Page 15 of His Haunted Duchess
It was his responsibility. If it wasn’t before, it surely was now. However well-meant the intent and twisted the misinterpretation thereof, he bore an active part in its resolution.
So what—to echo the query of maternal concern, much to his annoyance—would he do?
He could issue a public contradiction—a denouncement. His conscience rejoiced, but his reason chuckled. Such a statement would be seen as an admission at least of some fault if not of the entirety. It would do nothing to clear his name nor the lady’s.
He could settle her somewhere in the country, somewhere remote, filled with sunshine and wandering geese. He brushed the idea away. The daughter of a former earl wouldn’t condescend to such measures, however pleasant the local waterfowl.
Frederic picked up a book, read the title, and tossed it onto the side table.
He could, of course, offer to marry her.
He stood, pacing the room like a cat in a cage.
As to the lady and the supposed curse, he had no objection. She had seemed kind and genteel enough in the few short words that had passed between them. Beautiful, certainly, and forgiving—gentle, even. He stared glumly at the carpet.
He had no inclination to marry. No intention at all. He was happy enough here at Highcastle, supporting his mother and younger brother. He wanted nothing more.
In fact, since his father’s death, he had cultivated a stalwart aversion to matrimony in any form—and now, here it was, shamelessly presenting itself as the only viable alternative. He ran a hand through his hair.
It was what a man ought to do, and so he would do it, inclination or no. He would not—could not—trod the same road to recklessness that had shamed his father and scarred him, his mother, and brother.
Regret coursed through him. Oh, but for the venom of waggling tongues, he would still be a free man!
At least, he considered, she was a lady and a beautiful one, after her fashion. It would not be unpleasant being her… husband. He shuddered.
He lay awake for several hours that night until finally, the fatigue closed his eyes.
Breakfast the next morning was a somber affair. His mother, her hair wrapped in an intricate black velvet turban, sipped gingerly at her tea. Frederic consumed two pieces of buttered toast and a mutton chop before clearing his throat.
“It might relieve you,” he said, “to hear that I have made a decision.”
“Have you?” she asked, leaning forward. “And?”
“I have decided to ask Lady Caroline to become my wife.”
Esther’s face clouded. She frowned slightly, staring at the print on the lace tablecloth. Frederic raised his eyebrows.
“Well?” He buttered another piece of toast. “I had assumed you would be relieved.”
Carlyle bowed and left the room.
“I suppose I am, after a sort. I’m proud that you feel inclined to take an active hand in the matter, but—” She put down her teacup. “Please, Frederic, reconsider your choice. A woman like that ought not to be a duchess.”
“A woman like what?”
“Like—” She fished for words and finding none, added another lump of sugar to her teacup instead. “Curses are fanciful things at best, but?—”
Frederic snorted.
“I’ve never believed in superstition, but when it comes to this situation—” She stared at him wistfully. “All I really have in the world now are you and your brother. You’re the dearest and nearest to my heart.”
Frederic chuckled.
“And so, you fear I’m bringing a curse on my head, do you? No excitement—not a whit—for a bachelor son turned toward matrimony at last?”
“If the curse might be real?—”
Frederic wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood, depositing the soiled linen on the table near his empty plate.
