The Wallflower Duchess

‘Oh,’ she’d said, looking up, eyes squinted.

He’d released her ankle, thinking she understood, and she’d lunged for the next higher limb. He’d caught her bootlace and she’d lost her grip, tumbling backwards on to him. He’d landed on his back, cushioning her. Spindly as she was, she’d plopped like a boulder on to his stomach. He’d laid on the ground, struggling for air while looking up at the kite fluttering happily overhead.

She’d screeched and jumped up, staring down at him. Apparently she’d bumped her face against the tree on her way down. He’d seen a split lip before, but not on a little girl.

‘You booby-head,’ she’d called out, eyes blazing into him.

Booby-head? He’d stared at her. Booby-head? Apparently little girls swore differently from other people.

‘You booby-head. You made me fall.’

‘You—’

He’d been planning to explain again how she’d been going to fall from a much higher limb and he wouldn’t have been able to catch her, but the blood on her face stopped his words.

At that moment, she put her hand to her lip, lowered her fingers so she could see the crimson liquid and wailed out a terrifying sound. She’d raced into her house before he could stand.

Later, he’d seen the thread-like scar, resting a finger-width from the bow of her mouth. Lip stain covered it when she grew older, but he always checked for it. Only now her mouth was hidden behind a gauzy screen. It irked him.

‘Your governess should have been punished,’ he said.

‘Mrs Smith was a dear, dear governess. Not like the next one.’ The bonnet tilted back and the veil dusted against the outline of her chin. ‘I think I turned out quite well.’

‘Of course.’ He’d known she would. ‘You don’t have to hide from me.’ He stared at the black cloth.

‘I’m not. I’m being discreet.’ Her tone rose.

‘Then keep your voice down.’ He moved closer and carefully reached out, lifting the cloth, holding it up like a tent between them.

He looked at the uncovered blemish on the challenging lips, then up at the brown eyes, and he felt like a youth—which was odd because even when he was a child, he’d never felt like one. ‘Why are you here?’ he asked and fought to keep his voice distant. He waited for her to say she’d wanted to see him.

‘Edge,’ she reprimanded and tilted her head back. The cloth slid from his touch.

She’d called him by the nickname his brothers and cousins had begun using right after the old Duke had passed on. Much better than being called a booby-head, he supposed.

‘I’d hoped to catch you in the gardens for a word, but—’ A prim sentence.

He nodded, frowning. The gardens. He’d not been into the sun since he’d been burned. He’d barely been able to move and he’d had no care about anything else. He’d put off leaving town for the summer, deciding he’d wait to see if he lived or died. If he died, he’d let someone else see to carting him to the family crypt.

She turned away. Inwardly, he smiled. She turned to hide her expression—as if he could see it under the gauzy fabric covering it.

He stared at her shoulders and his eyes drifted downward. At that second, he realised Lily had become Lillian. He took in a breath and turned his gaze to the wall.

‘You are a determined person. You’ve always done exactly as you should and you have a considerable amount of duties to keep up with...’ She cleared her throat. ‘One in particular.’

‘To what particular one might you be referring?’

‘You really are the only person who can answer the question I have.’

His gaze washed over her. ‘You are here to ask a question?’

She turned and lifted the veil again, staring straight into his face. ‘I don’t know exactly how I would word this and I would hate for a note to fall into the wrong hands, so I had to arrive myself. It’s far easier to deny a spoken word than a written one.’ She lowered her voice. ‘And I suppose I did want to see for myself that you’re up and about,’ she added.

He kept perfectly still, his mind’s eye seeing the little girl who would stare at him when he studied out of doors. He soon discovered he could look at her, grumble a growl and she’d laugh and run back into her house, leaving him alone with his books the rest of the day.

‘What question could you have for me?’ he asked.

‘Are you going to propose to my sister?’

The feeling of a boulder landing on his stomach returned. He leaned forward, staring. ‘Pardon?’ Confusion—then irritation—flooded him.

‘Soon?’ she asked.

‘I’ve not given it any thought,’ he said, snapping out the words.

‘You nearly died,’ she accused. ‘Twice. And where would that leave her? She’s not getting any younger.’

‘None of us is.’

Brown sparked in her eyes. ‘I would hope our connection of knowing each other years and years and years would allow you to appreciate my honesty and understand my concern for my sister,’ she said. ‘I would think we have a bond.’

‘We do.’ His gaze dropped to her lips, again. That tiny vertical scar, hardly bigger than a thread and only visible at close distance, ran upwards from her top lip.

Her attention wavered and her black gloved hand touched the mark. ‘Makes me look like a pirate,’ she said.

‘No. I can only see the scar because I know where—to look.’

Her eyes became solemn. ‘Are you going to court my sister? I need to know.’

‘Why?’ He shook his head. He’d thought that nonsense of his interest in her sister had died long before. It had been his father’s talk and he’d never encouraged it. Never. In fact, he’d thought it long forgotten.

He knew that on occasion when he’d planned a day at home, his mother had arranged things so the Hightower sisters would arrive for tea. But his mother planned a lot of teas with young, unmarried women when he was at home.

Her words about him marrying her sister slid in under his ribs and irritation bit into him. He didn’t mind so much when his mother dangled the names of young women in front of him, but Lily—she should know better. ‘You realise I nearly died,’ he said, chin forward. ‘Marriage has not been foremost on my mind.’

‘You are all recovered now. Aren’t you?’ Her eyes locked with his.

‘I’m alive, at least.’ Not that it appeared to make a great deal of difference to her, except where her sister was concerned.

‘Another reason for a marriage, I’d say.’ Hopeful eyes stared at him.

‘But if I die, it wouldn’t matter to me whether I have a wife or not.’ Well, it might. Lily should not wear black.

‘But it might matter very much to your lineage and to a woman wanting a family. A duke needs an heir. Simple fact. But I don’t expect you to die, however, I expect you to live a long and healthy life.’ Her eyes sparkled in jest. ‘You’ve no choice. Duty.’

‘I hope you don’t overestimate me, Miss Hightower.’

He’d wanted to make his mark in life by the time he reached thirty. He’d thought he’d be able to use his influence in Parliament to produce more jobs for the people put out of work by the mechanised looms, but his progress was much slower than he’d expected. Marriage had seemed the logical next step after his work. And he’d just assumed Lily understood. The few times he’d spoken with her as an adult and told her how much progress he was making, and had said personal duties would come afterwards, she’d nodded her head in complete understanding.