Ten Things I Hate About the Duke - Loretta Chase Page 0,74
think of this as a game. A prank. She’d have fun while it lasted. She had no doubt she’d be sorry when it was over. She would miss the winning ways and the moments of naughtiness. She’d miss the duke’s voice and his touch. She would probably weep and feel sorry for herself.
But she’d get over it. She’d survived before, when she was young and believed a disappointment in love was the end of the world. She’d survive this.
Bartham House
Sunday
“Indeed, Mr. Owsley, it breaks my heart to see that girl throw herself away on the Duke of Ashmont,” said Lady Bartham. “What can she look forward to but misery?”
The countess had waylaid him after church and invited him to stop for tea.
She’d heard about events at the Adelphi last night. She knew Mr. Owsley had tried to talk to Miss Pomfret and had been rebuffed. She knew her third son had been there, dangling after Miss Hyacinth Pomfret. Given the number of other gentlemen also dangling, she wasn’t overly concerned about this.
She was deeply concerned about the treacherous machinations of certain persons: Lady deGriffith was behind last night’s scenes, she had no doubt. The countess was well aware that last night’s events were already dismantling her lovely campaign of character assassination.
“I trust that is not so,” Mr. Owsley said. “Indeed, I hope it is not.”
“So unfortunate. But then, Lord deGriffith has never been able to manage the girls. It is a great pity, because all Miss Pomfret needs is a patient but firm hand.”
Mr. Owsley looked up from his gloom. “Do you truly believe so?”
“I have no doubt of it. The trouble is, she’s been let to go her own way for too long. A shocking waste, in my opinion. Such a handsome girl, and so clever. She could be of the greatest use to her husband. But what use will Ashmont make of her? He’ll amuse himself for a time, then go on to the next entertainment.” She shook her head sadly.
“Perhaps he’ll make her happy,” Owsley said. “One must hope so.”
If he was hopeful, he was looking rather grim about it.
“A most regrettable failure in upbringing,” Lady Bartham pressed on. “Had she been my daughter I should have recognized her potential and groomed her to be a great political hostess.”
That got his full attention.
“A rising diplomat or Member of Parliament could achieve great things with her by his side,” the lady continued. “But she is not my daughter, and I can’t hope to see her as my daughter-in-law. The two eldest boys are married, and Humphrey, along with a hundred other young men, is besotted with her sister.”
“Miss Hyacinth Pomfret appears to be an amiable young lady,” Owsley said.
Lady Bartham waved away the infuriatingly beautiful younger sister. “No doubt. But such a pity about Miss Pomfret. One can only stand by and grieve for her. Such a waste. Such a great waste.” She shook her head sadly.
With these and a few more words in the same vein, she undermined Mr. Owsley’s sensible intentions.
He reflected on Miss Pomfret’s stunning good looks and her intelligence. He thought of this handsome young woman thrown away on the Duke of Ashmont. He maddened himself by imagining her in the duke’s bed.
Meanwhile, the words patient but firm hand lodged themselves in his brain, along with great political hostess and achieve great things.
His hostess administered the coup de grâce as he was leaving. She gave him a poem. Titled “The Bridal Gift,” it had appeared in the Court Journal.
Taking up the entire front page of the weekly paper, the poem painted the miseries of an ill-advised marriage. The husband depicted seemed to Owsley to bear a powerful resemblance to the Duke of Ashmont. Though it had been published months ago and was addressed to a Lady Charlotte ——, Mr. Owsley thought, as Lady Bartham intended him to do, that it might have been written expressly for Miss Pomfret.
By the time he left Bartham House, he believed it was his duty to save Lord deGriffith’s eldest daughter from herself.
Chapter 12
The courtship show continued on Sunday afternoon, when they rode in Hyde Park.
All the world converged on the park on Sunday, a sound reason to avoid it, especially on a hot July day. But they were here for the crowd, Ashmont and his trio of ladies: Miss Flower, in a blue riding dress; her aunt, in green; and Miss Pomfret in a different shade of green, riding a fine blood bay.