Page 9 of The Duke of Cups (The Highwaymen #3)

“Indeed,” he said, smiling at her. “So, see, stop worrying. If worst comes to worse, it’ll just be that. I’d be a wretched husband, of course, but I think I can handle keeping you from starvation. No more desperate thoughts, if you please, madam.”

She hated him in that moment. Hated him for not being desperate, for being born male and heir to a dukedom and English, for having the idea of his very survival sorted so easily.

For being able to say something so offhand like that, that she should not be desperate.

She hated him, and she didn’t want to take his charity.

But she squelched that feeling, as she always did, because there was no other recourse, not in the end. Unless she wished to cut off her nose to spite her face, she must accept the charity of others. She’d had to do so her entire life.

He furrowed his brow, seemingly sensing her resentment. “Apologies,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean… look, it’s not fair, you know, life isn’t? None of it is.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said, and she wanted to leave this entire turn of conversation. “You know, if this is really all you are providing to me in return for my help with your Champeraigne problem, I’m not exactly impressed.”

He cringed, settling back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. “Well, I’ve had other ideas, I suppose.”

“You have? What are they?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You don’t have a dowry, so maybe we get you one.”

Her eyes widened. “What do you mean? My dowry is supposedly thousands of pounds, you know. I’ve never specified the amount, but people speculate it’s sixty thousand, seventy thousand. It’s not something that can simply be manufactured.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it could be.”

“Through robbing carriages? Or killing people, you mean?”

He squirmed in his seat. “Well, do we have rules, then, madam? Moral lines in the sand you’d rather not cross?”

She sighed heavily.

“Maybe it’s a bit easier, anyway. We find some man who has a problem, and I offer to solve it for him if he marries you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know, I could settle someone’s debts—”

“I don’t wish to marry someone who racks up debts. That doesn’t sound as if it will be a happy existence for me, being tied to someone who is stupid about money.”

“All right,” he said with a nod. “Well, certainly, that makes sense to me. There are other sorts of problems. The Duke of Ellington’s wife died recently.

She was ill. She never did seem to be with child, and he had another wife before that who also never fell pregnant, and a man like that, one who can’t get children on a woman, might be interested in marrying a woman who was already with child. ”

She blinked at him.

“Of course, this would mean we’d have to get you with child, and that’s a bit of a production.”

She shook her head at him. “I shouldn’t have expected anything different from someone like you, really.”

“All right, that’s convoluted, agreed. But it could be that it’s not a problem, it’s a secret. The Baron Machins, for instance, he has a secret male lover, and I could say that I would expose his predilection for sodomy if he didn’t do what I say, and I would say he had to marry you.”

She made a face.

“All right, admittedly, that’s likely not the sort of husband you’d like,” he said.

“I suppose I am desperate,” she said in a low voice.

He lifted a finger. “Maybe you’re doing something wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Yes, maybe there’s some reason that men aren’t drawn to you,” he said. “Let’s, erm, let’s pretend to be dancing together, and go through what kind of conversation you’d have with someone.”

She had truly expected their interaction today to be more like this, she supposed. She looked around the room, which was small and crowded with furniture. “I don’t suppose it would be easy to do dance moves in here.”

“No, we don’t have to dance, I suppose, just go through the conversation.”

“All right,” she said.

“All right,” he said.

It was quiet.

She lifted her chin.

Dunrose regarded her seriously, staring at her features, looking at them as if he was trying very hard to figure out something about her.

This went on, the silence, the staring .

“Well?” he said finally.

“Well, usually, the man speaks first.”

“Is that…?” He shrugged. “Yes, perhaps you’re right. All right, let’s see.” He rubbed his chin. “What would you speak about at a ball? Erm… Lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so,” she said. “It’s been a bit cold, but it is late winter.”

“Indeed, but spring is just around the corner, and I’m sure it will warm up soon.”

“Yes, quite,” she said.

He didn’t say anything else.

Well, this was like a conversation usually went, truly, and she would typically attempt to engage a man in talking about himself, she thought. “Are there exploits you enjoy in the spring, Your Grace?”

“Me, personally?” said Dunrose.

No, she thought sarcastically, all the other people I’m talking to.

“Now, see, what’s that expression?” he said.

“No, nothing,” she said. “I would not make that face if I was talking to a man I was dancing with.”

“Why did you make it?”

“It was a particularly stupid question you asked.”

“So was yours, really. As if you actually care about my exploits.”

“People like talking about themselves.”

“Certainly, they do, but only very stupid people think that anyone else really enjoys listening,” he said.

She snorted. She happened to agree, actually, but she thought most men were quite happy to yammer on about subjects that bored her. “Well, then, how should I engage a man in conversation, if I’m not to ask about what he likes since I know he’ll know that I don’t actually care?”

He snorted. “All right, yes, that’s convoluted, too, isn’t it?” He tapped his chin. “Well, maybe try to find some common ground. What’s something you like that you think he’d like? ”

“I… have no idea who it is I’m speaking to. This is just a generic man at a ball. I’d need to know more about him to even guess.”

“Well, pretend it’s me, I suppose, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know, because all I know about you is that you enjoy robbing carriages and drinking alcohol. Also, you have a reputation as a sort of playboy rake, I suppose. Shall I ask you about the women you enjoy debauching?”

“I don’t debauch,” he said. “If I’ve had dalliances, they’ve not been been with virgins. They’ve been with other men’s wives. Or widows. Or… anyway, no, you should not bring that up.”

She shrugged. “This is going very well, Your Grace.”

“All right, pretend I’m someone else,” he said. “Is there anyone you would wish to marry?”

She let out a breath, thinking about that.

“Actually, that’s a good strategy,” he said. “Let’s make a list of men who’d be appropriate, and then we can work on finding out things you both have in common, so that you can have scintillating conversation together.”

She nodded, thinking that through. “Yes, that would work.”

“Capital!” He got up and went over to the corner desk. He came back with a piece of paper and a pen and inkwell. He settled on the floor next to the small table in the midst of the room and dipped the pen into it, at the ready.

“Well, I suppose it’s a bit of a small list,” she said. “I could marry any of the respectable tradesmen that are at the balls. Perhaps Mr. Whistle or Mr. Thornapple or Mr. Blacksburg.”

He scribbled these names down. “Most of them are probably looking to marry into some respected family, daughter of a man with a title or something, however, which isn’t you.”

“True,” she said. “So, then there are a small number of eligible titled men who don’t seem to have egregious financial woes.

The Viscount of Gibbons. The Earls of Nithin and Everthy.

Maybe the Baron Fasche. Or even Sir Theodore.

He’s knighted, and quite respectable. He has those investments in spices that are doing very well, or so they say. ”

“Good, good,” said Dunrose, still scribbling. “This is a good list. Several of these men are sort of old for you, aren’t they, though? Gibbons must be sixty. He’s got a daughter who’s out in society, doesn’t he?”

“Well, his wife died, and he may be looking for a new wife. It might be preferable, anyway. No pressure to produce an heir.”

He eyed her. “You don’t want to have children, do you?”

“Well, I have to have children, so that’s besides the point, isn’t it?”

He considered, nodded, and looked back at the list. “Well, you’d have nothing in common with him. Really, what would you talk about? And I don’t like the idea of his… touching you.”

“What do you care?”

“I don’t know. It just seems wrong. Look at you, pretty and nineteen and glowing in youth, and him with his saggy skin.”

“Thank you, that’s very helpful,” she said with a sigh.

“You can’t wish for that,” he said. He sat back, regarding her.

“Oh, and think, you’re a virgin, and that would be your first time, and you don’t even know what erections are.

No. I forbid that. Gibbons is out of the running.

And I think the Earl of Anderly, too. He’s in his fifties.

” He crossed both names off, striking them with long, firm, black lines of ink.

“I’ve actually figured that out, I think,” she said primly.

“Figured what out?”

“Erections,” she said. “Something Seraphine said, and it was sort of obvious. It’s to do with mens’ pricks.”

He looked up at her sharply. “All right, that word , madam, it’s entirely inappropriate.” But his voice was teasing and a little rich. He was… was he flirting with her?

She felt herself blush. “I didn’t think I had to be appropriate with the likes of you.”

He grinned. “Of course you don’t. You can say it again if you’d like. Go ahead.”

She glared at him. He was horrible, wasn’t he? She blushed even more fiercely.

“Go on,” he urged, waggling his eyebrows. “I mean, you’re giving me one now, in fact. At least, I’m half-mast. Say ‘prick’ again, and I think I’ll be hard as stone.”

She felt strange, as if her dress were a bit too tight. There was something growing heavy between her own thighs, and she didn’t know if she liked it or if it was dreadful. She lifted her chin, glaring at him, refusing to let him cow her. “What’s an appropriate word, then?”

He put the end of the pen in his mouth and bit down, thinking that over. “Good question. Likely there isn’t one. But ‘prick,’ madam, that’s a filthy word, positively filthy.”

“You’re a filthy sort of person, I think,” she said.

He laughed softly. “Oh, I am, in fact, yes.” He held her gaze, and he was looking at her in that way again, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve. “It’s odd, you know, Miss Thomas, the longer I’m in your company, the prettier you seem to become. What is that about?”

She blushed again. “I think that’s the most backhanded compliment you’ve given me, and the only compliments you seem to give are backhanded.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. I don’t precisely know what’s come over me.

” He looked down at the list. “Here’s what we shall do.

I shall take this list and see what I can discover about these men, and then we shall meet again and formulate some strategies for how to converse with them, all right? ”

“All right,” she said. “Let me copy it over, too. I can think over my approaches myself. I really should have done something more active like this earlier, it seems. I’m not sure why I’ve been so complacent.”

He pushed the list at her. “If you wish.”

“I do,” she said.

He looked at her again, and then pointedly looked away, becoming very interested in his fingernails.