Dukes By the Dozen полностью

“But that’s not the only reason I have no wish to marry this duke,” she said, and the words died on his lips.

“No?”

He noticed she’d started wringing her hands now. He walked along beside her in the tense silence, allowing her time to gather her thoughts. He used the time to think as well. Surely whatever concerns she had could be overcome. Were he to become duke, he’d do anything in his power to make her happy.

Finally, she released a long breath, as if unburdening herself of things she’d long wished to say.

“I imagine most girls dream of being a duchess,” she said. “We’re taught from the cradle that it is the pinnacle of womanhood.” She rolled her eyes then, and her lips pursed. “But for me, it’s not a dream. It’s expected.”

She released her hands, bringing them to her sides in fists.

“I live my life allowed only to do that which increases my marital prospects. And because of my—” She darted a glance at him, her cheeks pinking before she looked away again. “Because of how I look, I am often treated with snideness from other women. I am over-scrutinized and talked about wherever I go—just loudly enough that I can hear them even though I must pretend that I don’t.”

While she no longer wrung her hands, the thumb on her left one worked furiously against another of her fingers. An expression of nerves, he’d wager. Then her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know, poor little rich girl.”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said. “I was thinking how of awful that must be.”

She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I no longer wish to be an object of society,” she said. “As a duchess, it will be even worse. Perhaps I’d have more liberty as a married woman—if my husband allows it. But I’d be even more in the stage lights. Expected to be perfect all of the time.”

He didn’t think she could ever not be perfect, but this didn’t seem the time tell her so.

And he understood her fears. Hadn’t he been looking at the dukedom as a prison of sorts? But maybe it didn’t have to be. Maybe, together, they could create their own freedom.

“That’s not the worst of it, though,” she all but whispered, making this quiet, foggy footpath feel even more like a place of confession. His ears pricked at the seriousness of her tone. Here, they would come to to crux of it.

“I have a sister,” she said. “An older sister. She is my favorite person in the world. She is kind and funny and…well, she is all that is good.”

She went silent again. And again, that thumb slid over and over its neighboring knuckle.

“She sounds delightful,” he offered, hoping she’d continue her thought.

“She is, though you’ll never convince her of it. You see…” She looked over at him and the pain that strained the lines of her face hurt to look upon.

“My sister is what most call plain. I think her beautiful in every way, but our parents…well, they value only what others see, only what they deem the loftiest lord will wish to marry. Our entire lives, they have compared the two of us and…found her wanting.”

Her voice warbled and bright red splotched her cheeks now—from anger, or embarrassment, or chafing from the wind, he couldn’t be certain.

“And now they have forced her into an engagement with someone entirely unworthy of her, simply to clear the way for me to land their duke,” she spat.

Definitely anger at the injustice, then. He expected nothing less from his Boadicea.

But he also saw shame shining bright and wet in her eyes.

She was stunningly beautiful. She’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first seen her. But he’d been equally taken by her bravery, her protectiveness and her spirit.

He couldn’t imagine what it must have done to that spirit, growing up watching someone she loved being put down and made to feel inferior to her. The way she’d said “compared” conveyed a wealth of emotion, and anger boiled inside him at these unknown parents. They had undoubtedly hurt her sister, but they’d also hurt her.

He reached for her hand, stilling her agitated movement, enfolding it in his own. He brought them to a stop in the middle of the path and gave a gentle tug. She turned toward him willingly enough, but she wouldn’t look up at him.

Maxwell reached for her other hand, too, and squeezed lightly. “It’s not your fault.”

She did look up then, another half-shrug lifting one shoulder. That vulnerable, disbelieving gesture nearly undid him.

Her left hand flexed in his, unconsciously he thought. She likely wished to wring her hands once more, but he had no intention of letting her go. Max ran his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles instead, wishing he knew what to say.

As he passed over one of her fingers, he felt a raised knot. He glanced down and saw that her pinky was permanently bent at an odd angle.

When she noticed where he was looking, she tugged her hands from his and tightened the left one into a fist, as if to hide her imperfection from him.

And his heart broke for her.