Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,108

Cassandra Pomfret had told him he was splendid. Last night she’d taken shocking measures to demonstrate her feelings . . . then let him take shocking liberties. Today, while in full possession of her reason and not influenced by kisses and caresses and other lures, and in the sobering presence of her mother and sister, she’d said yes.

Lady deGriffith would put in a kind word with her husband on his behalf, and that would make Ashmont’s way a degree easier. Not easy, by any means. He labored under no illusions. Where Lord deGriffith was concerned, the way would be bumpy, dark, and abounding in pitfalls.

That was as it should be. The bulk of Ashmont’s old life was behind him and the new was in process, full of obstacles and uncertainties. He was ready for whatever came. In fact, being a fighter at heart, he looked forward happily to the challenge.

Midafternoon

As she usually did on Saturday afternoons while they were in London, Mama joined her sisters for tea. Today the ladies gathered at Aunt Elizabeth’s.

Cassandra and Hyacinth, meanwhile, were in their sitting room, talking about the prospects of their respective beaux, although Hyacinth would not acknowledge Humphrey Morris as a beau.

“I enjoy his company,” she was saying, “and I know he can be of use to Papa. But as I told you some time ago, I’m in no hurry to marry. Truly, I don’t feel ready to think of any gentleman in those terms. Certainly I should like to know what Papa thinks of him, in the event he decides to take Mr. Morris on. After that it will be some time before we know the verdict.”

“If he can survive working for Papa, he’ll show stamina and resilience at the very least. And if our parent can tolerate him for any length of time, that will tell us something about the gentleman’s personal qualities as well as his character.” Cassandra smiled at her sister. “You’re cautious. Unlike me.”

“I’m eighteen,” Hyacinth said. “And unlike you, I have not been following the gentleman’s career for a great part of my life.”

Though it was mainly from afar, Cassandra had followed Ashmont’s mad career for some sixteen years, more or less. Not that she’d devoted all her energies to waiting and hoping. Even in her idealistic youth she’d set out to make her own life and find her own way. Even during the worst of her infatuation, he’d never been the center of her universe. More like a distant star.

That was the trouble with the ghastly poem Owsley had given her: The lady in the poem lived the narrow life Mary Wollstonecraft had deplored. It bore no resemblance to the life Cassandra had made for herself, thanks to her grandparents and Keeffe.

“At least I know the worst about him,” she said. “That’s a great deal more than most brides can say.”

“We’re guarded so closely, it’s nearly impossible to tell what a gentleman is truly like. How many hours, altogether, does the average young lady spend in a gentleman’s company before they’re wed? She has no idea how he takes his coffee or tea, let alone what he’s like when he’s disappointed or angry or suffering from a cold or dyspepsia. We go into marriage knowing practically nothing—his dancing ability, his manners in public, his dress, his looks. All superficial. All we know of his personality is what he shows while wooing, when he displays himself at his best.”

“That won’t be my case, quite,” Cassandra said. “If, that is, Papa consents.”

Hyacinth wasn’t so lost to reason as to say he wouldn’t reject Ashmont out of hand. She knew how their father felt about the duke. While the feeling had softened a degree from utter loathing, Lord deGriffith still regarded him in the way any keeper of hens regarded hawks and falcons. She said, “If he doesn’t?”

Colson appeared in the doorway. “If you please, Miss Pomfret, I’m to tell you Lady Bartham is here and wishes to speak to you.”

Lady Bartham knew Lord deGriffith would be out of the house for the afternoon, luring her starry-eyed son into his political coils. She knew also that Lady deGriffith would join her sisters for their weekly tea party.

One couldn’t ask for a more fortuitous set of circumstances, offering more than sufficient time to prepare. Following her meeting with Owsley, she did a little shopping in Piccadilly, stopping at Hatchards, Fortnum and Mason, and other establishments. Then she climbed into her carriage, returned home, and changed her dress into one