fisherman’s daughter, no doubt.”
“A minister’s daughter from Nottingham.”
“She is no great beauty,” the duke observed, taking a step closer to the bed where Anne lay. “I cannot think how my son noticed her in the first place. She is very thin.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Prudence spoke up. Holding her head high, she stepped toward the two men. “Anne . . . Miss Webster, that is . . . she is my lady’s maid. I assure you that she is beautiful in every way and utterly without fault. And now, I must kindly beg you to depart my private chambers that she may be permitted to dress for her . . . for her wedding.”
The duke scowled. “Her wedding? Bah! That is not to be!”
“You are wrong on that account, sir,” Anne said firmly. Ignoring the intense pain, she managed to push herself up and, with effort, to set her feet on the floor. She steadied her voice and said carefully, “I am to wed Lord Blackthorne this afternoon. We have spoken together this morning, and we are agreed on every matter.” She took a deep breath as the throbbing in her leg threatened to overtake her, then continued. “Your son and I are firmly attached.”
The butler gave a cough. “Your Grace, Laurent Chouteau, Duke of Marston,” he intoned, “may I present Miss Anne Webster of Nottingham.”
Determined to make a good impression on her future father-in-law, Anne forced herself to her feet, supported herself by clinging to a bedpost, and even wobbled through a semblance of a curtsy. She was thankful for her clearheadedness; knowing she would need to be able to think, she had refused laudanum despite her excruciating pain.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “I beg your pardon for my disruption of your day.”
“My day? My life, you mean!” He waved a hand at her. “Sit down, sit down, girl! For heaven’s sake, do not perish right in front of me.”
Prudence rushed to throw a combing gown around her friend’s shoulders as Anne limped to a brocade settee and lowered herself onto it. She could manage the duke better than his son at this moment, Anne decided. Every time she thought of the marquess, she remembered him hovering over her as she lay in her little bed, his mouth so close and his breath so warm.
“Do you plan to die quickly, Miss Webster?” the duke asked, seating himself across from her. “Everyone has assured us you will, and yet I find you looking quite pink at the moment.”
“Take comfort, sir, for I am sure I shall not trouble you long,” Anne said. “Though I do not wish to die, I understand little can be done.”
“My deepest regrets, of course. Now, Miss Webster, it is my understanding that you are the cause of my son’s grievous wound.”
“It is possible, my lord. I am told that everyone believes the gamekeeper fired upon our party in revenge for my refusal to wed him.”
“You may have led to the injury of the marquess,” the duke said, leaning forward and pointing at her with his cane, “yet you presume to hold him to his marriage-proposal amusement?” “I did not find the proposal amusing.”
The duke stared at her as though he had not expected such a prompt response. “Indeed. Well, neither did I. But it was clearly a jest, Miss Webster, and you were not to take my son’s words to heart.”
“My heart holds no place for your son. I merely considered his offer and decided to accept.” She lifted her chin. “You yourself stated that any woman would have him.”
“I beg your pardon,” the duke spluttered. “I said no such thing.”
Anne glanced at the butler. “Witnesses will confirm my assertion, Your Grace.”
“You are a shameful, wicked young lady!”
“I bear no shame for my actions. On the contrary, I consider my behavior exemplary under the circumstances. Your son derided, mocked, and ridiculed me before such esteemed persons as yourself and the vicar. He then appropriated a very dear possession of mine, which he refused to return until I gave
“A minister’s daughter from Nottingham.”
“She is no great beauty,” the duke observed, taking a step closer to the bed where Anne lay. “I cannot think how my son noticed her in the first place. She is very thin.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Prudence spoke up. Holding her head high, she stepped toward the two men. “Anne . . . Miss Webster, that is . . . she is my lady’s maid. I assure you that she is beautiful in every way and utterly without fault. And now, I must kindly beg you to depart my private chambers that she may be permitted to dress for her . . . for her wedding.”
The duke scowled. “Her wedding? Bah! That is not to be!”
“You are wrong on that account, sir,” Anne said firmly. Ignoring the intense pain, she managed to push herself up and, with effort, to set her feet on the floor. She steadied her voice and said carefully, “I am to wed Lord Blackthorne this afternoon. We have spoken together this morning, and we are agreed on every matter.” She took a deep breath as the throbbing in her leg threatened to overtake her, then continued. “Your son and I are firmly attached.”
The butler gave a cough. “Your Grace, Laurent Chouteau, Duke of Marston,” he intoned, “may I present Miss Anne Webster of Nottingham.”
Determined to make a good impression on her future father-in-law, Anne forced herself to her feet, supported herself by clinging to a bedpost, and even wobbled through a semblance of a curtsy. She was thankful for her clearheadedness; knowing she would need to be able to think, she had refused laudanum despite her excruciating pain.
“Your Grace,” she said softly, “I beg your pardon for my disruption of your day.”
“My day? My life, you mean!” He waved a hand at her. “Sit down, sit down, girl! For heaven’s sake, do not perish right in front of me.”
Prudence rushed to throw a combing gown around her friend’s shoulders as Anne limped to a brocade settee and lowered herself onto it. She could manage the duke better than his son at this moment, Anne decided. Every time she thought of the marquess, she remembered him hovering over her as she lay in her little bed, his mouth so close and his breath so warm.
“Do you plan to die quickly, Miss Webster?” the duke asked, seating himself across from her. “Everyone has assured us you will, and yet I find you looking quite pink at the moment.”
“Take comfort, sir, for I am sure I shall not trouble you long,” Anne said. “Though I do not wish to die, I understand little can be done.”
“My deepest regrets, of course. Now, Miss Webster, it is my understanding that you are the cause of my son’s grievous wound.”
“It is possible, my lord. I am told that everyone believes the gamekeeper fired upon our party in revenge for my refusal to wed him.”
“You may have led to the injury of the marquess,” the duke said, leaning forward and pointing at her with his cane, “yet you presume to hold him to his marriage-proposal amusement?” “I did not find the proposal amusing.”
The duke stared at her as though he had not expected such a prompt response. “Indeed. Well, neither did I. But it was clearly a jest, Miss Webster, and you were not to take my son’s words to heart.”
“My heart holds no place for your son. I merely considered his offer and decided to accept.” She lifted her chin. “You yourself stated that any woman would have him.”
“I beg your pardon,” the duke spluttered. “I said no such thing.”
Anne glanced at the butler. “Witnesses will confirm my assertion, Your Grace.”
“You are a shameful, wicked young lady!”
“I bear no shame for my actions. On the contrary, I consider my behavior exemplary under the circumstances. Your son derided, mocked, and ridiculed me before such esteemed persons as yourself and the vicar. He then appropriated a very dear possession of mine, which he refused to return until I gave
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