“Peyton,” cautioned Taviston.
“Have you always felt this way about marriage? Have you never wanted to marry for love?”
Peyton had leaned forward in his chair and Taviston felt as if he were being interrogated. Solitude would have been so much better.
“I suppose you do want to marry for love?” He turned the question back on Peyton, hoping to avoid answering himself. He couldn’t conjure an image of Peyton married. It boggled the mind.
“Of course,” Peyton said matter-of-factly. “Who wouldn’t, after witnessing the marriage of our mother and father? Frankly, I would have to be in love in order to shackle myself to one woman for the rest of my life.”
Taviston could only shake his head. The vast differences between a firstborn and a second-born, in outlook and attitude toward life, reared before him anew. No wonder Peyton never understood Taviston’s actions or his reasoning.
Taking a swallow of the brandy he had so far ignored, he eyed his brother. “The only reason any female member of Society wants to marry me is because of my title. Oh, and I mustn’t forget my wealth. I could place an advertisement for a wife in the newspaper tomorrow morning and I would no doubt have fifty women on my doorstep by mid-morning. I would most likely be acquainted with at least forty of them, but I guarantee you they would not know a thing about me personally.”
Peyton wore an expression of exasperation that Taviston had grown used to. “But Taviston, you never let them know you.”
“Because they do not care. All fifty of them would agree to marry me nonetheless, without knowing a damn thing about me. So tell me why I shouldn’t choose someone who could capably serve as my duchess?”
As he realized that point was even now moot, Taviston finished off the rest of his brandy in one gulp.
“But surely Victoria—”
Taviston cut Peyton off. “She is only marrying me because she doesn’t want to live with her cousin any longer and because I am, after all, a duke.”
Peyton’s eyes grew wider. “She told you that?”
“Yes,” he replied tersely.
“Unbelievable,” Peyton mumbled. He looked uncertain but met Taviston’s eyes nevertheless. “I am sorry about the scandal. Is there anything I can do to help?”
Taviston couldn’t help chuckling. Despite all, it was still an amusing story. “Victoria has taken care of it.”
Peyton eyed him suspiciously. “What do you mean?”
“The ton is, at this very moment, speaking of nothing else but the love match between the Duke of Taviston and Miss Victoria Forster. I love the irony, don’t you?” He shrugged with a casualness he certainly did not feel.
Peyton looked as if he were afraid to ask, so Taviston launched into the story of the evening’s drama.
Clearly dumbfounded at first, by the time Taviston finished Peyton held his side, laughing. But he managed to ask, “I must hear this proposal, Taviston. I can’t imagine such spontaneous words of love and longing coming out of your mouth.”
So Taviston obliged him and repeated his fake proposal, as best he could remember it, and Peyton laughed all the harder.
Finally, he offered Peyton his hand and hauled him to his feet. His brother could barely speak around the laughter still coursing through him. “I have never, ever wished myself present at a respectable social function until now. Damn my low standards!” He sobered up and draped his arm around Taviston’s shoulder as they made their way toward the door. “Brother, I am sorry things have not turned out the way you had anticipated. Victoria does seem to make your life interesting though. I have no doubt that Mother will be able to teach her all she needs to know. All you can do now is move forward and embrace the fact that she will be your duchess.”
He nodded at Taviston and then left.
His duchess. What a sobering thought. Heaven help him.
Chapter Twenty-Two
A light rain fell against the window of the yellow sitting room. Each little drop that hit the pane, though hardly louder than a whisper, boomed like a drumbeat inside Victoria’s head. She had not slept much the last two nights. After the rout, she’d stayed up late working on a special sketch for Mr. Ripley, an endeavor that had sapped her emotionally. Yesterday morning Timothy delivered a note to the printer, asking him to meet Victoria in the park, even though it wasn’t Monday. She’d delivered the sketch to a delighted Mr. Ripley, who had paid her another pound.
Then last night her mind had been consumed by her heart’s traitorous affection for the duke who married her merely for honor’s sake. Though she had thought she surely deserved to shed a few tears, none had come. Such maudlin behavior did nothing to change things anyway.
Molly entered the room after a light knock on the door and announced, “Lady Northfield has arrived, miss.”
Jane sailed into the room, full of goodwill and cheer, obviously more than ready to help Victoria find a wedding dress. Victoria nodded her thanks. She had stationed the maid in the front hall so that Molly, instead of the intolerably rude Morgan, might escort Jane upstairs.
“What is the matter? You don’t look at all well.” Jane quickly sat on the sofa beside her.