “I beg your pardon, I don’t follow.”
“But it solves everything!” Camilla burst out. “If you marry Grey, he can make sure Sybil can’t steal from us again. And you can live here with us and give me lessons.” She beamed with delight.
What surfaced from Amaranthe’s riot of thoughts was that Camilla ought not to refer to her stepmother as Sybil. She stared at Joseph, who stood blinking, as caught by surprise as she was.
Grey’s expression turned thoughtful.
“You knew this was coming,” she accused him. No doubt he had planted the notion in their heads.
“It was their idea,” he answered. His hands lay calm on the back of his chair, but she thought she detected a slight tremor in them. “But it has, er, come to my attention recently that I require a wife.”
And he’d let the children broach the subject to test her reaction. Rather than approaching her himself on such an intimate matter.
“Butme!” This was the heart of her astonishment. She and Grey?—
The thought sent a thrill of excitement through her. No, alarm at the outrageousness of the suggestion.
“Well, you see.” Grey cleared his throat. He made a gesture toward the seat of his chair. She continued staring.
“It would improve my chances of being called to the bench to be married, as you witnessed.” His voice sounded far away over the rushing in her ears, and yet at the same time as close as if he spoke in her ear. A shiver moved down her back. “I do not, I’m afraid, have time to court a wife. Neither do I have any fair prospects.” He looked faintly abashed, studying his hands on the chair. “So I thought?—”
“Since I am available,” Amaranthe finished. “I see.”
He flung out his hand, and she realized that as she had not seated herself, none of the gentlemen could sit, either. She subsided into her chair, glad she need no longer depend on her wobbly legs.
She didn’t see at all. They barely knew each other. They’d spent a week under the same roof. That was hardly enough time to know anything about him, other than that he was tall and ridiculously well-formed, level-headed and for the most part responsible, intelligent and, as far as she could see, not given to overindulgence or vices. Long enough for her to ascertain that she liked his voice, and his style, and his scent, and in fact everything about him.
None of which was a basis for marriage.
You’ve a tendre for him. Admit it, you goose.
That was not to the point. “Marriage is a serious contract,” she said.
The words sounded wooden, not her own. She didn’t feel as if she were present in this very surprising moment, but watching a tableau unfold before her. “There are considerations to be made.”
“You’d be provided for, Anth.” Joseph reached for the nearest dish and lifted the cover. “Oh, Brussels sprouts! Just the way I like them. If you keep Mrs. Blackthorn, I’m moving in with you.”
