Page 40 of The Last Duke She'd Marry
“That’s so cold-blooded,” Portia said in such a sad voice that Juliet couldn’t find it in herself to be annoyed.
She pulled her cotton nightdress over her head and bundled her hair into a ribbon. “I’m a cold-blooded person.”
Portia’s snort expressed her contempt for that remark. “Don’t be ridiculous, sis. Just because you don’t wear your heart on your sleeve doesn’t mean you’re lacking a heart altogether. You feel things deeply. You know you do. You couldn’t love Viola and me more than you do. You even love Papa, despite him driving you to distraction.”
Juliet sighed again, well aware that her manner ill-suited a girl who had just accepted a duke’s hand in marriage. She wrapped a silk peignoir around herself and tying the belt, stepped around the screen to see Portia sitting on the bed, looking unhappy.
Portia was a romantic. She always had been.
“Of course I love my family. I mean that I’m not a woman of strong physical passions.” She shoved away the unwelcome memory of kissing Evesham. She’d suffered a fit of lunacy. She certainly hadn’t been herself. A brief flash of insanity wasn’t enough to change the path of a lifetime. “No man has ever aroused powerful feelings. At my age, I doubt any man will.”
Portia looked puzzled. “I thought you loved Bolton.”
Juliet shook her head. “I liked him. I was sad when he died. But it wasn’t a grand passion.”
“Don’t you want to fall in love?”
“Not if it means a life of chaos and misery. Look at Viola and Toby. They hardly know each other, but a lack of control over their desires means that they’re now shackled together for life.”
“I’m hoping they might find their way,” Portia said.
“I’m hoping, too,” Juliet said, and heard the doubt in her voice.
Her shy, bookish sister and the roguish Earl of Renfrew had nothing in common. It was like pairing Juliet with the Duke of Evesham. A recipe for disaster.
“You deserve everything wonderful that the world has to offer,” her sister said in a somber tone. “You’re a remarkable person, and you have so much love to give.”
As sisters will, she and Portia spent a lot of time squabbling. Juliet’s role as a mother figure only complicated the relationship. Her sister’s sincere tribute touched her.
Portia went on. “I hate to think that you’re settling for Granville, just because people say you’ll be the perfect duchess and he’s the only marriageable duke left in England.”
“But I’m going to be the perfect duchess.” Juliet willed away tears. “Just you wait and see.”
Portia stood and hugged Juliet with a fervor that made her heart ache. “Of course you will. But remember you’re a woman, too.”
Juliet returned the hug with a hint of clumsiness. “I love you, Porsh.”
“And I love you, Juliet.” When Portia drew back, she wiped her eyes. “That stiff-necked blockhead Granville had better make you happy, or he’ll have me to deal with.”
Chapter 12
Evesham tossed away the butt of his cheroot and glowered into the gathering dark. He wasn’t a habitual smoker, but he occasionally indulged when he was troubled in mind. Tonight, he was more troubled than he could ever remember.
He didn’t much like it. Over recent years, he’d skated across life’s surface in a haze of pleasure. So much effortless pleasure, that it all became a bit interchangeable. Nine years of purposeless amusement had begun to pall even before he came to Afton Park.
This time last night, he’d been kissing Juliet and he’d been as happy as a dog in a butcher shop. Now, he wandered the gardens, hoping to settle to a point where he might sleep. He was tired. Craving for Juliet Frain had chased away sleep since he’d arrived in Wiltshire.
Right now, he felt like a mongrel cur kicked into the gutter. He didn’t specialize in emotions, particularly the bleaker kind. But as he surveyed the idyllic landscape from the terrace outside the morning room, he felt as low as he could remember.
Restless, he drifted further around the house. Everybody except him had retired early in preparation for tomorrow’s performance. If Granville had expected late-night carousing to celebrate his engagement, he was to be disappointed.
But on the other hand, the fellow probably didn’t mind. He’d always struck Evesham as a man of middle-aged habits. Early to bed. Early to rise. Evesham doubted that the milksop had ever downed a tankard too many in all his measured, virtuous life.
Granville should be sodding perfect for Juliet, who took life seriously and believed in following the rules. Evesham suspected that the only time Juliet had ever overstepped propriety’s line was when she’d kissed him.
Since then, she’d decided to return to the straight and narrow. Granville was certainly straight – and narrow-minded.
What a waste. What a tragic waste.
