Page 86 of Lady Daring
“Henry.” He cleared his throat, and she paused before the connecting door. “I think my father was in earnest, that he will settle something on you if you marry me.”
Her eyes grew stormy. “He came here expressly to forbid you to marry me!”
Darien laughed at her expression, though it made his shoulder hurt. “I suspect you won him over. He never could resist a strong, managing, housewifely sort of woman.”
“Housewifely! I am an activist and a reformer. I told him that.”
Darien nodded. “So was my mother. A firebrand and a scholar, involved in more charities than we could count. It made her an excellent wife and mother, and an even better marchioness.”
Henrietta shook her head with a littletsk.“I find it hard to believe that my paltry ten thousand would sway your father in my favor.”
“If he has tasted your butter,” Darien said, “he might offer for you himself.”
“Don’t be absurd.” She opened the door and went still as stone.
“And here she is,” Clarinda said. “Duchess, may I present my daughter, Henrietta. Hetty, dear, I believe you’ve met the Duchess of Highcastle? Lord Langford and I were so cozy, I hope you don’t mind that I received her here.”
The duchess glared at Henrietta. She was magnificent and awful in an ornatepolonaiserobe, her powdered hair built into a towering edifice atop which perched a picture hat piled with feathers. Her features gathered into a mask of fury as Darien stepped to Henrietta’s side.
“You!” she said, the word an epithet. “You…defiler of women!”
“Careful, Medora,” said the marquess, settled into a Hepplewhite chair with a plate full of buttered bread. “He’s not the one who twirled her off to the Continent.”
“He might have married her,” the duchess spat. “Instead of throwing her over like a hothouse strumpet.”
“I am very sorry, madam,” Darien said, “but I do not think your daughter wished me for a husband.”
“The heir to Langford?” the duchess said. “We could have paid off Havering! We had to anyway.”
“My father has an heir,” Darien said, his eyes traveling across the room. “My brother Lucien.”
“We’ll not discuss it here,” the marquess warned.
The duchess regarded the bundle in Henrietta’s arms. “Freddy said it was here,” she said with great scorn. “I suppose you’re pleased, since you came banging on the door to get it. The front door, of all things. So the entire square might see a tradesman’s daughter on my stoop.”
“A knight’s daughter, Medora.” The marquess sipped his tea.
The duchess’s eagle eyes turned to Henrietta. “What is its name, then?”
“Celestina, Your Grace.”
The duchess snorted. “To remind us ever of our shame. How lovely.”
Darien slipped his good arm around Henrietta’s waist, lending her silent support. His Henry felt calm and warm and strong.
“The duke won’t own it,” the duchess warned.
“I do not require him to,” Darien said evenly. “I shall be the child’s guardian. Celeste surrendered her rights when she sent the child to Henrietta.”
Henrietta’s shoulders stiffened, and he squeezed her lightly. She must know they had to provide a united front, or the duchess would scent blood and pounce.
“She’ll be knocking up my door again, I don’t doubt, the next time she wants something,” the duchess said. Her eyes dipped to the infant, who stared unblinking at the feathers of her hat. The duchess looked away.
“I won’t ask a thing from you or the duke,” Henrietta promised. “Darien is having papers drawn up by his solicitors. She will be my daughter.”
There was no talking her out of it now, he saw. He’d been hoisted by his own petard.
“And what will you do with her?” the duchess snapped. “Bring her up to trade?”
