He reached across and removed the pot from her nervous fingers. “This is little more than a scandal rag. I don’t believe a word of it.”
“But what about the item in the newspaper? The one that said Shewsbury attacked a journalist in the street?”
Her father tossed the paper down onto the desk and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t believe that, either. There will be a story behind it, mark my words.”
He gestured to a chair. “Sit down, Nellie. Stop hovering over me. I know Shewsbury. He’s a serious and thoughtful man, as his father was before him. I am confident you will make a fine match.”
She sank onto the chair. “But the mistress, Papa!”
“I dislike discussing a man’s mistress with my daughter.” He cleared his throat. “Men do, on occasion, take a mistress. Charles was heartbroken, and his father told me after he suffered a broken engagement. I imagine that was the reason. And it’s all I will say on the matter.”
In Nellie’s opinion, that only made things worse.
“Where would you be now, daughter, if I’d let you run away with that Irish poet without two pennies to rub together?” her father asked. “And what did the fellow do when I had words with him? He scurried off to Ireland. A fortune hunter. Good thing I discovered it in time and put a stop to it.” He frowned. “You weren’t thinking clearly, Nellie.”
While no actual plan of elopement had been in place, she had been left heartbroken and angry with her father. At eighteen, one’s first love carried a good deal of importance. And for a while, she continued to make excuses for Walsh, until she was finally forced to admit he was a coward, and his feelings for her did not run deep. He’d needed no prompting to leave her and return home. But the hurt remained and tore at her confidence. She would never trust her heart to another man again.
Her father smiled at her, pleased as punch with the arrangement. Shewsbury was a wealthy duke, after all. He pointedly picked up the letter he’d been reading when she came in.
Nellie left the chair. Unlike many fathers, he had given her the opportunity to find a husband of her choice. It was not his fault that she had failed to do so.
“I will agree to marry him if I find him acceptable, Papa.”
“I have no doubt of it. Now, Nellie, leave me to this correspondence.”
She slowly mounted the stairs, the newssheet scrunched in her hand. It appeared she would have to marry the duke. She did not believe the portrait her father had painted of Shewsbury. But she could hardly let her father down when his financial future now depended on their union. She just hoped for a tolerable marriage and a husband busy with his own matters, who wouldn’t ask too much of her.
*
A month later, Nellie studied her reflection in the Cheval mirror. She gathered the violet-gray muslin folds of her dress at the waist.
“I am nothing like her.”
“Like whom?” Marian peeped over Nellie’s shoulder, her eyes questioning.
“Drusilla, Marchioness of Thorburn.”
“Oh, Shewsbury’s ex-fiancée. No, you’re not. I saw Drusilla once in London. She looked as if she’d blow away in a slight breeze. You have breasts and hips.” Marian put a hand on her own rounded hip. “Belfries approves of mine. Says he prefers a woman with a bottom. Something to grab hold of.” She raised her eyebrows. “Surely you don’t wish to be like her.”
Nellie drew in a breath. “Of course not. It’s just that I’m not his type. I am neither an exotic creature like his mistress nor a slender waif.” What she feared most, she struggled to express even to Marian. “Although it won’t be a love match, I do want a husband to approve of me. I want us to be content together and have children. But if I find it impossible, I won’t accept him.”
“You would go against Papa’s wishes?” Marian asked in mock horror.
“I have explained it to Papa. If the man is a brute, he won’t insist on it.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Apparently, Shewsbury loved Drusilla. I can’t help wondering what happened for the engagement to end.”
“Perhaps her father married her off to the old neighbor in a greedy land grab,” Marian suggested. “Do you remember Shewsbury wasn’t the heir at that time?” She turned Nellie toward her and smoothed a stray wisp back into her upswept hair. “But it’s in the past, surely.”
“Drusilla is exquisite. So fine-boned. But that’s not the point.”
“I’m struggling to see the point.” Marian smiled. “You’re just anxious, dearest. And it’s not surprising.”
Nellie sighed. “He didn’t choose me.” She gave a hard tug to rearrange the sash, which never sat well beneath her ample breasts. “I know my worth as a woman, Marian, but I fear we will not suit.”
“You can’t be sure of that, Nellie. And you don’t have time to dwell on it. He’ll arrive at any moment. The house groans with guests and their servants. There’s a distinct air of expectation.”
“And there’s the article I wrote against foxhunting,” Nellie added, leaning forward to pinch some color into her pale cheeks. Should she resort to rouge? Mama would have a fit. “Shewsbury must be told if we are to marry. If I don’t tell him, he might discover it, and I shall be subjected to his ghastly bad temper.”
“He’s unlikely to hear about it,” Marian said as she glanced over at the untidy desk piled high with books and papers, quills, and an inkwell. “Unless you intend to write another.”
Nellie shrugged. “I had planned to do more. There is a groundswell of opposition to fox hunting.”
“Well then, I expect you’ll learn how the duke feels about it,” Marian said prosaically. “But a groundswell hardly describes the few people I’ve encountered. Fox hunting has gone on for hundreds of years. Didn’t you say it began in ancient Egypt?”
Nellie frowned. “Yes, but it was because of the
