Page 35 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
His offer to withdraw his offer felt like someone poured a bucket of cold water over her head. For pity’s sake, what was she doing? She’d always pictured herself as a duchess. She’d be brilliant in the role, as more than one person had told her.
The first time that they danced, she’d decided to accept Granville if he asked for her hand. So why was she hesitating?
He was everything that she’d always wanted. And it seemed that he wanted her in return. If she refused Granville, the only other unmarried duke in England under the age of sixty was Evesham, and he wasn’t husband material. She might have come to like him in the last few days, and he might make her blood sizzle. None of that blinded her to the truth that he was wild and unpredictable and far too ready to cause havoc.
Even if he wanted to marry her. When she’d lay good money that he didn’t.
With his life of debauchery supplying such a banquet of pleasure, why the devil would he settle for one woman? And despite his current uncharacteristic yen for a chaste lady of sober habits, he was used to more excitement than sedate Juliet Frain could provide.
No, if she wanted to be a duchess – and she did – she needed to accept Granville, who was all that she esteemed, and forget Evesham, who was entertaining but unreliable.
“Your talk of affection took me unawares,” she confessed in a low voice.
“You don’t seek love in a match?” He sounded displeased. “You’re still mourning Bolton?”
She shook her head. “We were friends. That seemed a good basis for a marriage.”
Granville looked relieved to hear that she wasn’t wearing the willow for her previous betrothed. She supposed that no man wanted a former suitor’s ghost haunting the marriage bed.
“I thought we were friends.”
“We are.” How was it that she was so awkward? She was universally praised for her polished manners. “But are you speaking of…love?”
He looked a little uncomfortable. Hardly surprising when they’d never discussed intimate matters before. “My ideal is a loving union. My late parents were fond of each other. I hope to find a similar closeness with my wife.”
She frowned, knowing she risked offending him, but this was a point that they had to clarify.
“I don’t love you, Granville. Alaric.” It felt odd using his Christian name. With reluctance, she shared the bleak truth that she’d recognized when she’d agreed to wed Bolton. “I’m not sure I’m capable of loving anyone.”
“You love your sisters and your father. You’ll love our children.”
Her hands tightened to bruising. “That’s not the love you’re talking about.”
“No, I’m talking about the bond between a man and a woman. While I appreciate your honesty, I still have grounds for optimism. We have so many other things on our side. I hope love will grow as we build our life together.”
She sucked in a breath. He didn’t love her. At least not yet. That pleased her. The prospect of starting a marriage on such an unequal footing had made her cringe. “So you’re talking about a union based on respect and hard work and mutual aims?”
“If you like. And the possibility of children. I’d dearly love a family. I know what care you gave to your sisters. I soon realized that your father’s attentions were focused elsewhere. You’ll make a wonderful mother, Juliet. I pray that we’ll find common cause in our offspring.”
“Of course.” She struggled to imagine sharing his bed. Whoever she married would claim the use of her body. She wasn’t squeamish about that.
Or she hadn’t been until now.
It was unsettling that when she pictured her children, they didn’t have blond hair. They had ruffled dark curls and dark eyes.
Not useful, Juliet.
Granville eyed her, as if she presented an unforeseen problem. She imagined that she did. Most girls would leap at the chance to wed such a paragon of breeding and character. “So, Juliet, will you be my wife?”
She tilted her chin and told herself to stop acting like a ninnyhammer. This was what she’d always planned, and Granville was the kind of man she’d always imagined marrying. She should be dancing with joy – if a sober creature like her would permit herself such frivolity.
She gave Granville the answer that she’d decided on the moment she met him in the Castellaines’ ballroom back in April. “I’d be honored to accept your proposal, Alaric.”
He smiled with such gladness that she felt guilty about her misgivings. He deserved a wholehearted commitment. She told herself that was what he’d get.
No more twilight kisses. No more succumbing to urges that threatened to sweep her out into dangerous oceans. She was a cautious, conservative woman, and she’d dedicate the rest of her life to paddling near the shore. The tempestuous seas of physical desire weren’t for her.
“My dear, you make me so happy. Thank you. I know what a treasure you are and that I’m unworthy of this privilege. I promise you’ll never regret accepting my proposal.”
