Page 12 of If the Duke Dares
“I was hoping to meet your daughter,” Acton said. “Though I’m pleased to meet you too.”
Pleased was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration. He was disappointed to have wasted his time in coming if the potential bride wasn’t even going to be here.
The baroness frowned slightly. “We deeply apologize for our daughter’s absence. I’m afraid she took ill with a cold just before we departed. We thought it best if she rested for a day or two. She will join us soon, however.”
She would? Acton supposed he could wait.
He forced himself to take a breath. This was his future duchess—or could be, anyway. He should not be thinking of meeting her as an inconvenience. Damn, but the episode with the widow had upset him. He felt as if he’d been knocked off his horse after a consistent record of winning races.
The dowager gestured toward the nearest seating area. “Let us sit. While we are sorry Miss Barclay was unable to join you, it’s good that you’ve come.” She took a chair and the baron and baroness sat together on a settee.
Acton couldn’t bring himself to join them. He moved to stand next to a vacant chair.
“I’m glad you think so,” the baroness said with a smile that wasn’t nearly as pleasant as his mother’s. “We thought it important to visit as planned and at least tell you”—she flicked a glance toward Acton—“about Persephone.”
Persephone. Queen of Hell. Acton wondered how well the name suited her. Perhaps she was a hellion, and that was why she’d been left at home.
“I would like to meet Miss Barclay,” he said.
The baron nodded. “Of course. In the meantime, we could negotiate the marriage settlement?” He said the last part slowly, as if it were difficult to get out. Acton hoped so since it was an incredibly presumptuous suggestion given that he hadn’t even made the acquaintance of the proposed bride.
Acton forced himself to smile faintly. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Not until we decide if we will suit.” He slid a look toward his mother to ascertain her reaction to the baron’s proposition.
“I’m confident you will suit,” the baroness said before looking to her husband. “Show him the miniature.”
A miniature would answer the question of whether they would be compatible? Acton wouldn’t choose a bride on looks alone. Could he even trust that this painting accurately depicted Miss Barclay?
The baron pulled a framed oval miniature from his pocket and handed it to Acton. “See how pretty she is? She’ll make you an excellent duchess. She’s clever and accomplished with a needle as well as at the pianoforte.”
Clever. One of the words his father had used and the one he’d told the widow was his primary requirement in a duchess. Was it a coincidence that Miss Barclay’s father described her in the same way?
“And she’ll be a marvelous hostess,” the baroness put in. “She’s been very helpful to me with planning dinners and the like.”
Acton took the miniature, and as soon as he lowered his gaze, he sucked in a breath. Staring back at him was the widow he’d met in Gloucester.
What the devil was going on here?
“I knew you’d find her attractive,” the baroness said, sounding pleased but also relieved, which Acton found peculiar. He’d already deduced that the Radstocks were slightly disagreeable and now he wondered if they might be genuinely unlikeable. They might even be the sort of parents who raised a daughter who flirted with a duke and then threw wine in his face.
This was a bloody mystery. Still, he bit his tongue before he acknowledged that he’d already met their daughter.
Miss Barclay. Who wasn’t a widow at all. What was she about? She wasn’t sick, and she wasn’t at home. Did her parents even know where she was?
Acton frowned slightly. “I find it odd that you would come here without Miss Barclay if, in fact, she only has a cold. Why not wait until she recovered? That would surely have been the better course of action.”
He looked down again at the miniature. Miss Barclay wasn’t smiling, but there was a vivacity to the way she held her head—a slight tilt that seemed to convey her energy. Or perhaps it was her gaze that had so captured him in person. In the painting, her lids dipped the barest amount, making her look as though she were hiding something, such as a delicious secret. Hadn’t he thought that about her last night? That she possessed a secret? And he supposed she did. She was gallivanting about western England pretending to be a widow when she was purported to be sick at home.
It was entirely likely that he was seeing things in the miniature that simply weren’t there, that he was attributing the charming and seductive characteristics of the widow he’d met to the image in his hand. Charming and seductive…right up until she’d reprimanded him and soaked him in Madeira.
In hindsight, mayhap he’d deserved it. He’d propositioned a young, unmarried woman. Yes, he’d thought she was a widow, but did that give him leave to say the things he’d said?
Perhaps he’d spent too much time in London with courtesans.
Acton looked from the baron to the baroness, wondering if either would answer his question about why they hadn’t waited for their daughter to recover.
Finally, the baron spoke. “We, ah, didn’t want to miss this opportunity.”
It sounded as if they were afraid that he would have moved on to another candidate. Acton settled his attention on the baroness. “You are a friend of my mother’s. I would have waited to meet Miss Barclay.” Though, he recognized that his initial reaction was irritation at having to wait. But now that he knew the identity of Miss Barclay, he wanted to get to the bottom of this conundrum—if he could. “Is there perchance any reason she may not have wanted to come?”
