Page 37 of The Love Potion
“You will not be destitute,” he vowed. He had plenty of resources. If nothing else, he could give her enough to survive. Everyone would think her his mistress, but he was not averse to that situation. Though, at present, he had another thought in mind entirely.
“Miss Petrelli,” he said gently. “Kynthea, you must know that I am interested in you. My kiss this afternoon was proof of that.”
Her shoulders abruptly stiffened, and her gaze hopped uneasily about the carriage. “Perhaps I should leave. There isno need to wait until we return to the house. I am very used to walking.”
As if he would allow her to walk alone in London. They might be in the nicest area of town, but he would never allow her to be that vulnerable.
“What if I courted you instead of Lady Zoe? What if—”
Her scornful laugh cut his words short. “Do you truly think I am that stupid?”
He didn’t know how to answer that. He’d expected her to blush prettily at the thought. He expected she would overflow with the honor of the question. That is, indeed, what any girl would do when a duke suggested he wanted to court them. And in his silence, she continued.
“You are a duke. I am nothing. And this is no better than what happened beneath the oak tree.” She looked like she wanted to say more, but her words choked off as if she fought tears.
“This is completely different,” he said, choosing his words carefully.
“Why? Because we are in a carriage instead of out in the open?”
No, because he had been thinking deeply about the insult he’d offered her beneath the oak. Because he had never been one to dither over his decisions. Perhaps he had been impulsive before, but in the last few hours, a question had formed in his mind.
Could he marry her?
It was too easy to say that a duke could marry anyone he wanted. He had responsibilities to his title and his lineage. His children must be raised with a sense of duty that so many of his peers ignored. His wife would need to be a proper duchess as she helped him with official responsibilities, cared for his tenants, and often served the whims of the Crown.
Lady Zoe was too young to do any of that. Kynthea, on the other hand, had the natural grace of a lady and the empathy that came from living on the lower echelons of polite society. All the rest of her duties could be taught, but grace and empathy were innate. Of all the ladies in theton, Kynthea was the best suited to be his duchess.
But the final cap to his decision had come on the dance floor. Few ladies could handle such a spill with aplomb, but Kynthea had laughed with him. They’d both enjoyed the ridiculousness of the situation. That shared sense of humor meant more to him than he’d ever realized.
There was only one problem: Prinny.
The man had already said that Lady Zoe should be Ras’s bride. There was no way he could convince the prince that Kynthea was a better choice.
“Miss Petrelli, I meant no insult. The question was an honest one, but not in the way you think.”
She looked at her hands. Her fingers twisted in her lap, and he longed to soothe them. She was distressed and he hated that his bungling had created this tension between them.
“It is beneath you to toy with me like this,” she said. “I am not a lightskirt.”
“I do not see you as one. I never have.”
She looked away, her gaze following the flow of houses along the street. “I did not come straight to Zoe’s home once my parents passed,” she said. “My brother was at sea, my parents were dead, and I had no money to pay off our creditors.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
She flicked her fingers at him as if his compassion meant nothing. “The vicar came to give me solace. I would have welcomed prayers. Instead, he tried…” Her words cut off as she took a deep breath. “I gave him a black eye. He damned me toeveryone in the parish. He said that I was a wicked girl and God had taken my parents as punishment.”
“Bastard.” He spat the word out. “What is his name?”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
It bloody well did. He would find out who it was and see him excommunicated and deported. And that was the kindest of possibilities. He might do something much, much worse.
“Not every man preys upon the weak,” he said.
“The man in the mail coach did, as did a footman in my uncle’s home.”
“Bloody hell.”
