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"I knew what was necessary. People talk, and from what I had heard your mother was one for social climbing. Such a thing should have been detrimental to her fortunes, but not to me. I thought that it was a trait I shared."

Dorothy agreed with that.

"What I am trying to say," he continued, as if he was struggling, "is that we men can overlook certain aspects of a lady, but not everything."

There it was, the beginning of his lecture.

"We are fortunate that your absence last night was not made known to him, given his absence, but you must try harder now.You will be a duchess, I remind you. It is imperative that you do right by this family, especially after all that has happened."

She blinked.

"A duchess? Is that to say that I shall marry a duke?"

"That is what that title would suggest, would it not? I do wish that you would try harder to understand, Dorothy."

"I do know what it suggests, but… Well, I had not expected you to find a duke that would be willing to marry me."

"Believe me, I do not know why he has decided he has agreed to it, but that is not something that we are going to question. He wishes to marry you, and so you shall."

Dorothy hardly ever had a conversation with her father that did not devolve into him telling her of her own supposed failings, but he seemed to be in high spirits after the news that her future husband would be paying a visit. She wished that he could have told her what had made the Duke want to marry her, but if he could not tell her that, then perhaps…

"I understand. Father, if I may, might you tell me what happened with Eleanor?"

His face darkened in an instant.

"I only ask because I do not wish to follow in her footsteps. Not only that, but it is possible that she might wish to see me when she learns that I am to marry a duke. It is best that I know whether or not I can see her, and if not, I should at least know why."

Her father seemed reluctant, but her reasoning was sound. Perhaps, she considered, she had a quicker wit than she gave herself credit for.

"Your sister," he began, raking a hand through his hair, "was not willing to follow my instructions. I tried, truly I did, but she never had any interest in doing what was best for our family. I had allowed her three seasons, as I did with you, and then I found her a match. She was unhappy with it, and one night she disappeared."

"To Gretna Green?"

"Precisely."

"But if she had done that, that must have meant she had found a match of her own. Did you not know?"

"Of course I knew, but that baron was not good enough for Eleanor and I will never believe otherwise. In spite of what the two of you might think, I want what is best for you. That man had little money and a small house in Scotland. Your sister could have been so much more. I did everything I could for her, and what did I get in return? She risked ruining our family."

Dorothy tried not to pity her father, knowing how he had treated her all her life, but she could not help herself. He had tried to replicate his own marriage for them, which, while misguided, was a very honorable thing for him to have done. There was no doubt that the match he planned for Eleanor would have led to scandal when it fell through, but was it enough to never want to see one's own daughter again?

"Is that to say that you do not want me to speak to her?"

"You are no longer a child, Dorothy. You were but five-and-ten years of age when it happened, and so you will hardly remember it now, but you know what is expected of a Bolton. We act with pride. Can you truly be proud of someone that could behave so recklessly?"

Dorothy was willing to wager that her sister had not done anything much worse than she had herself, but she was never going to tell her father that.

"No, I suppose not."

"Good," he replied, leaning back in his chair. "Is there anything else you might like to know?"

"Yes. When she writes to you, telling you what the fashionable colors and fabrics are, do you ever write back?"

He did not seem too happy with that question.

"No, and I think that is for the best. I do not even know where she lives now. I assume it is in Scotland, but who is to say? In any case, she knows where we are. Should she ever want to speak to us, I would consider it."

It had been six years since Dorothy had seen her sister, and given that Eleanor had left of her own accord and had seemingly chosen to disappear in the same way, Dorothy envied her greatly. She had not made her own decisions; she had been told what was to happen to her and she had accepted it in every way that mattered.