Page 24 of Wedded to the Ruthless Duke

“Do you think me so disgusting an example of a woman, Mama? Am I not worthy to be your daughter?” Something inside her snapped. She’d had enough of being talked down to all morning, of being reprimanded like a child.

“Enough.” Althea scarcely took notice of her spirit. She merely raised a hand and tried to bat it away as if it was a troublesome bumble bee. “I must have heard him wrong.”

“You did not, Aunt,” Tabitha said, her voice tremulous. “He called Grace his wife.” She reached for Grace and clasped her hand tight. “Are you well? Are you sure of this?”

“Sure!?” Grace spluttered. “He has not even asked me to marry him! He has just declared it as if it is a forgone conclusion.”

“Aunt? What do you make of this?” Tabitha still clutched to Grace’s hand comfortingly as she looked at Althea for her thoughts, but Althea had been struck to silence now. She sat there like a statue in her armchair, immovable.

“I… I need to think about this.” Grace detached her hand from Tabitha’s. “If you would excuse me.”

“What?” Althea was shaken to life. “No.” She stood, fumbling her way across the room as she reached out to Grace. “You shall stay here. We shall talk about this —”

“Talk about what? It sounds to me as if the Duke and my father are the ones doing all the talking.” Grace darted to the side, narrowly avoiding her mother’s clasping hands. “Are all women’s destinies determined by their fathers, I wonder?”

“Do not be so belittling,” Althea said, following her around the room. “Grace, men’s decisions in this moment could be the very thing from stopping you being discarded in the street like a common harlot.”

“Aunt!” Tabitha wailed, tears springing to her eyes.

Grace passed her cousin, briefly clutching her shoulder in comfort. Tabitha felt things keenly, especially the hurtful things that Althea could toss into the air as if they didn’t matter at all. Grace had to release Tabitha fast though, for Althea was following her again.

“Father would never let me be chucked out on the street, even if you wished for it, Mama.”

“Grace,” Althea boomed again, marching toward her. “If you are going to be a duchess, then there is much to discuss. Much to plan.”

“Aren’t we jumping ahead a bit?” Grace exclaimed loudly, turning her head back and forth as she looked for another way out of the room. “We don’t know if Father will give his blessing yet.”

“He will give his blessing. He’s a sensible man. He knows your only route to safety now is marriage. Now, Grace, come here.” Althea managed to take hold of her wrist. “Duchesses do not scarper like rats when their mothers wish to speak to them.”

Grace saw her way out of the room and away from her mother. The window behind her which led out onto the garden had been opened to allow in a breath of wind. She tugged her wrist out of her mother’s hand and dove toward it.

“Grace?” Althea wobbled on her feet, so startled by the sudden movement that she nearly fell over.

Grace reached for the window and thrust it upward. By the time Althea realized what she was doing, Grace had one foot out of the window.

“Duchesses do not clamber out of windows either!” Althea’s voice reached new octaves.

“I’m no duchess yet,” Grace argued then dropped down the other side of the window to the panicked cries echoing around her ears from her mother. Grace’s feet landed in the garden lawn before she took off at a sprint, darting back around to the back door of the house.

* * *

“Lord Garton? Oh.” Philip closed the door behind him, but he did not take another step further into the room, for the sight which greeted him was a great shock.

The scent of sickness hung in the air, mingled with bouquets of rosemary and chamomile. These bundles of herbs had been tied together with string and placed in various vases around the room. Clearly, the healer to this house believed strongly in the power of healing herbs.

The curtains were half closed, keeping the strong sunlight of the summer’s day from getting in. Just a shaft of yellow light fell into the room, and it basked the man who sat behind the desk in an eerie light.

The Marquess of Garton was but a shell of the man that Philip could remember seeing him in passing at balls. He sat with a loose shirt, not properly tucked into his breeches, and a waistcoat that wasn’t fully buttoned up. He was making an effort as Philip watched him, trying his best to tie the cravat at his throat though his hands clearly struggled with the task.

His pallor, pale and ashen as stormy clouds, was the thing that shocked Philip the most. With the sunken shadows beneath his eyes, the poor Marquess of Garton did not look long for this world.

“I know. I’m a shock to look at,” the Marquess murmured. “I’d rise to bow to you, to shake your hand, but I hope you will forgive me if I do not.” He grimaced, adjusting in his seat and trying to get comfortable.

“Of course.” Philip stepped toward him, trying not to gag on the strong scents of herbs and sickness in the room. He walked toward Lord Garton, a discomfort growing in his chest as he stared at the Marquess.

This poor man.

“I’ll admit, we did not expect to see you, Your Grace.” Lord Garton waved a hand at the chair on the opposite side of his desk. “My wife has not stopped yelling about that scandal sheet all morning.”

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