“Happiness might be out of reach, sis,” said Mr. Blake, “with parents such as hers.”
The Blake girl shook her skirts in frustration. “That’s why she should have the chance at a good marriage! It’s her only real opportunity to escape them.” She flicked her eyed contemptuously Valingford’s way.
The impertinent slut. Any marriage he allowed his daughter would not put her outside of his reach. He’d make sure of it.
“Let them stay in London,” the Blake girl said, “and let Lady Willow choose her own husband. That is the punishment for her parents. The thing the duke most fears is a loss of control. Well, he shall have no control over Lady Willow.”
Like hell he wouldn’t. But he simply shrugged, as if beaten. “What do I care who my daughter marries?” As long as she married for money, of course. As long as he got the bulk of the prize, of course. It was her duty as his daughter to provide for the family through matrimony.
Miss Blake shuffled nearer him, as if forcing herself to be the bold girl she’d claimed to be. Ha! Bold? More like uppity. “You must swear,” she said, “to let Lady Willow choose for herself.”
He wanted to allow himself an eyeroll, an indulgence, but one he well deserved this day. He did not. “I swear,” he ground out.
Lord Rigsby strode forward, taking the Blake chit’s hands in his own and looking down at her with a serious gaze. “We can’t trust him. He’s already lied to us once.”
“For what it’s worth, I didn’t lie,” Valingford interrupted.
The room broke out in a cacophony of dissent, every person assembled arguing he had in fact lied through his teeth when he’d said he and his wife would not gossip about Miss Blake.
His voice rose above it all, as surely as he rose above all them. “I made my wife promise not to gossip, and she did not. Have any of you heard rumors surrounding Miss Blake’s virtue gathering among the ton?”
Silence ensued because of course they had heard no rumors. There had been none. He’d kept his word.
“Well then, Your Grace,” replied Miss Blake, “We will have to bind you with a stricter set of words this time. Do you promise to let Lady Willow choose her own husband and to not impede the wedding in any way whatsoever? And do you promise to let her live happily and healthily from this point on?” She coughed. “And of course, promise not to kill her.”
“Or have her killed by anyone else!” Mr. Blake interjected.
Were these fools real? His daughter was his last real asset. He wouldn’t harm something so valuable. But he’d play their game. “I promise.” Hopefully, the words were a death knell of this tedious conversation. “Come along, duchess.” He pulled her toward the exit with one hand while he straightened his waistcoat with the other. “We’ve much to do not arranging our daughter’s wedding,” he lied, disappearing behind the door. He’d leave the Blake chit alone. She was more trouble than she was worth.
But he’d be dashed if he let an aged earl soiled by trade and a weak duke and his vapid offspring tell him what to do with his own property. His daughter would marry whomever he told her to or know the consequences.
Epilogue
For the fifth time in so many minutes, Henrietta scanned the rush of fashionable lords and ladies strolling Bond Street. But the familiar, beloved face didn’t appear, and she tapped her foot even faster on the sidewalk, slanting her gaze upward at the covered sign above her shop.
A warm hand engulfed her shoulder and a genial voice said, “He’ll be here, Henrietta. He wouldn’t miss it for anything.” Her father-in-law granted her a reassuring smile.
Henrietta bounced on her toes. It was almost time. Where was he?
“Mama, quit being bouncy.”
Henrietta turned to the three-year-old jolting up and down on her hip. The little girl eyed her mother with serious green eyes behind bobbing blond curls.
“Sorry, love,” Henrietta said, placing the girl on her feet and taking the small hand in her own.
“Do you have a toy for me, Grandfather?” the girl asked, turning to the Duke of Devonmere.
He chuckled. “No, but …” He pulled a sweet from his pocket and bent down.
“Ooh!”
Devonmere straightened with a pleased smile. “Don’t get your gown sticky, Adaline.”
“’Course not, Grandfather.”
Henrietta grunted. The gown would be ruined in less than a minute.
“Is Papa coming?” Adaline asked, sugar-glistening slobber already dribbling down her chin.
