Page 12 of The Marquess' Wicked Wager
“Another?” Edna’s father clucked, shaking his head so as to flop hair into his eyes. “How many days of this must I suffer through? They waste their time!”
Edna hardly had time to think, so quickly did suitors arrive just as her godmother had predicted. Flowers filled the room: bright peonies and pungent roses the petals of which were as soft as her gloves. She had chocolates, too, of every variety though none the flavor or color of nutmeg. Which did not matter one wit, and why the thought had even crossed her mind, she found quite perplexing. And while there were a fair few men who had been overly tedious, the sheer relief that her prospects may not yet be ruined by what took place at the ball made the whole affair a lively and exciting thing for Edna.
“It is not a waste to have so many gentlemen come to visit your daughter, Robert,” Violet spoke up, tsking him. She waved her lavender fan painted delicately with vines as if she intended to shoo him away like a fly. “It is usually the man’s right to choose and the woman’s only to refuse, but not so for our darling Edna. She can have her pick of the suitors.”
Edna smiled at the words of her lovely godmother, sitting primly on the couch surrounded by fresh bouquets that still sparkled with morning dew. That was until her father spoke once more.
“No, she cannot,” he said tiredly, irritation adding a clip to his voice. “The matter of her marriage is arranged and decided.”
“The only thing decided is that you have a horrible gambling addiction,” Violet chided him.
Her father spun on the couch, kicking a knee up, so he could turn farther. “Enough from you, you old bag. As much as I let you pretend you are a mother to that girl, you are not. Hers died long ago, and either way, I am her father. I’ve made my decision.”
Edna opened her mouth to squeak out a protest, the hope, and joy she had tasted just a moment earlier already stale in her mouth, but a knock sounded upon the door. She sat up straight, and both her father and Violet leaned in. The butler appeared, and a notable and communal sigh was released into the room.
“My apologies, My Lordship,” he said and bowed, “Dowager Countess, Miss Edna.” He bowed twice more before holding out an envelope. “A letter has come for the lady.”
Violet raised her brows before pushing to a ginger stand then crossed the room with the click of her boots before taking the correspondence. “Thank you, Benson, you may go.” She sat back down in the crimson velvet chair and slit open the letter.
“Whatever is it, Godmother?” Edna asked, noting the pucker in her godmother’s lips.
“A matter…a matter that needs urgent attention, I’m afraid. I should not have sat back down, I think.” She groaned once more to a stand, straightened the folds of her dress, and disappeared out of the room with the rustle of silk. Edna sighed, wishing not to be left alone with her father when a knock sounded once more.
“The door barely shut! This is becoming ridiculous,” her father complained once more. That was until the Duke of Crass walked in.
Edna went rigid in her seat, wishing more flowers filled the couch with her, so there was no room to sit down. It would be wholly improper for a man to take up a seat next to a woman in her parlor without being engaged, so she thus expected that to be exactly what the rake of a duke would do.
“Lucius!” Her father stood, a sudden, eager flushness marking his ruddy cheeks. “What a surprise! Do come in.”
“Robert.” He nodded and removed his hat before casting his eyes toward Edna. Instant chills prickled across her skin. She fought the urge to shrink but could not help the twist in her stomach. “I’ve come to call on your lovely daughter who is soon to be my wife.”
Her father chuckled which filled Edna’s cheeks with heat. “Now, now, my friend, as I’m sure you remember, we settled this matter but two nights ago.”
“I remember only that I took your horse a few nights before that,” the Duke smiled menacingly. Then he pulled himself erect and moved his hat to the crook of his elbow. “Which is the other reason I intended to come here today.”
“Whatever do you mean, Lucius?” Her father raised a brow, and she cursed herself for leaning in ever so slightly. There was a game afoot here; she could see that as clearly as if they were holding cards in their hands. And her father always lost at games.
Another cold smile as the Duke’s eyes flickered away from her but for a moment before resettling like snow upon an ice-covered pond. “I’ve decided a man must have his horse. The stallion I won is being led back to your stables as we speak.”
ChapterSix
Her father’s face lit up as much as she could feel hers fall. “How generous you are! A true gentleman.”
“I am,” the Duke declared before tilting his head in an expectant manner. “Though, I should hope you are a man of equal caliber.”
Edna’s muscles seized. She could already see her father’s failure at accepting the gift but had not one idea what the price of such a folly would be. Only that it would cost her most of all. And this time there was no green-eyed, broad-shouldered Marquess to sweep in and snatch her up. She afforded herself the briefest moment to pinch her leg through her skirts. She did not want to be snatched up. The Marquess was as rakish as those two.
“Of course, of course,” her father said, some of his energy diminished but the look of business sharpening his eyes. “I understand. I shall be but a moment; I must grab something from my study.” He hurried out the door.
“Papa!” Edna cried, standing with an outstretched hand. He had left her. How could he have left her? The impropriety! The mortification! Her heart thudded in her throat, making it hard to breathe and harder still to speak.
The Duke crossed the room toward her and set a hand upon her shoulder, pushing her back down upon the couch. “Sit.”
She clenched her teeth but did as she was told. What else was she to do? She certainly did not know. But when the Duke sat down next to her, she wished she had chosen anything else. If only the Marquess… She bit her tongue so hard it bled as the Duke reached over and ran his finger through the pink ribbon in her hair and let his fingers fall to her neck. Sensation scattered through her body, but not the warm, fuzzy kind the Marquess had left. This feeling was the prick of dread.
“You are stunning. A true prize.”
She wished to counter. So badly she wished to counter, just as she had done so freely with the Marquess, but the Duke’s cruel chill cast a pall over her fiery thoughts. “Your Grace,” she squeaked. “It is not proper.”
