She’d been considering it for a while now, but hadn’t realized she’d made the decision until the words tumbled forth. Heloise’s experience today had starkly illustrated what would happen in the very best of circumstances.
“You want to break things off with me?”
“Yes, and I don’t wish to engage in an arrangement with another gentleman again. Ever. I am tired of living on the fringe, of wondering if I should have stayed a poor seamstress and tried to work my way into a finer shop in Mayfair.”
“I’ve seen your attempts at embroidery, Belle. I can’t see you as a modiste.” The humor in Lucien’s tone should have made her smile, but she was just…cold.
“Just because I can’t sew doesn’t mean I can’t manage others who do.”
He laughed, and the sound was the first thing that had given her a modicum of comfort besides the sherry. “That I can imagine. You are a managing sort. Indeed, I could see you in charge of a grand house with an army of servants and a half dozen children.”
She pursed her lips at him. “Please tell me that isn’t a proposal. It was extremely unromantic.”
He came toward her, but stopped after a few steps. “May I approach?” He eyed her with hesitation and perhaps a ray of hope.
“You may.”
When he was close, but not too close, he took her free hand, clasping it gently between his thumb and fingers. “I would never deign to offer for your hand. I am not worthy.”
She let out a most unladylike snort. “Your father would say I am not worthy.”
“True, but he has exceptionally poor taste.” Lucien flashed a smile, then pressed a kiss to her hand before letting her go. “If you aren’t to continue in this life, as you put it, what do you plan to do?”
“I’m considering my options.” She had absolutely no idea. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. She had a bit of money saved, but not enough to open her own modiste shop.
He arched a dark brow, the glow of hope in his gaze brightening. “Would you consider a separation gift from me that would see you settled wherever and however you’d like?”
“Absolutely not. You should know me better than that. I don’t take charity.”
“I’d say you earned it.”
“That isn’t much better. You’ve already compensated me more extravagantly than most women in my trade can expect.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I can afford it.”
Mirabelle let out a low grunt and stalked away from him again. “Oh, just go. You’re no better than them, tossing around your importance and your wealth. I don’t need either of those things. I’ll provide for myself, thank you, just as I have always done.”
“Your pride is a marvelous thing. Please don’t let it get the better of you.”
She swung around to face him, and this time, sherry did crest over the side of the glass and splash her fingers. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t understand the meaning of privilege or what it means not to have any. Please go. I’ll be gone from here within the week.”
He frowned, the muscles in his jaw working. “Belle.”
“Please go.” She turned her back on him, her body thrumming with an inner turmoil that she now realized had been building for some time.
She knew Lucien had left—the air in a room always changed with his presence, or lack thereof. Closing her eyes briefly, she exhaled.
Then she wondered just what in the hell she was going to do.
Chapter 3
“Good afternoon, brother.” Lady Cassandra Westbrook swanned into the entrance hall just after Lucien stepped inside. Her dark hair was swept into the latest style, and her warm brown eyes assessed him with a precision that never failed to unnerve him. She was too smart—smarter than all of them by far.
He glanced up toward the first floor. “What, were you watching for my arrival from your sitting room?”
“I was looking out the window, yes. And of course I would come down to see you. I know you won’t linger after your meeting with Father.”
No, he would not. He hated these summonses with a fiery passion. “You’ll see me Friday morning for our usual ride.”
“True.” She frowned in the direction of their father’s study. “How I wish I could be invited to one of your interviews.”
Lucien chuckled. “No, you don’t, trust me.”
“It will never happen anyway. I am not a son.” She said the last word with a deep, pretentious tone that was clearly to mimic their father. As Lucien started to turn, she added, “Pale yellow isn’t much of a statement. I rather prefer the chartreuse.”
Long ago, Lucien had discovered how much their father despised any deviation from conservative attire. Wearing a non-white cravat in the duke’s presence was a small act of rebellion, but one Lucien would cling to as long as he drew breath. He smiled at his sister. “Then I shall be certain to wear it next time.”
A few moments later, he walked into his father’s large study with its dark, towering bookcases and heavy, midnight-blue draperies cloaking the bank of windows that looked out to Grosvenor Square.
“Yellow, really?” Lucien’s older brother, Constantine, stood near the hearth, over which hung an awful portrait of their father with a half dozen hunting dogs. The duke gripped his gun and held a dead fox by the scruff.
Lucien gaped at the painting, ignoring Con’s jibe. “Is this what he had commissioned?”
“Apparently.” The single word curled with disgust.
“At least we share an opinion on the repulsiveness of that…piece.” They typically didn’t agree on much of anything. Lucien moved to stand near the windows, his gaze drifting to his coach waiting for him to escape at the earliest possible opportunity.
“Good, you’re both here.” The duke strode into the study and went straight to his massive desk, which sat opposite the windows. He paused before taking his chair and frowned at Lucien’s cravat.
Lucien quashed a satisfied smirk.
The duke sat,
