Page 6 of Two Blessings For His Duchess
Euphemia opened her mouth to deliver a stinging retort about the absurdity of his claim, but the syllable died in her throat. Her gaze, previously fixed on his irritatingly handsome face, finally slipped past his shoulder to take in the rest of her surroundings.
There were no dainty watercolor landscapes on the walls like she had seen when she had arrived the day before. Instead, massive oil paintings of stern-faced ancestors stared down at her with open disapproval. The delicate chintz curtains she remembered from the night before were actually heavy, emerald-green velvet, and on the mahogany nightstand beside her sat a half-empty glass of sweet wine was a silver pocket watch.
“This…” she said, in a voice that had lost a considerable amount of its earlier authority. “…is not my room.”
“It is not.”
He looked down at her... at the desperate way she was clutching his coverlet to her chin, then looked away and scoffed.
“You can drop the theatrical display of bewilderment, Miss Vane. The performance is entirely unnecessary.”
Euphemia blinked, her throat tightening. “Performance?”
“Let us not insult each other’s intelligence,” he said. “I know exactly who you are. One hears things.”
The vague edge in his voice made her completely alert. She slowly slid her legs out from under the heavy coverlet, standing up from the bed. She kept her chin high, though she was intensely aware of her bare feet on his polished floorboards and the state of her hair.
“Then since you know who I am,” she said. “You will understand that I have had quite enough scandal to last me several lifetimes and have absolutely no interest in manufacturing more.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “Because whatever conclusion you have arrived at is entirely false. Last night, I drank a rather excessive amount of very sweet wine. I did not realize it possessed such a... delayed potency. When I left the ballroom, I simply made my way upstairs, found a door, set my glass down, and went straight to sleep. I did not light a lamp. I did not summon a maid. I was simply too exhausted to notice the decor. This morning is the first time I have opened my eyes since midnight, and frankly, I am quite astonished that it is already dawn. I had not expected to sleep so well.”
The man shifted his weight, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His expression unyielding.
“So,” he said. “I am expected to believe that you did not come here to camp out on my bed and wait for my return in the dark? That you had no grand design to ensure I found you here? That you did not plan to be discovered in this room when I returned.”
“That is precisely what I am telling you.”
“That the entire thing was an accident?”
“Yes.”
“You lost your way?”
“Yes.”
“Do I look like a fool, Miss Vane?” he asked and squinted his eyes. “You expect me to believe that?”
“Do you honestly believe I did this deliberately?” She took a step forward, her hands curling into small fists at her sides. She knew how terrible this looked. She understood that a strange woman in a gentleman’s bed chamber required an explanation, and she had been entirely prepared to offer a dignified, deeply contrite apology. But his complete refusal to grant her even a shred of benefit of the doubt was infuriating.
“Sir, I would never rope any man into a scandal,” she said, her voice tight. “It is entirely against my principles.”
“Do you want to know what I think?” he asked.
“No, Sir. I do not.”
“I’ll tell you anyway,” he continued, glancing down at the floor before meeting her eyes. “I think that a cornered woman will resort to remarkable logic to justify an insane plan. I am not a man who trades in gossip, Miss Vane, but even I could not escape the whispers at the ball last night. Everyone was talking about it. I know you are ruined. I know about Lord Finch, andI know you find yourself in an incredibly desperate position. But trying to trap a man of my standing in a scandal to force a marriage? It is a cruel thing to do.”
He took a slow step toward her, looking down at her like a strict schoolmaster addressing a particularly disappointing pupil. “No matter how desperate your circumstances are, no matter how much the world has backed you into a corner, one does not use these tactics. It is low. It is a thoroughly unprincipled way to navigate society.”
Euphemia stood entirely bewildered. What could she possibly say to defend herself? To an outside observer… to a judge as severe as him, the evidence was damning.
Yet, the absolute arrogance of his lecture made something fierce snap inside her. Desperate? Yes. Clumsy with directions? Clearly. But she was raised by Lady Byron, and she would not be lectured on morality by a man who looked at her as if she were a common thief.
“A low thing to do?” she echoed, her voice dropping as she took a step toward him, matching his stare. “How comforting it must be, Sir, to view the world from a height where a simple wrong turn is elevated to a malicious conspiracy. I assure you, if I were going to compromise a man of thetonfor his fortune, I would have been more strategic with my pick. You would most certainly not be on the list.”
Before he could even process the remark, Euphemia snatched up her stray slippers from the floor, turned sharply on her bare heel, and marched directly toward the door.
She reached the heavy oak paneling, her fingers wrapping around the cold brass handle, desperate for the hallway and the sanity it promised. But right as she began to turn it, a sudden movement cut off her escape.
A hand clamped gently but firmly around her forearm.
