My Last Duchess (The Wildes of Lindow Castle #0.5) - Eloisa James Page 0,44

of course, there were all those boys from the duke’s first marriage as well. The bond between the second duchess’s children would weather a disengaged third duchess.

Lady Woolhastings was more than capable of launching Betsy and Joan on the market. She’d be a perfect duchess: regal, and supremely confident of her own superiority.

Whereas Ophelia climbed into her carriage, cheeks blazing, feeling inadequate in every way. Compared to Lady Woolhastings, she was short and fat. Her child was ill-behaved, and she was a bad mother for taking her into the winter weather. Her hair was scandalous and so was her nanny-free household.

Even more egregious, she was a lustful woman. She wanted the duke—Hugo—in a way that was quite improper for a lady. Her knees trembled, walking away from him. No mother was supposed to feel this way; she was certain of that.

“Mama,” Viola said, popping her thumb out of her mouth. “Cake.”

“I have rusks in the carriage and they’ll have to hold you until we are home,” Ophelia assured her.

Thankfully, Bisquet was waiting in the street. And even better, bundled on the carriage seat were all the lovely things they’d bought at the fair.

Ophelia promptly opened the bag containing a baker’s dozen of small mince pies, still holding warmth from the oven and smelling deliciously of raisins and spice.

“I want!” Viola said, learning forward eagerly.

They each ate a mince pie.

When Ophelia thought about the disdainful way that Lady Woolhastings’s eyes had rested on her hips, and the way her lip curled when she talked of food bought in an open market . . .

She ate another one.

Chapter Twelve

The Duke of Lindow’s townhouse

Mayfair

Hugo arrived home with his sister and children after a lengthy tea at Lady Woolhastings’s house—the very best tea from China, but no cake, as children shouldn’t eat sweets and Betsy was apparently already plump for her age. When Lady Woolhastings told Betsy not to eat another buttered toast because she must start to think about her figure, Betsy’s mouth fell open in surprise.

Unfortunately, the sight of her half-chewed toast disturbed their hostess. She shuddered and said, “Your governess is obviously ineffective, Lindow. Children should remain in the nursery until they can be counted upon to behave in a refined manner.”

Neither Louisa nor he said a word in response, but Lady Woolhastings—Edith—didn’t notice a lapse. She engaged in a conversation with Horatius, and as they were leaving, informed Hugo that his heir would be an excellent duke.

“He shows an admirable sense of civic responsibility, paired with just respect for the crown,” she said.

Hugo bowed. And left.

The moment the Wilde family walked into their own townhouse, all seven of his offspring dispatched themselves to the upper regions of the house, and he and Louisa turned as one and headed for the brandy decanter in his library.

“You’ve made a wretched bumble-broth of the courting I sent you to London to do,” Louisa said now.

Hugo looked at his twin, and then back at the glass of brandy he was holding. “I didn’t ask her to marry me.”

“What do you mean, you didn’t ask her to marry you?” Louisa asked.

“I didn’t.” Hugo’s voice was wooden, but beneath it was fury and helplessness.

And beneath that was desire for Ophelia, as fierce and hot as a lava flow that buries everything in its path.

“You didn’t ask Lady Woolhastings to marry you, although she announced that she was your fiancée?” Louisa asked, incredulous.

He finished off his brandy. “Precisely.”

His sister dropped into a chair. “She said it so calmly.”

“I believe it was a simple statement of fact, as she saw it. To be fair, I have escorted her to several events. She must have decided to accept my hand; therefore, my actual proposal was irrelevant.”

Louisa shook her head, dumbfounded. “What is she, one-eighth royal? Purple blood must be enough to poison the brain. You’ll have to have a conversation with her, albeit a painful one, and set the record straight.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“She was right to presume that I would propose. And she shared the information with others; she announced at the Frost Fair that we were betrothed.”

“Hugo, you can’t marry a woman simply because she decided to take you.”

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” Hugo said, getting up and pouring himself more brandy. “I did decide to marry her, although I hadn’t got around to a proposal. Ophelia won’t have me, Louisa. She said no.”

“Of course she said no the first time, you idiot!” his sister snapped.

“After I thought about it, I realized she was right,” Hugo said. “I can’t