part about how he is a goddamn, bloody, sodding national hero .” His voice rose with each word. “Or did you not know he delivered Boney’s hat to the crown, along with a pair of golden French eagles?”
She said not a word.
“All right. I see I shall have to take your word that old sober sides offered for you. Now you will tell me why, God bless it, you haven’t seized the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be a bloody duchess in less than a month’s time. Set up forever like a queen. Rings on your fingers, bells on your toes, dining with kings, embroidering cushions for fat fannies or doing whatever the hell ladies do at court—”
“If you see all the advantages, then why don’t you marry him?” The last she nearly hissed.
He laughed heartily. “I would if I bloody could. Come now, what is this really about? Because if you think to suggest you’d prefer peeling rotted vegetables in my bloody kitchen to sorting jewels as Pymm’s duchess, well—”
“Has anyone ever told you that you blaspheme far too much? It ruins the effect. You might try to limit your oaths to one every other phrase instead of every phrase, Mr. Manning.”
He stared hard at her. “Why the devil won’t you marry him?”
She should have known that trying to converse with him about this would be next to impossible.“Perhaps I do not think he could make me happy or I, him.”
He rocked on his heels and made an exasperated sound as he removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair—and for a moment she was reminded of his half brother.
“And what does happiness have to do with it?” He spoke the word with exaggerated disdain. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’re a romantic? I would think life following the militia would have cured you of such nonsense.”
“I’ve never been a romantic.”
“Well, since you’ve no one to explain it to you, allow me to enlighten you on how marriage works. You must think of it like breeding horses. The mares are kept strictly away from the stallions during courtship. The owners, or parents if you will, carefully consider the bloodlines, the value of the potential mates, the robustness and likelihood of offspring. Only then is it decided if it will be a good coupling. Unless of course, as in your case, you have a winner of a horse who is full of himself and has broken down his stall to get to a mare’s scent that’s driving him mad. But what is not part of the consideration is goddamned, bloody happiness . For those who desire such fleeting illusions, my dear, that is sought in a completely different paddock.” He paused. “After the heir is got.”
“You appear to know all about it,” Elizabeth replied.
“Of course I do. Into whose paddocks do you think those titled, well-used mares jump?”
While it was obvious he tried to give an appearanceof wickedness in his smile, Elizabeth saw something darker—harder.
He exhaled with annoyance. “You’re missing the point. For Pymm’s astounding fortune, surely you can overlook a few tiny irritations such as his grandiose ideas of his own importance, his boorish, lecturing tendencies, and his, uh, less than polished wit. But, really, you should endure him even if he whinnies through his nose.”
“I cannot.” She closed her eyes briefly and then stared past him toward the fast-moving river.
“Why?”
And with that gently spoken word, she wavered, and prayed she would not actually be foolish enough to place her trust in him. But she could not stop herself from telling him, for she had a long history of misjudging others. In her indecision, she produced a nonsensical phrase she barely knew she spoke aloud. “I have no proof…”
“Of what?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“No.”
He grasped her arms and forced her to encounter his hard gaze. “Enough. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a hard-hearted blackguard, without a single shred of trust or compassion in your bullying
She said not a word.
“All right. I see I shall have to take your word that old sober sides offered for you. Now you will tell me why, God bless it, you haven’t seized the opportunity of a lifetime. You’d be a bloody duchess in less than a month’s time. Set up forever like a queen. Rings on your fingers, bells on your toes, dining with kings, embroidering cushions for fat fannies or doing whatever the hell ladies do at court—”
“If you see all the advantages, then why don’t you marry him?” The last she nearly hissed.
He laughed heartily. “I would if I bloody could. Come now, what is this really about? Because if you think to suggest you’d prefer peeling rotted vegetables in my bloody kitchen to sorting jewels as Pymm’s duchess, well—”
“Has anyone ever told you that you blaspheme far too much? It ruins the effect. You might try to limit your oaths to one every other phrase instead of every phrase, Mr. Manning.”
He stared hard at her. “Why the devil won’t you marry him?”
She should have known that trying to converse with him about this would be next to impossible.“Perhaps I do not think he could make me happy or I, him.”
He rocked on his heels and made an exasperated sound as he removed his hat and dragged his hand through his hair—and for a moment she was reminded of his half brother.
“And what does happiness have to do with it?” He spoke the word with exaggerated disdain. “Dear God, don’t tell me you’re a romantic? I would think life following the militia would have cured you of such nonsense.”
“I’ve never been a romantic.”
“Well, since you’ve no one to explain it to you, allow me to enlighten you on how marriage works. You must think of it like breeding horses. The mares are kept strictly away from the stallions during courtship. The owners, or parents if you will, carefully consider the bloodlines, the value of the potential mates, the robustness and likelihood of offspring. Only then is it decided if it will be a good coupling. Unless of course, as in your case, you have a winner of a horse who is full of himself and has broken down his stall to get to a mare’s scent that’s driving him mad. But what is not part of the consideration is goddamned, bloody happiness . For those who desire such fleeting illusions, my dear, that is sought in a completely different paddock.” He paused. “After the heir is got.”
“You appear to know all about it,” Elizabeth replied.
“Of course I do. Into whose paddocks do you think those titled, well-used mares jump?”
While it was obvious he tried to give an appearanceof wickedness in his smile, Elizabeth saw something darker—harder.
He exhaled with annoyance. “You’re missing the point. For Pymm’s astounding fortune, surely you can overlook a few tiny irritations such as his grandiose ideas of his own importance, his boorish, lecturing tendencies, and his, uh, less than polished wit. But, really, you should endure him even if he whinnies through his nose.”
“I cannot.” She closed her eyes briefly and then stared past him toward the fast-moving river.
“Why?”
And with that gently spoken word, she wavered, and prayed she would not actually be foolish enough to place her trust in him. But she could not stop herself from telling him, for she had a long history of misjudging others. In her indecision, she produced a nonsensical phrase she barely knew she spoke aloud. “I have no proof…”
“Of what?”
“You won’t believe me.”
“Try me.”
“No.”
He grasped her arms and forced her to encounter his hard gaze. “Enough. Tell me.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re a hard-hearted blackguard, without a single shred of trust or compassion in your bullying
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