The footman returned from the kitchen with the toast and Mrs. Sands, the housekeeper, in tow. Evidently, he must have said something about Caroline’s lack of appetite, which, she had to admit, was unusual for her. She half expected Mrs. Sands’ husband, who was their butler, to follow, but he didn’t. However, when she refused the orange marmalade—anything that sweet would surely make her stomach turn over—the housekeeper furrowed her brows in worry.
“Are you coming down with a malady, Miss Caroline?”
Not a malady she could talk about. How did one even try to explain being condemned to eternal, living hell? But then, she had no plans to allow that to happen. Caroline floundered for a moment. “I had a bit too much ratafia. It was quite silly of me to overindulge.”
“Well, they probably did not serve the very best quality,” Mrs. Sands said with a sniff. “Sands would not allow an inferior product into this house.”
Caroline wasn’t about to get into a discussion over the quality of liquor. Butlers not only prided themselves on serving prime stock, but there was a certain competiveness that existed amongst them. That competiveness had increased this past year since a number of ships bringing French wines and brandy had been intercepted at sea and relieved of their goods by small bands of pirates. The prince regent was reportedly furious that expensive liquor didn’t flow at all of his parties. “Perhaps you are right,” she said noncommittally. “Does Sands know where my father might be this morning?” The sooner she had let him know she had no intention of marrying the earl, the better.
“I believe he is in the library,” the housekeeper answered.
That bit of news surprised Caroline. She’d expected her father to vacate the house early or even make up some excuse to be gone for several days so that she wouldn’t be able to confront him. Like most men, he thought women should keep their place and not have opinions. She’d lost count of the times he’d lamented to her mother that they had a headstrong, unruly daughter. Caroline placed her napkin on the table and stood. She was about to prove that point once again. “I believe I will go and have a chat with him.”
Sir Reginald looked up from his desk with a wary expression when Caroline walked in and shut the door. He’d probably been expecting her.
He gestured to a chair. “Will you have a seat?”
Caroline shook her head. “I would rather stand.” She began to pace, trying to think how to phrase what she wanted to say in a somewhat civilized manner. Finally, she stopped and turned to her father. “Why?” He lifted one brow slightly. “Why? Why marriage? Why now? Why the Earl of Tisdale? Why—whyallof it!”
Caroline started pacing again. “I told you I had no wish to marry.”
“Will yousit?” Her father barked the question like a command. “You are making me quite dizzy.”
She huffed a moment and then sank into the side-armed leather chair in front of his desk. “Explain how you could do this to me.”
A pained expression crossed her father’s face and then he sighed. “I know you were hurt when George Ashley jilted you—”
“I can assure you I am over that,” Caroline said and then softened her tone. “It taught me a lesson, Father. I will never allow my heart to be broken again.”
He nodded. “Perhaps that is wise, daughter. Marriage among thetonis rarely based on romantic notions such as love.”
She also had no intention of making a loveless match. “I do not wish to marry for convenience.”
“I wish things would have worked between you and the Duke of Danworth,” her father said, “but it did not. Time is running out.”
“For what?” Caroline appraised her father, and understanding suddenly flooded her. “It is an heir you want.”
“You are my only child,” Sir Reginald answered. “Yes, I want a grandson.”
“And a grandson with a title would be even better, yes?”
He sighed. “Is it so wrong to want that? Lord Tisdale only has a daughter—”
“One who is only a few years younger than me!”
“Nonetheless,” her father went on, “if you bore a son, he would have the courtesy title of viscount at birth and one day inherit the earldom.”
The thought of bearing Earl Tisdale’s child—either boy or girl—made Caroline glad she hadn’t eaten even the toast. It would not have stayed down. “I do not care about titles.”
Her father looked perplexed. “But you would be a countess. That would make up for the cut that George Ashley made to you.”
“And marriage to George would have made me a damn duchess.”
“Do not be vulgar, Caroline.”
“I could have cared less about a duchy.” Caroline felt a hysterical bubble rising in her throat. “Was that why you encouraged George to court me? So your grandson could be a duke one day?”
“Is that so wrong?” Sir Reginald asked again.
