The Duke is Wicked (League of Lords #3) - Tracy Sumner Page 0,29
Elizabeth for a dog.” This said, she dropped her head to her knees, and even without Delaney’s sound advice, embarked on a renewed bout of sobbing.
Hounds? Delaney perked up at this, as she quite liked dogs. Although the conversation hadn’t gone down a pleasant route. At all. What would this poor girl do when she found out the duke preferred to hide in a dungeon and play his violin? Forget about his hounds. “Instead of focusing on your family’s wishes, focus on your own. Better to ask yourself what you want, Honoria Hazelton.”
Lady Hazelton sniffed, lifting her head. “What?”
“What do you want?”
“I’ve never…” Lady Hazelton’s brows lowered in another attractive display, this one of confusion and displeasure. “Is this a trick? You ask me a privileged question, then disparage my answer? Lady Montague did that to me at a musicale at the Pembroke’s last year. Cut me to the bone in front of all of society. Who cares what I want?” She tossed her handkerchief to the step with a huff. “No one, that’s who. Certainly not an arrogant duke!”
Delaney blinked, the air leaving her lungs as Lady Hazelton’s image began to flicker, like a watery image viewed through a leaded pane.
“Look away,” Lady Hazelton moaned. “The display is quite ghastly!”
Delaney grasped her hand, and with mental effort, kept Lady Hazelton from floating away. Until she was once again sitting on the terrace step, looking stunned but undeniably lovely.
“How can I ever be a duchess? I’ll go poof, into the air at a ball, and then my life will be over. This gift is worse than any old fire-making!”
“Oh, no, my lady, you would make a fine duchess.” This was true. From everything Delaney had seen, except for the disappearing act and the propensity to break into tears at any moment, Honoria Hazelton would be precisely what society wanted for the Duke of Ashcroft. The only woman sitting on an Oxfordshire terrace who would, she thought with a pang she wished she didn’t feel. “Don’t be upset, Kitty. I’ve seen worse.”
“Being from the colonies, I’m sure you have,” Lady Hazelton murmured, and reached for her discarded handkerchief. Then she halted, her mind seeming to go back five seconds. “Kitty?”
“It’s a common diminutive of Katherine. Doesn’t the ton love nicknames?”
“Nickname?” Lady Hazelton pulled the handkerchief through her cupped fist repeatedly as she mouthed Kitty softly to herself. “My mother would hate it. I can hear her now. Vulgar, Honoria, simply vulgar.”
“There was a Greek goddess that went by Kitty. She was powerful and determined. I can’t recall the specifics, but if you give me a moment—”
“I like it. I’m determined. And I’ve never believed I look like an Honoria.”
Delaney gave the young woman a thorough study. “Honoria is a maiden aunt who smells like peas.”
Kitty popped her gloved hand over her mouth and giggled.
Delaney laughed with her, the first time she’d done so since arriving on the desolate shores of England. The band around her chest lessened, letting in a soothing breath. “You don’t have to marry someone who doesn’t love you, someone you don’t love, unless it’s a financial concern. Even if you have a rather unusual talent. Life is hard enough without the supplementary distress, isn’t it?”
“We’re both rich as Queen Victoria. It’s not that.” She fluttered the handkerchief again, directing a lone symphony. “Maybe we’re not a good match. He’s stuffy. Condescending. A wry sense of humor, one I don’t share. He never laughs, not ever. But, oh, he’s handsome. I don’t say that just because he’s a duke, a title that would make a toad look good. Even if he were only a baron, Ashcroft would still be handsome. Nothing like Finn Alexander, of course, but who wants a husband more beautiful than they are? I can’t imagine the burden. His wife must avoid mirrors, and she’s extremely attractive herself.”
“Hmm.” A picture of Sebastian centered itself in Delaney’s mind. Violin tucked beneath his chin. Thick hair tumbling into his eyes. Long fingers curled around the bow. Shirt parted to reveal a rippling swath of muscle and sinew, a wondrously flat tummy. A narrow trail of hair angling into his waistband, an attribute her brother, the only man she’d ever seen in a similar state, didn’t have. If she were a proper miss, like the reluctant debutante sitting next to her, she’d have fainted dead away at the sight of the man. Instead, she’d tried to record as much of him as she could before he turned away.