Page 18 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
When Papa had introduced her to his great passion, architecture, there had been no turning back for Lilly. She had become enamored of the elements of design and form. She studied Greek and Roman architecture, all the contemporary architects as well as any book on architecture she could find, and constantly worked on new designs in her notebooks.
Lovely, educated, and talented, Lilly was now a lady in every respect—except the one that mattered to theton. She was the daughter of commoners, her place cemented on a low rung of society’s ladder.
Jo had thought Charles better than that. He had known exactly who Lilly was, but he’d loved her anyway.
Yet if it were true that he had no fortune, he would need to marry someone who brought not only pedigree into the marriage, but a handsome dowry.
“Oh no,” she murmured.
“Thanks to my many debts and my inability to repay them, my family is on the verge of being cast out from society.” He made a choking noise. “I can’t—I won’t—allow that to happen to my sisters.”
Hence, Charles Cherrington dancing with that dazzling lady in diamonds. He needed to marry into money. He needed to do it to ensure his family’s future. With his bloodline as the grandson of an earl, his charm, and good looks, he would easily find someone suitable.
“I need to save my family,” Charles whispered.
This was not something Jo could fault. She’d do the same for her own family. She’d done everything she could, aside from selling her body and soul, to keep them out of the poorhouse.
“I must marry someone with a dowry.” Charles looked green about the gills, his voice raspy and dry, and paper-thin. “An heiress, or a daughter of a great house, or someone who will be able to help me dig my sisters and myself out of the shambles my father made of our family.”
“Oh, Charles,” Jo murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
The young man stepped forward and leaned heavily on the balustrade beside her. “As am I,” he mumbled.
“But you should have told Lilly sooner,” Jo added. “Before…”
Before they’d taken it as far as they had.
“I know.” He groaned. “I was stupid. I was a fool in love. I wasn’t thinking. And now I’ve hurt”—he took a shaky breath—“the person most important to me in the world. And I must marry someone I shall never love.”
Every part of Jo rebelled at this. This couldn’t happen. It was appalling. Wrong. There had to be a way out of this.
She’d always believed love could conquer all. But in this case, how could it?
Chapter Six
Matthew couldn’t decide if the anxious anticipation he felt before his Saturday afternoon meeting with Miss Porter was due to dread or excitement. He gazed out the carriage window as the horses clomped down Duke Street, trying not to think about it. Trying to quell that strange sensation stirring in his gut.
His experience at the Dickersons’ soiree had confirmed one thing: He needed the matchmaker’s help. He’d danced with three young women. He might not consider himself particular when it came to finding a bride, but those three had entirely missed the mark.
The first one had been a literal diamond heiress who had simpered and fawned, as if she thought of herself as nothing more than an ant beneath his toes. The mere thought of spending an entirety of a marriage trying to convince her otherwise exhausted him.
The second had been a young widow who’d been so self-conscious and shy that you’d have thought she’d neither met nor touched a man before. Her face had been beet-red throughout the entire dance, and she and Matthew had said less than ten words to each other, most of them including the words, “Would you like to dance?” and “Yes, thank you.”
He had a difficult time believing the lady had ever been married.
The third had been the worst. She’d stroked his shoulder and commented on the lovely wool of his coat. Then she’d asked about the size of his house in London, how many carriages he owned and whether one of them was a phaeton—“I’ve always wanted to ride in one!”—and whether his castle boasted a turret, because she’d “always imagined I’d have a turret in my future.”
His castle boasted more than one turret, and he did own a phaeton, in fact, but he’d be damned if he’d marry a woman who wanted him either for his wheeled conveyances or for a musty tower.
The carriage stopped in the mews behind Miss Porter’s Beaumont Street townhouse, and Matthew grabbed his walking stick and stepped onto the short garden path that led to the house. “Thank you, Ted,” he said to his driver through the mist of rain. “You may return in a half hour to take me to the boathouse.”
Surely half an hour would be all he needed.
Ted frowned dubiously. “Doesn’t seem like much of a day for a row on the Thames, Your Grace.”
Matthew glanced at the sky. It would clear in the next hour or so. “It will be fine.”
Ted knew better than to question him further. He tipped his cap. “Aye, sir.”
