Page 36 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
“I’ll do my best to be a good wife.”
“May I kiss you?”
“If you like.” This time, she didn’t have to struggle to sound like her levelheaded self.
The hand she extended was quite steady. Alaric’s hand closed around hers. He drew her closer. His head lowered, and his lips touched hers.
It was like Evesham’s first kiss. Over in a second. Undemanding.
Except that while the contact was pleasant, she felt no thrill. No craving to take things further. She couldn’t imagine giving in to an open-mouthed voracious invasion like Evesham’s kiss last night. Although she suspected that once Alaric had her in his bed, he’d ask more of her than this passionless tribute.
Or perhaps like her, he wasn’t someone who sought passion as an essential part of life. Perhaps the consummation of their union would require only her cool cooperation.
She wouldnotregret that.
Juliet smiled at her future husband and told herself that she was content with how events turned out.
She intended to be a wonderful duchess, by heaven. Or die trying.
Chapter 11
Evesham didn’t manage a private word with Juliet during the final run-through for the gala. With everyone involved in the show, including neighbors and family and servants, creating bedlam onstage, there were too many people around.
The lack of ardor in her performance had her father scolding her. She’d reverted to the lifeless, unconvincing portrayal that she’d given at the start. Over the last few days as she’d grown more comfortable in Evesham’s company, she’d shown flashes of brilliance to rival her father’s talent. But not today. Today, she had all the animation of a cricket bat.
Evesham wasn’t much better. His mind wasn’t on playing Romeo. His mind was on what had happened when Granville joined Juliet in the garden.
Had the bastard proposed? If he had, had Juliet accepted? He couldn’t tell from her expression. She didn’t look rapturous, but then, she liked to be inscrutable.
The thought of her marrying Granville stoked the volcanic rage that had given him indigestion at lunch. The idea of a woman as exceptional as Juliet Frain throwing herself away on Alaric Dempster, however rich and distinguished he was, made Evesham feel sick.
He was also burningly aware that his time at Afton Park was running out. Once the gala was over, he had no excuse to stay. How ironic that he’d dreaded this visit, yet now he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving.
Hoping to catch Juliet alone, he came down to dinner early. But this once, she was tardy, appearing in the drawing room just before everyone went through to the dining room. He studied her as discreetly as he could, but be damned if he could discern any excitement.
Yet if she’d refused Granville, surely she’d be awkward in the pompous ass’s company. He saw no sign of that either.
Had Granville’s nerve failed at the crucial moment? Had he avoided asking the question?
Portia seemed as curious as he was. If Juliet was engaged, her sister didn’t know about it.
When they moved through to the dining room, the seating was exactly as it had been at lunch. He was next to Portia, facing Juliet and Granville on the other side. Portdown as ever occupied the head of the table. His host’s taste in virulent colors continued. Today’s coat was the unappealing shade of bread mold.
They’d settled into their places when everything went to hell.
Smith the butler brought in a bottle of champagne. No, no, no. It couldn’t be. This was wrong. The anger inside Evesham coagulated into a hot mass of refusal, even as the butler filled their glasses with golden bubbling wine.
Portdown stood, his face wreathed in smiles. Why not? His daughter had just secured her second proposal from a duke. Sod it all.
“Before we begin our meal tonight, I have a very happy announcement to make.” Portdown glanced at Granville and Juliet. “His Grace, the Duke of Granville, has requested the hand of my beloved daughter Juliet. I’m delighted to say that Juliet has accepted his proposal. We’ll have another wedding at Afton Park before the end of summer. I’d like to propose a toast to the happy couple. To Juliet and Granville.”
As if from a mile away, Evesham listened to Portia express her congratulations. It might be something wrong with his hearing, but she sounded rather flat.
“Congratulations,” he muttered, not meaning it, but in such a small group, his silence would be noted. The champagne tasted like wormwood on his tongue.
“Thank you,” Granville said, his smile missing Evesham. Of course it did. The oaf loathed him almost as much as Evesham loathed him back. “I’m the luckiest man in the world.”
He had that right, Evesham couldn’t help thinking.
