“Get what over with? You are to marry him, aren’t you?”
“He might plan to back out.” But she didn’t really believe he would. The fact that he had come had probably sealed both their fates.
When His Grace’s frankly appraising gaze rested on Nellie, she grew nervous, unsure what his look had meant.
He turned back to speak to her father.
She stood upright, waiting for Papa to finish introducing the duke to their friends and neighbors.
Shewsbury hadn’t glanced at her again after that first swift appraisal. “He doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do,” Nellie said in an undertone to Marian.
The house party was arranged for them to get to know each other. Even this early in the proceedings, she feared it wouldn’t go well. Everyone knew, of course. All the guests were glancing toward her.
“Nonsense, Nellie, you always tend to see the worst in every situation. In time, he is sure to love you,” her loyal sister said. “How could he not?”
Nellie fondly squeezed her sister’s arm. “I hope we can at least be civil to each other. But there’s quite a lot about him I dislike already. Still, if he doesn’t ask me to marry him, it won’t be the end of the world, will it?” There were few men who liked a bookish female. It was almost as bad as having smallpox scars.
Kealan Walsh had. He’d composed a poem to her eyes in iambic pentameter. Violet pools of mystery. Although she doubted there was much that mysterious about her, she had enjoyed his attention, his declarations of undying love. She’d fancied herself in love with him, too. And she had enjoyed the picture he painted of their life together at the time. A poet’s wife, assisting him with his work, had been very appealing.
There would be no such discussions of poetry with Shewsbury. Nellie felt frustrated with the duke already, even though, to be fair, he had yet to speak to her, let alone censure her.
Marian laughed. “How can you be sure he won’t come to love you. It took weeks for Gerald to show much interest, and another two months before he declared his love and proposed to me.”
“Mmm… still,” Nellie said. “Surely a man would prefer to choose his bride, not have one thrust upon him.” And she wished to do the same. What common ground could she find with a duke who could add up long lists of numbers without an abacus and spent his time boxing and fencing? She had no interest in any sporting activity, except for riding, and shuttlecock, perhaps. She couldn’t imagine him on the other side of the net. It seemed too tame a sport. Her face burned. She wished she had her fan. How she abhorred being on display for the consideration of His Grace, like a horse at Tattersall’s auction.
“Father is bringing him to you,” Marian said in a solemn tone as if announcing a funeral cortege.
With a broad smile, their father paused to introduce His Grace to another guest, then advanced almost regally over the swirled patterned rose and gold carpet, to where she and Marian stood.
Papa had talked of this proposed union as if it had been decreed by the gods on Mount Olympus. He and the old duke had planned the joining of their families years ago. She suspected their agreement had been nothing short of a blood pact, which brought home to her with force that, except for dying, she would not escape marriage to Shewsbury. Unless he backed out of it. Now that his father was dead, he might. Her breath hitched. Papa would be crushed. She wondered again why it mattered so much to him, as it had never been properly explained to her.
“Chin up, Nellie girl.” Marian murmured close to her ear.
“This dress is too formal. As if I’m trying too hard. I should have worn the embroidered muslin,” Nellie whispered back, surprised that she cared at all what this man thought of her.
“It’s perfect, the violet tones compliment your eyes.”
A maid entered the room. “Lady Belfries, Nanny urgently requests a moment of your time in the nursery.” Marian gave Nellie’s arm a discreet squeeze and hurried away to attend to her unholy terror, two-year-old son, Frederick.
Abandoned, Nellie stood still, her hands clasped together, aware that the hum of conversation had quietened.
Her father and the duke stood before her. Papa seemed to have shrunk and begun to look old, his hair almost completely gray, she realized with a pang. Perhaps it was because he stood beside the duke, who was so vitally alive. “My dear, I am delighted to introduce His Grace, Duke of Shewsbury. Your Grace, my second-eldest daughter, Lady Cornelia.”
The duke bowed. “Delighted to meet you at last, Lady Cornelia.”
His voice held her attention, deep and composed.
“How do you do, Your Grace.” Close up, the expression on his lean, aristocratic face didn’t look especially haughty, but nor did he look overeager to meet her.
Nellie rose from her curtsey and could not banish the thought of the duke’s handsome features, especially his attractive mouth. He exuded a sense of calm authority. It seemed at odds with the description of him in the newspaper article attacking a journalist. His serious, blue gaze roamed her face. Did he hope for someone more girlish? She was hardly a young debutant after two unsuccessful Seasons when she’d failed to find anyone she wished to marry.
“It was most unfortunate when our youngest sister, Alice, came down with the measles,” she blurted, hating how awkward she felt. “It spread through the family and staff and condemned us all to the country until after Christmas.”
“I hope your sister and those afflicted have recovered?”
“Oh, yes, everyone is in good health now, thank you. I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous?”
“Not at all. I took the opportunity to visit a livestock market. There’s a hardy breed of sheep to be found in this part of the country, Herdwicks, which I plan
