“You waited until the wedding day,” he said. “No, not merely the day, but the very moment when you were supposed to be saying ‘I will.’” She’d waited until the moment when she’d become fully intoxicated, a condition she was, clearly, not used to.
“I tried not to think about it, but it bothered me,” she said. “Did you ever try not to think about something?”
“I rarely have to try.”
“You simply make it go away?”
“Yes.”
“It’s good to be a duke,” she said.
“It is,” he said.
It was far, far better than being a duke’s son, in his and his friends’ experiences. He wasn’t sure theirs had been the three worst fathers in the British aristocracy, but they were definitely in the running for the prize.
“I can’t do that,” she said. “It’s like trying to stop a gnat buzzing around my head. And things that don’t make sense are the most stubborn gnats. But all I could find was a book on animal husbandry, and that was when, finally, I put two and two together. Or two and two and two and one. Seven of us, and only one girl. And they—whoever talked or tricked him into getting married—must have said to him, ‘Why, there’s Gonerby’s girl. Can’t ask for better breeding stock. Excellent odds of an heir and some extras in case of catastrophe.’”
“Knowing Ashmont, I find that theory highly improbable.” Breeding would feature, naturally, because that was what often came of bedding, unless one exercised extreme caution. “You give him credit for more thought than he would ever put into it. You attracted his attention by being kind to him one day, as I understand it.”
“Kind!” she said. “I could hardly let him get run over by a hackney cab.”
“It was quick thinking, and showed a certain adeptness.”
“I have six brothers! They’re always falling into or out of this or that. I acted on instinct.”
“He deemed it kind, especially your taking him home. In the course of the journey, it seems, he took a good, hard look at you, and you took his fancy. Since you’re a gently bred girl, marriage is required.” And this gently bred girl promised to lead Ashmont a more exciting life than he might have expected.
She shook her head. “I know there was something more. I am not the sort of woman men lose their heads over.”
There was more, very likely. Ashmont probably would have forgotten all about the incident if not for Uncle Fred’s underhanded methods. Ripley was not about to enlighten her in that regard, however. He could offer hints about how to manage Ashmont . . . but no. She was an intelligent girl. She’d catch on quickly.
“You’d be surprised,” Ripley said.
“I am the sort they marry for practical purposes,” she said. “To manage troublesome households. To take charge. To produce heirs and extras. When all else fails.”
“Ashmont doesn’t think that way.”
She was looking out of the window. “But you kn-know . . .” The tears began to trickle down the side of her nose again. “We’ve had our catastrophes, because there ought to have been nine of us, and that was very hard on Mama and Papa both. I did have my doubts about how much comfort Ashmont would be in such a case. And I knew what else whoever it was would have told Ashmont. They would have s-said, ‘No fear of a cuckoo in the nest. No doubt whatsoever nobody’s ever t-touched h-her.’”
More sobbing.
Ripley tapped his knee with his index finger. The sobbing continued.
This was not entirely comfortable.
“I see we’ve reached the maudlin stage,” he said.
“Yes, I daresay you’d know.” She rubbed her face with the useless bit of lace. “Not that I care what you call it, and I wasn’t expecting sympathy or even comprehension.”
“I’m doing my best,” he said. “But my brain, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” she said. “Like his, more or less—though less defies the imagination. All the same, I thought I was ready to make the sacrifice—though I know most people would say it’s preposterous to refer to becoming a duchess as a sacrifice.”
“I would be one of those people,” he said.
“I don’t care what you say,” she said.
“I’m devastated,” he said.
“I don’t know why I even try to explain,” she said. “I’m sure he said everything he ought, and he can be alarmingly persuasive, and I did have my reasons for agreeing. I thought I was ready. But marriage is a Great Unknown. You think you know them, especially someone like him, who’s been the talk of the town forever, but how can you? I know what you will say.”
“I doubt it.” He still had only the remotest idea what she was talking about.
“You will say, I ought to have asked him why he chose me—and don’t say he fancies me, because nobody ever did.”
He was sure a great many men must have fancied her. What he didn’t understand was why nobody had claimed her by now. Not all men were like Their Dis-Graces. Any number actually wanted to get married, and spent a great deal of time and effort trying to find the right girl who’d have them.
He drew out his handkerchief and gave it to her. “Yes, well, he isn’t like the other fellows,” he said.
He looked out of the coach window. It was still raining.
Bridal nerves, he told himself. That’s all this was, really.
He looked at her mud-streaked dress and the toes of her muddy slippers. He calculated the distance, via the river, to Twickenham and the time it would take, barring difficulties, which he knew better than to suppose wouldn’t arise.
Taking everything into account, her plan was workable. He reckoned excellent odds of putting her safely into her aunt’s hands in a matter of hours, well before nightfall. Her reputation would survive. In fact, running away from Ashmont might enhance it. As would Ashmont’s running after her, which he was bound to do. Being possessive and obstinate, he’d do whatever was necessary to get her back. And Society would be thrilled to see a lady bring him to order at last. Assuredly Lord Frederick would enjoy that.
Accustomed to women of ill repute fawning over him, Ashmont had mucked up what ought to be the simplest business. He’d never had to make an effort, as Ripley and Blackwood so often did. True, none of them had much to do with respectable women, who were, evidently, rather more challenging. All the better. It was about bloody time a female made Luscious Lucius exert himself.
This one had made him work at the courtship, clearly. And the wedding. And she’d make him work at the marriage, too.
As to retrieving his bride, His Grace would need some guidance here and there, but that shouldn’t be difficult.
Lady Olympia didn’t seem to be completely opposed to marrying him. If not for the brandy, she might have gone through with it. But intoxicating liquors affected some people in this way: small matters inflated to prodigious size. And bacon-brained solutions seemed like brilliant ones.
Of all men, Ashmont knew how this could happen.
And wouldn’t it be a laugh, watching him try to manage his bride—this bride?