Page 78 of A Virgin for the Rakish Duke
“So find out!” Her friend gave her a nudge. “Write to the wretch and ask him outright. Say to him, ‘look here, there is a man my brother wishes me to marry, but if you tell me otherwise, I will say no and marry you instead’.”
Harriet laughed at her friend's bare-faced brazenness, at how clear-cut and simple life appeared to her.
“I could not! Neither say it aloud like that nor turn down Ralph's choice for me. He would cut me off if I did. Especially if it was to choose his roguish friend instead.”
“Would he, though?” Jane asked, pinching her brows. “Yes, he might be angry and be angry for a long time, but he is so protective of you, Hattie. I just cannot see how he could possibly do anything that might hurt you.”
Harriet considered this. She thought about every decision Ralph had ever made concerning her and what his motives were. Always protective. Stifling and smothering but still protective. He probably would not cut her off dead. Or even forbid her from Oaksgrove.
He might not speak to me for a few months, but elsewise, would his ire really be all that bad?
She felt a flicker of hope. Her despair had been such that it had dampened out rational thought.
“Do you believe that the Duke would marry you?” Jane asked.
“Yes!” Harriet's immediate instinctive answer was without thought, “—no, I don't know,” she finished after allowing thought to catch up to instinct.
“Well, that is perfectly clear,” Jane giggled, “but to hell with it. Maybe all that is left is to take a chance. Go to him, sweetie, andbe prepared to be coming back to Oaksgrove heartbroken but at least certain.”
He may reject me because I cannot help him acquire his Opera House any longer. He may accept me because he has given up on owning it. Or I may find him in the arms of another woman because he never had any feelings for me other than his lust...
“For me, though, it would not be heartbreak because I would know that I was coming back to a husband-to-be. Who is he, by the way?” Jane asked, leaning close for this tidbit of gossip.
“Henri de Rouvroy,” Harriet replied, absently, thoughts still on Jeremy.
Jane gasped, leaping back. “Henri de Rouvroy? And you are not sure if you want him? He is handsome and chivalrous, from a noble family persecuted by the revolutionaries! His grandfather rescued aristocrats from the guillotine! Oh my, you will be the envy of the ton when it is made public!”
“Really?” Harriet blinked, surprised, “I did not even think about who he was.”
“He is wealthy and with estates in France as well as England. As his wife, you would certainly have the freedom to travel. Now that I think of it, his sudden appearance must be related to that woman who threatened you—what was her name?” She clicked her fingers.
“Eloise! Yes, she was a de Rouvroy as well. And with dark hair,” Harriet gasped.
Ralph has arranged a marriage for me that might just give me all the freedom that I was craving, while I thought that Jeremy was my only hope to obtain it... It is all there for the taking. All I must do is accept his choice for me. Do as I am told.
“Well, that puts a different complexion on things!” Jane said brightly, “Much different. As wife to Henri de Rouvroy, you would certainly have all the freedom you could ever desire. I thought you were engaged to some terribly tedious business acquaintance of your brother. Someone with the soul of a clerk and the mind of an abacus. If I were not deliriously happy with my beau, I would be quite jealous!”
Harriet glanced at the house. She thought she saw a movement at an upstairs window, a curtain twitched aside as though by someone watching her. Beecham would not allow himself to be humiliated twice. Harriet had run circles around him in London.
He will not make it easy for me to leave. But do I want to? Do I want the easy path of Henri de Rouvroy or risk the disapproval of my brother and potential scandal for the distrustful, rakish, and stubborn-as-a-mule Jeremy Cavendish…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Jeremy approached the door of a terraced townhouse on Jermyn Street, just off the broad thoroughfare of Piccadilly. He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head angrily at his own apprehension and ascending the short flight of stone steps to the front door. Moments later, he was being escorted to a small sitting room by a butler and invited to wait for the Baron of Linwood, Simon Winchester.
Not long now. If Simon is willing to accept an equal stake, then I can still afford to buy the Opera House in partnership with him. That dratted Doctor March will be dealt with, and I can get on with the conception of the El Dorado.
The apprehension came from what Simon would demand as an equal shareholder in the enterprise. Jeremy was expecting a battle for control over decision-making. Battles he might not win. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the notion that his dream might not be realized exactly as he envisioned. A sense of fatigue was gnawing at him. It happened every time he thought about the dratted El Dorado now. His hands clamped the armsof the chair in which he sat, itching for brushes or charcoal, the implements of art.
That is nothing more than a hobby. An idle pursuit. The El Dorado is money, prestige. Legacy.
He berated himself for a child and tried to suppress the feeling of exhaustion.
“Penhaligon, old chap! Welcome to my humble London abode,” Simon breezed into the room, “haven't quite decorated it yet to my taste, but I will anon. Don't get up!”
He sat opposite Jeremy, who had begun to rise, but now sat back down, suppressing a sigh.
“You wish to discuss our partnership?” Simon said, leaning forward in his seat, hands clasped between his knees.