Page 32 of The Truth About Love and Dukes

“Since we have been talking of family, Miss Deverill, there is something I would like to say about mine before we go in to dinner.”

“Yes?”

He paused, choosing his words with care. “I would ask,” he said at last, “that you forgive what you overheard just before you came in this evening. My sisters were gossiping about you, that is true, but they did not mean to be unkind.”

“No?” She considered for a moment, then she gave a nod. “In regard to your own sisters, I shall take you at your word.”

“You are a woman wholly outside their experience, you see, and they don’t know quite what to make of you. They are both very young, not yet twenty, and they have led a sheltered life. The latter fact is undoubtedly my fault, and I hope you will forgive them any thoughtlessness in their remarks, for it was borne of naiveté, not unkindness of heart.”

“And Lady David?” she asked. “What explanation is there for her behavior?”

“The fact that she is Lady David,” he said at once, and at once regretted it.

“I don’t understand.”

He cursed himself for his impulsive reply and wondered what it was about this woman that spurred him to frank remarks and licentious thoughts. He was usually much more circumspect nowadays. He had no time to ponder his own uncharacteristic behavior, however, for Miss Deverill was watching him, waiting for an explanation. “Carlotta,” he said with great reluctance, “married the brother of a duke, when marrying the duke was what she really wanted.”

She blinked, staring at him, looking so stunned that if Henry had ever possessed a shred of conceit about himself, it would have disintegrated in that moment. “She wanted to marry you?”

“Hard as that is to imagine, yes.”

The dryness of his reply was not lost on her. She bit her lip, looking contrite. “That didn’t come out right . . . I wasn’t trying to imply anything derogatory about your personal attractions . . . I mean . . . I would hardly criticize your sisters for that sort of thing and then do the same thing to you . . . I didn’t intend . . .” She stopped and took a deep breath amid this tangle of disjointed phrases. “Was she very much in love with you?”

“Love?” He gave a laugh, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. It was a sound so terribly cynical, they both grimaced. “Hardly,” he said.

His answer did not, however, deter her. “And you? Were you in love with her?”

“Carlotta?” He gave a shudder at the very idea. “God, no. But I learned long ago—” He broke off and glanced at the door, seeking some sort of diversion. “Where the devil is Boothby? It must surely be past eight o’clock by now.”

“What did you learn?” she persisted, demonstrating that she was not one to be easily distracted. Obligated to explain, he went on, “There are many women who would happily marry me, Miss Deverill, but I have always known that ambition, not love, is the usual reason why.”

If he hoped she would dispute that view with a tactfully murmured compliment about his personal attractions, she disappointed him, and her silence reminded him that this woman didn’t offer banal insincerities for the sake of politeness. That fact alone made her unlike nearly all the other people of his acquaintance.

“A cynical contention,” she said. “And yet, one you sound as if you regret.”

“I do regret it.” He smiled a little. “You seem surprised, Miss Deverill.”

“Well, yes. Should I not be?” She laughed a little, clearly confounded. “Given our previous conversations, it has always seemed obvious to me that romantic love doesn’t mean anything to you.”

It did once, he wanted to say. That’s why I married a poor girl of no significant family and ruined both our lives. It meant everything.

He felt suddenly, terribly vulnerable, almost as if he’d made his admission aloud, and he hastened into speech. “Do not misunderstand me. While I may regret the fact that most women of my acquaintance would willingly marry me without love, I do not condemn them for it. How can I? Duty requires me to make a suitable marriage, and love cannot be allowed to play any part in my choice of bride. ‘A duke,’” he added, quoting his father, ‘must marry a woman worthy of his position.’”

“And yet . . .” She paused, tilting her head, her eyes studying him with thoughtful speculation. “And yet, you must sometimes wish it were not so?”

He felt a jolt of alarm. “Not at all,” he denied at once. “I accept the fact that for me, love is—must be—a secondary consideration. Wishing it were otherwise would be a waste of time.”

“I see.”

He very much feared she did see, that those beautiful, discerning hazel eyes had just peeked beneath his smooth, carefully cultivated surface and seen him for what he was: a man who’d once wanted a girl so desperately, desired her so passionately, that he’d thrown away everything else in his world just to possess her, with catastrophic results. He feared he had revealed the essence of himself: a man whose controlled manner, disciplined life, and fastidious rules of conduct were far more than requirements of his position. They were the twines of a lifeline, one he clung to so that he might never again be swept away by his own appetites.

The silence seemed deafening, impelling him to break it. “So there you have it, Miss Deverill,” he said, forcing a light note into his voice. “The truth about love and dukes. Terribly unromantic, I grant you, but there it is.”

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

“And what is that?”

“You’ve said that among your kind of people, love is, at best, a secondary consideration to matrimony.”

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