The Duke Before Christmas - Bianca Blythe Page 0,22
take long to announce.”
“Several weeks,” Colin said.
“That I don’t have.”
“I-I am sorry,” Colin stammered.
Portia tilted her head, and an odd look drifted over her face. “The good thing is, you can fix it.”
Relief surged through him. He could fix this.
Colin nodded rapidly. “Anything. Absolutely anything.”
“I want you to marry me,” Portia said.
“E-excuse me?” Colin asked, and his relief dissipated.
She’d proposed. Pushy parents and desperate debutantes thronged through London, but he’d never received a proposal before, despite his lofty title and corresponding wealth and land acreage.
“Well, obviously Mr. Andrews can’t marry me anymore. And I do require a husband.”
“And I’ll do?” he asked hoarsely.
She sighed sweetly, and her eyes turned warm. “You mustn’t worry about your status. I know you’re a servant.”
“And you would still marry me?” Colin wrinkled his brow. Footmen never married wards of baronets.
“I’ll have plenty of money,” Portia explained. “And I’ll be sure to share some of it with you.”
Colin stared at her.
“I know we don’t know each other well,” Portia said. “But I would be ever so grateful.”
Colin tilted his head.
He was accustomed to matchmaking mamas and proud papas hinting at the supposed splendors of marriage, and the general suitability of their daughters to fulfill any duchess expectations. He wasn’t accustomed to anyone being so openly blatant about proposing marriage.
He wasn’t even certain women were supposed to be able to propose marriage; certainly he’d never heard of anyone else to do it.
Did she know he was a duke? Was this all an elaborate ruse?
Colin dismissed the thought instantly. He was fairly certain most members of the ton wouldn’t even converse with footmen, at least not with footmen outside their home.
“What about your standing in society?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’d rather have the money.”
He blinked. Her regard for her inheritance was refreshing. The women in London tended to pretend they had much in common with him, complimenting his taste in fashion, even though Niles regularly mourned that Colin had refused to compete with the Beau Brummels of this world. Still, he couldn’t marry her.
“Perhaps there’s someone else in Guernsey who has a more dignified position. Perhaps you can marry that person. I can put you in touch with the Duke and Duchess of Vernon. I believe they’re holidaying here.”
“How do you know the Duke and Duchess of Vernon?”
Colin’s cheeks warmed, and he scratched the back of his neck. “I—er—used to be a footman for him.”
“Ah.” Portia nodded.
“Would you like me to introduce you?”
Portia paused. “No, that’s not necessary. I’ll just marry you. Presuming you’re not violent.”
Colin scowled at the implication. “No, not violent.”
“And you don’t have a wife already?” Her eyes shimmered, as if she thought her interrogation amusing, as if she thought there couldn’t be any reason for them not to marry.
“No, no bigamist tendencies.”
“Well, then, it’s settled,” Portia said brightly, and something in her wide smile made his heart clench.
Still, marriage was a most unusual proposition.
“Shouldn’t you have more questions?” he pressed. “About likes? Values?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. We won’t be living together, naturally.”
“Oh.” He blinked.
“I wouldn’t expect a true marriage.” She tossed her thick glossy locks.
“No?”
“You can continue to be a footman if you like,” Portia said. “You’ll just be a somewhat wealthier one.”
“I see.” He stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Of course I’m serious,” she said matter-of-factly, as if the state of not being serious were some absurd condition that befell other, less thoughtful people. “So will you accept?”
He stared at her. The proper thing to do would be to refuse at once.
Blast it, he’d told her many lies.
Still...
He couldn’t quite form the word “no,” even though the one-syllable word had caused him little trouble before and had prevented him from much unpleasantness.
There was something appealing about her eagerness and no-nonsense demeanor.
In fact...
He couldn’t bring himself to reject her offer. She would, after all, lose her inheritance if she didn’t marry, and he would be the cause of it.
No. The gentlemanly thing to do would certainly be to accept, and if that fact came with a lifetime of being exposed to her, that wouldn’t be dreadful. After all, she didn’t expect them to even live together—his life could continue much the same as always. No one would find it terribly odd he’d married a debutante, and proud parents would no longer thrust their offspring at him in hopes he would declare himself immediately infatuated.
He gazed at her, noting the manner her luscious dark curls swept over her face in the wind, the exact shade of pink of her lips, and the brightness of