Page 89 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
Jo sucked in a breath. Lilly clapped her hands together in delight. “Friday is tomorrow! Oh, just think, Harriet, tomorrow we…youwill be affianced!”
“I confess I am rather nervous about it,” Harriet said.
“I’m sure all ladies are nervous about being proposed to,” Frances said. “I know I would be.”
“Not me,” Lilly declared. “I would feel nothing but excitement and anticipation if I were you, dear Harriet. Just think…you shall soon be a duchess. Can you imagine it?”
Jo couldn’t speak. She couldn’t be a part of this conversation. If she opened her mouth—if she so much asmoved—right now, she’d lose her composure. She’d cry. She’d scream. She’d sink to the floor in a puddle of despair.
So she just sat, forcing her lips into a smile she hoped didn’t look grotesque, clutching her teacup so hard she was amazed it didn’t crack and spill tea all over her only serviceable walking dress.
…
After meeting his friend, the architect John Nash, at his club that afternoon and handing over Lilly Appleby’s notebook full of designs, Matthew returned home. As he dressed for dinner, he thought of the previous evening’s ball and how he had been relieved when he learned that Harriet Cherrington wasn’t in attendance. Then he’d been frustrated by his relief. He’d wanted to finally propose, but his goal had yet again been thwarted. Yet, instead of disappointment, a sense of lightness had overtaken him when he’d discovered that she wasn’t there.
The reason behind his relief had become crystal clear when he saw Joanna Porter in a simple but lovely silver and white evening gown, the lustrous blond streaks in her hair shining under the light of the chandelier as she stood by herself at the edge of the dance floor, her fan blocking the lower half of her face. His heart beating hard in his chest, he’d walked over to her. He’d asked her to dance.
He’d forgotten about Harriet Cherrington for the rest of the night.
Downstairs, Matthew entered the dining room to find his uncle already seated. He was, of course, situated at Matthew’s position at the head of the table. His uncle often did these things to elicit some kind of reaction from him that he’d add to his arsenal to use against Matthew later on. Today, Matthew wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
“Good evening, Uncle,” he said mildly.
George looked at him over his spectacles—a new addition since his previous visit. His hair was a good deal thinner and a good deal grayer than it had been last summer, as well. “Matty, dear boy. I’ve hardly seen you all day.”
Matthew fought his flinch. Only his mother had ever called him Matty. “I’ve been working,” he said.
“Do you have plans for this evening?” George continued.
“Yes.”
Cole had invited him to a gaming hell, and Matthew had told his friend no—evenings at gaming hells ranked just below balls, soirees, and musicales on Matthew’s list of top ten unappealing things to do in London, but every item on that list was still better than spending an evening with his uncle George.
Come to think of it, he mused as he took up a spoonful of spring soup, he might have to drop balls from the list. Balls where Joanna Porter was in attendance, that was. Before it had begun to rain, he’d had a somewhat pleasant time last night at the Houghton House ball. Especially during the waltz when his arm had been wrapped around the loveliest woman under the stars and he had held her hand tightly within his own, spinning her around the outdoor ballroom as her gray eyes sparkled and her joyful smile and tinkling laughter warmed him through.
George chewed thoughtfully on a forkful of sweetbreads. “What are you smiling about?”
“Nothing,” Matthew said automatically. No way in hell would he ever tell George about Jo.
“I see,” George said. “So you’ve acquired a mistress.”
Matthew looked up at him in confusion. “What?”
“You’re seeing your mistress tonight.” George said it as if it were a fact. “I’d recognize that smile anywhere. It’s all well and good, lad, as I’m sure your appetites are robust, as mine are, and like all healthy men such as ourselves, you require an outlet for them.”
“I assure you—”
George cut him off. “But take some advice from me, Matty.” He pointed his fork at Matthew. “Never allow the woman to have any control over you whatsoever. Keep her on a tight and short leash and jerk it hard whenever necessary. It is best she is given little doubt that you will withdraw your support the moment she displeases you—”
For God’s sake. Enough of this nonsense. “My evening plans do not involve a woman.”
“Oh?”
“I do not have a mistress, Uncle.”
“Well.” George huffed. “Why on earth not?”
Even if Matthew did have a mistress, he’d walk into the fires of hell before discussing her with Uncle George.
