Page 102 of The Duke's Rules Of Engagement
“At Vauxhall…” Jo’s voice trailed off. “I see. You were with him when we were separated, weren’t you?”
Harriet had the presence of mind to blush. “I am so sorry about that, but yes, I was. We slipped away during the fireworks, planning to return immediately, but…” Her flush deepened. “We lost track of the time.”
Being the older woman, the on-the-shelf spinster matchmaker, Jo supposed there were a variety of issues from that night that she should chastise Harriet about. Yet, her innate passion for romance overruled any objections she might have. Harriet had stars in her eyes, and Jo had no desire to wipe them away. The young woman was in love, and as hurt and sad as Jo was, she still believed in love, and Harriet was as deserving as anyone to find her own happily ever after. “I am so happy for you, Harriet.”
Harriet sighed. “The duke calling it off is terrible news for both our families, Miss Porter. But I was thinking, maybe Mr. Gifford—if he should propose to me—will relieve my family’s burden, at least somewhat? Then, my brother might be able to offer for Lilly, after all?”
Jo patted Harriet’s hand. “Perhaps.” But she doubted it. Mr. Gifford was no duke, and if he were in possession of even a quarter of a fortune the size of Matthew’s, she would have heard far more about him by now. “Has Mr. Gifford initiated a courtship?”
“No.” Harriet shook her head. “But then again, he learned soon after Lady Campbell’s ball, like the rest of London, that the duke was pursuing me. Now that that courtship is off, I do hope I shall see him again.”
“I wish you the very best,” Jo said, and she meant it.
The tea arrived and Harriet poured Jo a cup. As they sipped, they spoke of the season’s fashions and how, in the two years since the decisive battle at Waterloo, the trim of women’s pelisses and jackets often had a military-inspired cut, but that trend might finally be fading.
When she finished her cup of tea, Jo took her leave, not feeling better, per se, but at least not having to bear the additional burden of another woman’s heartbreak.
…
That night, after Mrs. Ferguson and Mama had gone to bed and Lilly, Bess, and Jo were sitting in the parlor, Bess rounded on Jo.
“All right,” she said. “Enough of this. Out with it.”
Jo looked up from the book she’d been pretending to read. “What do you mean?”
“Something is wrong,” Bess said. “I see it. Lilly has seen it. You’re keeping something from us, something that is making you pale and preventing you from smiling or eating, and we want to know what it is.”
Jo glanced at Lilly sitting on the chair across from her. Lilly shrugged. “I understand you feel horrid about the Duke of Crestmont not marrying Harriet and the fact that Charles and I can no longer…” She trailed off, swallowed, and continued. “We know it is more than sympathy for me, Jo. So what is it?”
Jo looked back down at her book, closed it slowly, and gripped its edges. “I’ve done a terrible thing,” she murmured, staring down at the brown cover.
Instantly, both women moved to her side.
“I doubt you are capable of doing a truly terrible thing,” Bess said.
“Iknowyou’re not,” Lilly said.
“But I have,” Jo whispered.
“Tell us what it is,” Bess said gently.
She looked up, at Lilly on her left and Bess on her right, each one of them holding one of her hands. She squeezed their hands tight.
“I fell in love,” she confessed. “With the most inappropriate person possible.”
“Who?” Lilly breathed.
“The Duke of Crestmont.”
…
Pleasant Hill, being situated on the crest of a long, low hill, was not Matthew’s favorite place, though he had spent many long days here, sultry summer days, crisp winters during school holidays, and the months after the Fanny Fleming disaster when he’d locked himself in the bedchamber assigned to him, too heartsick and miserable to emerge for days at a time.
For, while Pleasant Hill was pleasant enough, it was not near a body of water. Which meant there was no rowing to be had within several miles of the place, and every muscle in Matthew’s body ached to pull an oar.
Day and night, he paced the halls of the country estate rebuilt by Winthrop’s father after the turn of the century. Matthew was anxious and restless, and he knew he’d need to go back to London soon, if only to take a visit to the boathouse and row until his body ached and his arms felt like they might fall clean away from his body.
But the idea of returning to London made nausea swirl in his gut. Maybe he’d visit Hanford Castle instead. The castle lands bordered the River Trent, where he’d spent many an afternoon sweating in a boat under the milky sunlight of Nottinghamshire.
