Page 50 of Tamed By a Duke
"You have written her a letter?" Montague hooted in amusement, "No wonder the poor girl is ignoring you. You are not a clerk; you are her suitor."
"I have also sent her countless bouquets of flowers," Dubarry defended himself.
Hugh, who had taken the same course of action as his cousin, gave a silent cheer. What did Montague know about women?
"Take it from a man who knows everything there is to know about women," the marquess said, interrupting Hugh's thoughts, "A bouquet of flowers is nothing. Any man with funds might send flowers if he so wishes."
The brief congratulations that Hugh had allowed himself quickly vanished; Montague was right. A bouquet of roses, no matter how fragrant or beautiful, was—in the end—just a bunch of flowers. Any man could send one; Lud, an enterprising child might even pick one, if they were so inclined.
Hugh's overtures of love had been rather lacking in imagination.
"What you need," Montague advised Dubarry, unaware that Hugh too was hanging on his every word, "Is a grand gesture."
"A grand gesture," Dubarry nodded along enthusiastically, until his face fell into a worried frown. "What type of grand gesture would you recommend?"
"Gemini," Montague rolled his eyes, "Do you want me to court the girl myself while I'm at it? How should I know what your grand gesture should be? Think on your strengths. When I was attempting to catch the eye of Rosaline, I entered into a curricle-race along the row, because I knew she favoured sportive men and I am quite the whip."
"Did that race not end with you taking an unexpected dip into the Serpentine?" Orsino queried, but Montague waved him away with an irritable shake of his hand.
"Pah! That is no matter. What matters is that Rosaline could not help but notice me. If your Miss Bianca is refusing to answer your calls, then you must do something that can't fail to capture her attention."
"A grand gesture," Dubarry was again nodding, this time with more certainty, "Perhaps a sonnet?"
Montague banged his fist on the table, causing the glass-wear and cutlery to jump, and every member of White's to turn and look at them.
"A sonnet," he cried gaily, "That's perfect. What light through yonder window breaks, eh, my good man? Is it the east, or your fair sun, Miss Bianca?"
"That's not quite how the quote goes," Orsino looked pained.
"Nor am I certain that singing a ballad at Miss Bianca's window is the brightest of ideas," Hugh added, worried that his cousin might disgrace himself in the name of love.
Montague raised an eyebrow at Hugh's words and cast him the smuggest of smiles. His know-it-all air was quite insufferable, Hugh thought darkly, before his friend spoke again.
"Alas, my dear Penrith," the marquess gave a shrug, "If one truly wanted forgiveness, one would be willing to cast their pride aside in order to attain it."
Pride.
There it was again, that word which had haunted Hugh his entire life. He was proud, aloof, and unwilling to bend. He was the author of his own downfall.
Hugh frowned as he recalled the feeling of loneliness which had assailed him, that day in Hyde Park when he had spotted Charlotte frolicking with her friends. He remembered wishing that he could change, to be a man whom Charlotte might love.
But he had changed, he reminded himself sternly, he had become a man she admired. It was only when she had scorned him, that he had retreated to being the aloof and cold Duke of Penrith.
Pah, he cursed himself, what had he been thinking writing pointless letters? He should have knocked down her door and done battle for her heart. He needed a grand gesture of his own, and he had the feeling that it would involve a grovelling apology.
"I had best be off," Dubarry said abruptly, pushing back his chair so hastily that it fell to the floor with a clatter. "I have a sonnet to compose and perform."
"Wonderful," Montague cried, clearly enjoying his role as the Wise Oracle of White's, "Though if I might make one more suggestion, Mr Dubarry?"
Dubarry paused and gave a nod.
"Leave any performing of grand gestures until tomorrow, when you have sobered up somewhat. Women never seem to appreciate when a drunken man sings under their balcony—they see it more as a public nuisance. And I know that from experience."
Montague gave the baffled Dubarry a wink, before returning to his brandy with a self-satisfied smile. Orsino, seated across from him, looked half torn between exasperation and admiration.
"A drunken sonnet?" he queried, once Dubarry had left.
"Miss Prunella Harrod," Montague replied, sheepishly, "Her abigail threatened to pour a chamber-pot over my head if I did not cease my caterwauling."
