The Duke Before Christmas (The Duke Hunters Club), page 7
“I’m more interested what his connection is with you,” Colin said, though he had a horrible feeling he already knew.
“He’s my betrothed.” Portia’s violet eyes danced, and she leaned toward him in a conspiratorial manner. “We’re eloping.”
Colin’s throat closed in. “Indeed?”
“After all, Guernsey has the same lax requirements as Gretna Green. Besides, the weather is nicer.”
“There are many muddy roads between London and Scotland,” Colin said faintly.
“Precisely.”
Colin exhaled. He needed to tell her that he’d ruined her plan. “Perhaps you would like to sit.”
Portia raised her eyebrows. “I’m quite happy standing. I just want you to leave so Mr. Andrews is not confused by your presence. I don’t normally speak with strange men. In fact, you’re the only strange man I’ve ever spoken to.”
Colin’s lower lip fell down, as if she’d confessed an urge to murder him.
She sighed. “That was supposed to be a compliment.”
Colin continued to stare at her, and his mouth opened and shut in a manner reminiscent of fish. Perhaps he’d simply acclimated to being at sea. Finally, he inhaled. “I’m afraid Mr. Andrews won’t have a chance to be bewildered by my presence.”
Portia stared at him.
Dash it. She didn’t understand. Of course she didn’t understand—there was no reason for her to think he’d stolen the place of her betrothed.
He could continue to muse about the coincidence of the fact that the sailor referred to him as Mr. Andrews and that her betrothed was also referred to as Mr. Andrews. She could continue to direct her attention to the door, and when he saw her looking unhappy later on this trip, by which time she would have resigned herself that her betrothed was not here, he could avoid her.
Still, that would not be right.
“I took his ticket,” Colin confessed. “Therefore he’s not on the ship, therefore he can’t be disturbed by my presence.”
Portia blinked, then shrank back. The movement caused Colin’s heart to ache, as if she were tearing it from its comfortable setting within his ribs.
Then a smile spread over her face. “No, no. You’ve made a mistake. I know he’s on the ship. I asked the porter. He told me he was the last to board.” Portia returned her gaze toward the door. “He probably is just getting settled.”
“He’s not on this ship,” Colin said gently. “I told the sailor my name was Mr. Andrews. I took his spot. I-I saw him after we were on the gangway. He was running toward the ship, but—”
“He didn’t make it.” Portia averted her eyes, but not before he noticed the pained expression on her face. “So if you hadn’t come, I would be standing with him, not you.”
Colin drew back. “Something like that.”
“You ruined things,” she said softly.
“Yes.”
“Just because you wanted so desperately to get to Guernsey.” Portia’s voice wobbled. “I hope you enjoy your holiday.”
Colin didn’t think this was the time to tell her he hadn’t even desired to go to Guernsey, and that if his coach driver had parked somewhere else, he would be headed for another location. Ensuring Sandridge’s father-in-law’s happiness might be a worthy goal, but Portia would most likely be less enthusiastic that it had come at the expense of her own.
“I’m sorry,” Colin said.
“I’m sorrier.” Her voice trembled, and she looked away. “Go.”
Colin removed a handkerchief and gave it to her. “I can’t leave you like this.”
“Well, you shouldn’t. But you also shouldn’t have taken Mr. Andrew’s place on this ship!”
Colin looked around. “I’ll—er—see if I can find you another handkerchief.”
“I don’t need a handkerchief. I need a husband.”
“You can marry Mr. Andrews when you return.”
“There won’t be time. I need a husband before Christmas, and the banns take long to announce.”
“Several weeks,” Colin said.
“That I don’t have.”
“I-I am sorry,” Colin stammered.
Portia tilted her head, and an odd look drifted over her face. “The good thing is, you can fix it.”
Relief surged through him. He could fix this.
Colin nodded rapidly. “Anything. Absolutely anything.”
“I want you to marry me,” Portia said.
“E-excuse me?” Colin asked, and his relief dissipated.
She’d proposed. Pushy parents and desperate debutantes thronged through London, but he’d never received a proposal before, despite his lofty title and corresponding wealth and land acreage.
“Well, obviously Mr. Andrews can’t marry me anymore. And I do require a husband.”
“And I’ll do?” he asked hoarsely.
She sighed sweetly, and her eyes turned warm. “You mustn’t worry about your status. I know you’re a servant.”
“And you would still marry me?” Colin wrinkled his brow. Footmen never married wards of baronets.
“I’ll have plenty of money,” Portia explained. “And I’ll be sure to share some of it with you.”
Colin stared at her.
“I know we don’t know each other well,” Portia said. “But I would be ever so grateful.”
Colin tilted his head.
He was accustomed to matchmaking mamas and proud papas hinting at the supposed splendors of marriage, and the general suitability of their daughters to fulfill any duchess expectations. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone being so openly blatant about proposing marriage.
He wasn’t even certain women were supposed to be able to propose marriage; certainly he’d never heard of anyone else to do it.
Did she know he was a duke? Was this all an elaborate ruse?
Colin dismissed the thought instantly. He was fairly certain most members of the ton wouldn’t even converse with footmen, at least not with footmen outside their home.
“What about your standing in society?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’d rather have the money.”
He blinked. Her regard for her inheritance was refreshing. The women in London tended to pretend they had much in common with him, complimenting his taste in fashion, even though Niles regularly mourned that Colin had refused to compete with the Beau Brummels of this world. Still, he couldn’t marry her.
“Perhaps there’s someone else in Guernsey who has a more dignified position. Perhaps you can marry that person. I can put you in touch with the Duke and Duchess of Vernon. I believe they’re holidaying here.”
“How do you know the Duke and Duchess of Vernon?”
Colin’s cheeks warmed, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I—er—used to be a footman for him.”
“Ah.” Portia nodded.
“Would you like me to introduce you?”
Portia paused. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just marry you. Presuming you’re not violent.”
Colin scowled at the implication. “No, not violent.”
“And you don’t have a wife already?” Her eyes shimmered, as if she thought her interrogation amusing, as if she thought there couldn’t be any reason for them not to marry.
“No, no bigamist tendencies.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” Portia said brightly, and something in her wide smile made his heart clench.
Still, marriage was a most unusual proposition.
“Shouldn’t you have more questions?” he pressed. “About likes? Values?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We won’t be living together, naturally.”
“Oh.” He blinked.
“I wouldn’t expect a true marriage.” She tossed her thick glossy locks.
“No?”
“You can continue to be a footman if you like,” Portia said. “You’ll just be a somewhat wealthier one.”
“I see.” He stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” she said matter-of-factly, as if the state of not being serious were some absurd condition that befell other, less thoughtful people. “So will you accept?”
He stared at her. The proper thing to do would be to refuse at once.
Blast it, he’d told her many lies.
Still...
He couldn’t quite form the word “no,” even though the one-syllable word had caused him little trouble before and had prevented him from much unpleasantness.
There was something appealing about her eagerness and no-nonsense demeanor.
In fact...
He couldn’t bring himself to reject her offer. She would, after all, lose her inheritance if she didn’t marry, and he would be the cause of it.
No. The gentlemanly thing to do would certainly be to accept, and if that fact came with a lifetime of being exposed to her, that wouldn’t be dreadful. After all, she didn’t expect them to even live together—his life could continue much the same as always. No one would find it terribly odd he’d married a debutante, and proud parents would no longer thrust their offspring at him in hopes he would declare himself immediately infatuated.
He gazed at her, noting the manner her luscious dark curls swept over her face in the wind, the exact shade of pink of her lips, and the brightness of her violet eyes. He could spend the rest of his life with her. “I’m honored you asked me, and I’m happy to accept.”
“Splendid.” Portia’s voice wobbled somewhat, and Colin smiled. He felt unsteady himself. It was gratifying the process hadn’t been entirely simple for her.
She smiled
He smiled back.
An odd urge to sweep her in his arms overcame him. Wasn’t that what most men would do after they became newly betrothed? But this wouldn’t be that kind of betrothal, and they wouldn’t have that kind of marriage.
Heirs.
Matrimony often resulted in children, and most peers expressed an eagerness to procure heirs. Well, he didn’t require an heir, even if having children wouldn’t be entirely intolerable. Still, he had younger brothers. Moreover, his younger brothers had already produced half a dozen potential Dukes of Brightling, and he suspected they would continue to have more children, given the enthusiasm with which they complimented their wives.
Blast.
He needed to tell her he was a duke. That was something a wife was bound to learn soon, and it was all he could do to keep Niles from saying ‘Your Grace’ before her.
“There’s something you need to know,” Colin said.
“Very well.”
Colin raked his hand through his hair. “It’s—er—hard to tell you.”
She glanced at the horizon. “We have time.”
“Yes, of course.” He followed her gaze. Gray, foamy waves met an equally gray sky. No land interrupted the bare landscape. Guernsey remained far away. He inhaled. “The thing is, I’m not who I said I was.”
She tilted her head. “You’re not a footman?”
“No,” he admitted, conscious the back of his neck was growing curiously warm, despite the steady spray of salty water the waves insisted upon sharing.
“But you were in Sir Seymour’s room,” she said. “You were polishing his table.”
“I was pretending to polish his table when you were looking in my direction.”
“But you did such a good job! You even paid attention to the drawers—” She halted and stared at him. “You’re a thief.”
He scrunched his lips together. No one besides Sir Seymour had called him that. Still, she had a point. “Well, technically.”
“Heavens, I’m betrothed to a thief!” Portia buried her face in her hands.
A worried look appeared on the faces of Niles and Portia’s maid.
“This is horrible,” Portia wailed. She lifted her head. “But you were in livery.”
Colin’s shoulders descended downward. “I—er—stole that too.”
Blast it, he really had behaved terribly.
Portia’s violet eyes rounded, and her long dark lashes fluttered in obvious confusion.
“But I put it back,” he added hastily. “That was more of a borrow situation.”
“I-I see,” Portia stammered, though it was obvious she didn’t see.
“I haven’t told you everything.”
“You mean there’s more?” Her eyes widened in obvious horror, and she buried her face in her hands again. This time she did not withdraw her face, and Colin’s heart ached.
“It’s really not such bad news,” he said. “In fact, quite a few women might term it good news.”
“Because you’re good at stealing?” Portia sniffed and collapsed onto the bench. “Is that what paid for this fare? I suppose those women live in brothels in the East End.”
Portia’s maid hurried toward them, gamely sprinting over the ever-tilting deck of the ship, and unperturbed by the ever-greater waves. Niles followed swiftly behind.
“Is something wrong?” Niles asked tentatively.
Portia’s lady maid gave Niles a grateful smile, and it occurred to Colin that Niles had succeeded in winning her attention. Somehow, Colin had assumed he’d be more successful with women.
He looked at Portia. Her shoulders shook, as if she were crying. He doubted this counted as swooping a woman off her feet, even if she no longer stood.
Colin swallowed hard and forced a smile on his face. “We just became engaged.”
“Heavens!” Portia’s lady’s maid widened her blue eyes and clutched her hand to her heart.
“Meet my betrothed,” Colin continued. “Portia, this is my valet, Niles.”
“I’m pleased to meet you.” Niles turned to Colin. “Congratulations, Your Grace.”
Portia jerked her head toward Niles.
Niles stared at Portia.
Portia’s maid stared at Portia.
And Portia’s head moved from Colin to Niles. Portia eyed him suspiciously, and her forehead did that adorable scrunching business again. Blast. He shouldn’t focus on her forehead. It was most distracting, and Colin had the definite sense that foreheads weren’t supposed to be distracting.
“Did you say Your Grace?” she asked Niles. “Forgive me. That’s a silly question. I—er—must have misheard you.”
“You didn’t,” Colin said. “Niles’s enunciation is excellent. It’s one of his strengths.”
“I have many strengths,” Niles explained with a smile.
“Indeed, he does.”
“My top strength, actually, is cravat tying. If you would like to see him in a mathematical tie—”
“Wait.” Portia blinked. “You’re his valet?”
“Indeed.”
Portia’s maid turned to Niles. “You’re the valet for a duke?”
Niles beamed. “I am.”
Portia’s maid stared at his hands. “You must be very nimble.”
“I am,” Niles said, and there was an odd moment of tension between them, as if Portia’s lady’s maid were imagining all the things his fingers might do.
“You said the word duke.” Portia’s tone was wondrous.
“That’s right,” Niles said gaily, then frowned. “Though if you’re betrothed to him, I would have thought you would have known.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well, now you know,” Niles said. “That means you’re going to be a duchess. A duke is married to a duchess.”
“I suspect she is familiar with the concept,” Colin said gallantly.
“Well, she didn’t know you were a duke,” Niles said. “That’s rather basic knowledge.”
“I suppose I didn’t get the invitations to those balls,” Portia said faintly. She stiffened and turned to Colin. “I-I can’t marry you now.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
COLIN WAS A DUKE.
Heavens.
She’d managed to convince a duke to marry her.
The fact should have made her overjoyed. Every debutante dreamed of marrying a duke, and every teacher at her finishing school had noted the successful alumnae who’d succeeded in grabbing that loftiest of titles: duchess. Portia, certainly, had nothing against dukes.
“You said no?” Colin asked haltingly.
Portia was silent. She opened her mouth, but the act of speaking seemed impossible, as if the wind had swept away her diaphragm and vocal chords as efficiently as it moved the ship across the English Channel.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean that,” Jonesie said hastily. “Isn’t that so, Miss?”
Jonesie gave her a stern look that a less charitable woman might have deemed impertinent.
Portia sighed. She didn’t blame any of them for being surprised. In fact, Portia was almost tempted to tell Colin that she had, in fact, meant to tell him they would of course still marry. Almost.
The fact was that Portia couldn’t marry him. She’d thought Colin was a footman, a man who might be happy to become somewhat wealthier. But Colin was a duke; he was already wealthy. He didn’t need her. If she married him, she would always be in his debt. Perhaps now he fancied being heroic. It was a whim that was not uncommon in men in possession of certain honorable characteristics.
No. She couldn’t marry him. He didn’t need a hasty marriage with a woman he barely knew. She’d already lived with Sir Vincent’s comments about the great sacrifice he was making by taking her in. She didn’t want a lifetime of reproach.
Besides, people fell in love. Most of her friends had fallen in love this year and married. What if Colin fell in love with someone, then couldn’t marry that person?
No, Portia would not hold him to his idiotic, if marvelously gallant, acceptance of her proposal.
“It was most kind of you to accept my unresearched offer.”
Portia vowed to act with pragmatism. There was no point entering an institution as irreversible as marriage with anything else.
COLIN FROWNED. THIS was not how proposals were supposed to go, even if he wasn’t the person who’d technically done the proposing. “You asked me to marry you.”
“You weren’t supposed to be a duke,” Portia protested. “You were supposed to be a footman. You were dressed like a footman.”
“Most women might think it a pleasant surprise to find they’re marrying a duke,” Colin said. “Their eyes might even glisten and their cheeks might even pinken.”
