Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover
Page 114

Caroline’s gaze narrowed thoughtfully. “You think it came from Mr. West?”
She knew it. But instead she said, “It is his newspaper.” Georgiana looked down at her daughter, whose rose was toppling out of her hair. She leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, reminding herself that this was what she lived for. This girl. Her future. “Shall we see who sent them?”
Caroline collected all the messages that had come with the cards as Georgiana ran her fingers over the cartoon once more, tracing the edge of Duncan’s shoulder, the line of his sleeve. He’d put himself into the cartoon.
Even as he gave her up, as he gave her everything she’d thought she wanted from the beginning, he honored her with his love.
Except, now, she did not want any of this.
Caroline returned with the messages, and they began to sift through the cards, each sender more eligible than the last. War heroes. Aristocrats. Gentlemen.
Not one of them a newspaperman.
She grew more and more frantic as she got closer to the end of the pile, hoping that one of the bouquets was from him. Hoping that he had not forsaken her. Knowing that he had.
Do not tell me you love me. I am not sure I could bear it when you leave.
She should have told him. From the beginning. From the first moment that she loved him. She should have told him the truth. That she loved him. That if she could choose her life, her future, her world… it would be with him in it.
There was a knock at the door to the room, and her brother’s butler entered. “My lady?” The words came with slight censure as they always did. Her brother’s starchy butler did not care for her choice of trousers over skirts when she was at home. But truthfully, no one ever came to see her.
She turned toward the man, hope flaring. Perhaps there was another message from him? “Yes?”
“You have a visitor.”
He had come.
She was up and out of the room, desperate for him, sailing into the foyer to meet the man who stood there, hat in hand, waiting. She stopped.
It was not Duncan.
Viscount Langley turned to face her, surprise in his eyes.
“Oh,” she said.
“Indeed,” he said, all affability.
The butler cleared his throat. “Traditionally, one waits for the guest to be seen to a receiving room.”
She looked to the servant. “I shall receive the viscount here.”
The butler was disgruntled, but left silently. She returned her attention to Langley. “My lord,” she said, dropping a little curtsy.
He watched, fascinated. “You know,” he said, “I’ve never seen a woman curtsy in trousers. It looks somewhat ridiculous.”
She ran her palms over her thighs, and offered him a little smile. “They are more comfortable. I was not expecting…”
“If I may suggest.” He raised the newspaper in his hand. “You should expect. You are the talk of the ton. I imagine I am the first of many callers.”
She met his eyes. “I am not certain I wish to be anything to the ton.”
“You are too late. We have, of course, claimed you for our own after two weeks of utter adoration in our news.”
She paused. Then, “Huzzah? I suppose?”
“Huzzah indeed.” He laughed. “We have never stood on ceremony.”
She shook her head. “No, my lord.”
He smiled. Leaned in. “Then, as that is true and you are wearing breeches, I think we can dispense with the formalities.”
She smiled. “I would like that.”
“I came to ask you to marry me.”
Her face fell. She didn’t mean it to, but she couldn’t help herself. It was, of course, what she had wanted from the beginning. He’d been carefully selected for his perfect balance of need and propriety.
But she suddenly wanted much, much more than those things in a marriage. She wanted partnership and trust and commitment. And love.
And desire.
She wanted Duncan.
“I see that you are not elated,” the viscount said.
“It’s not that,” she said, tears welling again before she could stop them.
She dashed them away. What in hell had happened to her in the last forty-eight hours?
He smiled. “Ah, well, I was told that some women cry at their proposals. But usually that is out of happiness, isn’t it? As I am neither a woman nor an expert in marriage proposals…” He trailed off.
She laughed at that, brushing away her tears. “I assure you, my lord, I am not an expert in marriage proposals, either. Which is why we are in this mess to begin with, remember.”
They stood in silence for a long moment before he spread his arms to indicate the marble floor. “Shall I get down on one knee, then?”
She shook her head. “Oh, I wish you wouldn’t.” She paused. “I am sorry. I am making a hash out of this.”
“You know, I don’t think you are,” he said, softly, coming toward her. “I think you simply don’t care for mine to be the marriage proposal you receive today.”
“That’s not true,” she lied, imagining him another taller, blonder, more perfect man.
“I think it is. In fact, I think you wish I were another man. Entirely different. Untitled. Brilliant.” Her gaze snapped to his. How did he know? He rocked back on his heels. “What I cannot understand is why you would settle for me when you could have him.”
She knew what to say to that. She was making a hash out of it. Indeed. “Marrying you would not be ‘settling,’ my lord.”
He smiled. “Of course it would be. I am not Duncan West.”