Always the Rival (Never the Bride #7) - Emily E K Murdoch Page 0,18
any Yorkshire man says. God may have loved Yorkshire, but he lived in Scotland.”
Westray’s dark eyes twinkled. “And yet you do not even know whether you will live there with your bride or down here in the dirt of London. You surprise me, Orrinshire. I would have thought your Miss Lloyd and yourself would have spent hours discussing these sorts of things. Where you want to live, what home you will run, how many carriages, that sort of thing.”
A slither of discomfort slid down Charles’s throat and into his stomach. It had never occurred to him to converse on these topics with Miss Lloyd.
He was an Orrinshire, and she would be in a few short weeks’ time. Orrinshires did things in a certain way, and when she became his wife, she would bend to fit them.
“You have not discussed servants, or balls, or whether you will travel to Europe?” Westray persisted, the silver platter in his hand almost empty.
Charles shook his head. “You know how it is, Westray, with these arranged marriages. I do not believe I have had one single meaningful conversation with Miss Lloyd in our entire acquaintance.”
His friend’s eyes bulged. “Not one?”
“Why would we? I knew I would have an arranged marriage, Miss Frances Lloyd – the Honorable Miss Frances Lloyd, I should say – was chosen for me, and I acquiesced.” Charles prided himself that he could speak of it with only a hint of bitterness. That was an improvement, at any rate. “I suppose it is not the sort of marriage that would agree with everyone, but it is what the Orrinshire name expects.”
Westray offloaded the empty platter onto the unsuspecting arms of a passing footman and scowled at his friend. “You speak as though you have agreed to a death sentence.”
Charles bit down the retort that this was worse because he would be alive to endure it. “My marriage will certainly not be like some.”
A cheer went up as the musicians returned from their refreshment, and people started pairing off and moving to the center of the room.
“Most dukes do not marry for love,” Westray said quietly.
“I thought I always would,” Charles said somewhat fiercely. “If we do not have the opportunity to choose our partners for life, then who does?”
Westray removed two glass of wine from a passing footman’s platter, downed one, and handed the other to Charles.
“Was there someone, in particular, you had in mind?”
Panic flooded through Charles’s veins. “Of course not!”
As the pounding of his heart slowed, a memory surfaced in his mind, Priscilla Seton, leaning against the chestnut tree, her eyes bright and a smile dancing on her lips.
Priscilla? Why had he thought of her?
“Besides, if you ask me, there is very little wrong with your Miss Frances Lloyd,” Westray was saying. “I have met her but a few times, admittedly, but on each occasion, I was not repulsed.”
Charles could not help but laugh. “Is that the standard we are going for now? Not repulsed?”
It was all so absurd. Here they stood, in a virtual sea of eligible young ladies moving as though pulled by the tide, and he was engaged to a woman that…well. He felt nothing for whatsoever.
“Not repulsed is far better than some marriages.” Westray grinned. “Trust me, if I had to endure an arranged marriage, being not repulsed would be something I would cling to.”
Charles sighed. How long had he been at this damned ball, and when could he leave? Westray was good company, but he could not stand being here much longer.
“Miss Lloyd is a respectable, amiable, pretty girl, I suppose,” he said. “But she is not the one I would have chosen, and I dare say given a choice, she would not have chosen me either. We mean nothing to each other – less than nothing!”
His words seemed to hang out in the air before them.
Westray shuffled his feet before speaking quietly. “In a few weeks, you will be husband and wife.”
Charles opened his mouth, but no words came out. Weeks? Yes, it was weeks before their wedding, as his mother kept reminding him. Just a few weeks, and then his freedom, such as it was, would be over.
“Yes, I cannot believe it is so soon!”
Charles closed his mouth. His mother had appeared as though conjured by his very thoughts, and she was beaming.
“I must confess myself more than a little excited, Lord Westray,” the dowager duchess said as Westray fell into a hasty bow. “Are you not excited, Charles?”