What the Hart Wants - Fiona Davenport Page 0,17
much?” she asked.
“Because, like it or not, and I happen to like it not, in order to survive in the world, we must abide by its rules to some extent. A ruined reputation can destroy a woman’s life.”
She snorted. “I don’t care what the preening peahens of society think of me.”
He let out a laugh. “That much is clear, lass. But consider those around you. It’s a sad fact that a woman’s ruination damages the lives of her loved ones, especially her sisters. No doubt, your brother would agree.”
“Dorothea’s reputation is quite safe, I assure you,” Lilah said.
“And your other sister?”
Her stomach tightened. How did he know about Daisy? She turned away, her cheeks warming.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I see I’ve broached an unwelcome topic of conversation.”
“But it’s clearly a topic which others are content to speak of. Might I ask who you were discussing my family with?”
Now it was his turn to look uncomfortable. “I heard mention of it at Lady de Bron’s card party.”
“Why on earth would you spend time with that woman?”
“I had no idea how disagreeable she was until I spent an evening in her company.”
“And what did she say about us?”
“I’m not one to repeat gossip, Miss Hart.”
“But you’ll allude to it and leave me wanting.”
He smiled. “Very well, she said that your parents displayed a singular lack of imagination when naming you all. And she referred to a sister who disappeared in suspicious circumstances and a brother who is never seen and refuses to speak to his family.”
“Devon prefers to live alone,” she said. “He dislikes company other than his closest acquaintances, but he does have friends. More than Dexter, at least.”
“Then, perhaps Mr. Hart should widen his circle of friends.”
“You’ll struggle to secure a friendship with Dex,” she said. “Even the best of men would find it difficult, for he trusts no one.”
He placed his hand on his chest in a gesture of mock hurt. “You wound me, Miss Hart, if you think me not a good man.”
“I said the best of men, Your Grace, not a good man.”
“Then I’ll take comfort in knowing that while you do not consider me the best of men, at least you consider me to be a good one.”
“I have yet to see evidence of that,” she retorted.
His body shook with laughter. “I must say the ladies of my acquaintance in London are proving more of an intellectual challenge than I’d anticipated,” he said. “Mrs. Pelham, for example, has a little more character than the—what did you call them?—ah yes! Preening peahens.”
“Anne is an exception,” Lilah said. “I’m astonished at how level-headed she is given what she endured at the hands of your predecessor.”
“My predecessor?”
“The twelfth duke was not kind. But given his ancestry, it was not unexpected.”
He stiffened and lowered his arm.
“I must strive to overcome your prejudice.”
“Prejudice?” she snorted. “You’re a man with money and a title. What can you know of prejudice compared to a woman?”
“Like yourself?” he asked. “My dear Miss Hart, consider your privileges. You’ll never want for food, warmth, or shelter from the elements. When the time comes, your brother will choose a husband for you, and you’ll settle into the comfortable life of a society lady with a litter of children to occupy yourself with. What can you have to complain about regarding prejudice?”
Indignation swelled within her at his assumption that her primary objective was to secure a husband.
“I’ve no intention of shackling myself to the whims of a man for some time yet,” she said. “I’m interested in far more than the securing of a home and the procreation of children!”
A passing couple stopped and stared.
“Well, really!” the woman cried. The man with her steered her off the path as if afraid Lilah’s presence might taint her.
Lilah glanced at her companion. Though he looked straight ahead, his eyes shone with mirth, and his lips were curled into a lop-sided smile.
“So, Miss Hart, what do you wish to do, if procreation has no appeal?”
“I shan’t tell you,” she said. “You’ll only laugh.”
He stopped and turned to face her, and her body jolted at the intensity of his eyes.
“You have my word. I won’t laugh.”
“I want to write,” she said. “Poetry—words from the heart which express the soul. But nobody will read my poems, let alone publish them. It seems as if fiction is the province of men.”
“I beg to differ,” he said. “What about Mrs. Radcliffe? I understand she’s a favorite among young ladies who dream of being rescued from