Was that a drop of sarcasm in her voice? Surely not. After all, she was the one who had come, uninvited, to his house, not the other way around.
He bowed. When he straightened, he found that she was observing him, gloved hands folded, with the air of someone watching a play.
Peculiar.
"Miss Carrington, what can I do for you?" he inquired.
"I have come to request a favor."
Vander's shoulders relaxed. This missionary woman had likely joined a mission in an effort to atone for her licentious father's sins. She wanted a contribution. He was accustomed to solicitations: virtually everyone in his life except his friend Thorn had asked him for money at some point. It was part and parcel of being a duke.
A donation was a perfect way to assuage the last of that inconvenient guilt he felt due to hurting her feelings years ago.
"I would be most happy to help," he said. "Would you care to be seated? I could ring for tea if you wish."
She stood as still as a tree, only her hands twisting together. "You might not feel inclined to be generous after you've heard my request."
"If only on the basis of having known you since childhood, I assure you that I will agree to whatever sort of help you wish." He gave her a measured smile, wondering how quickly he could bundle her out of the room. His secretary could hand over the actual sovereigns. "How much would you like?"
She had a quite delicate jaw. He noticed because it visibly tightened, as if she were grinding her teeth. As a child, she used to be shaped like a stout pigeon, with a little potbelly and legs that whirled across the lawn as she tried to keep up with him.
Not that she ever could.
"Miss Carrington," he prompted, when she didn't answer, "I gather that you are collecting for a charity, and I assure you that I will contribute."
"No," she said, her jaw tightening again. "I came to ask for something quite different."
"I am happy to assist you," he said, allowing a trace of impatience to leak into his voice.
"Marriage," she blurted out, and took a gulp of air.
He stared at her for one perfectly silent moment.
"I should like you to marry me." She said it fast and the words ran together.
He frowned. "I beg your pardon?"
"I am proposing marriage," she stated. Then she closed her mouth.
Vander had to curb an impulse to shake his head to make sure he had heard correctly. The woman must be touched, though madness ran in his family, not in hers.
But mad she must be, because she was looking at him expectantly, for all the world as if she thought there was a possibility he took her seriously.
He cleared his throat. "Well, how kind of you to offer." Surely this was some sort of ruse? "However, I regret to inform you that I have no intention to marry at this time."
Something crossed her face-disappointment? Was that possible?
"I suppose you think I'm mad. I'm afraid that I am, a bit."
"I see." Vander was, against all expectations, starting to enjoy himself. After all, her family had ruined his. Her father's seduction of his mother had made the Duchess of Pindar the laughingstock of the ton.
And now Carrington's daughter had the temerity to think that he would consider marrying her? Truly, the family had balls.
Even the women.
"So you are looking for a husband," he said agreeably. "And you thought, hey ho, I'll have a go at a duke?"
"That is not kind of you," she said, her eyes narrowing.
Her eyes were a remarkable green, with thick eyelashes. Not that their color made her in the least attractive; rather the opposite. He preferred women with melting blue eyes. Eyes like the sky in summer.
"I must insist that you be seated," he said. "Wooing is such an arduous business, don't you think?"
After a long second she moved to a chair opposite his, and damned if she didn't try again. "Will you marry me, Your Grace?"
"Absolutely not." The words shot out like a bullet. "Given our family history, you are the last woman in the world I'd marry. In fact, I believe that you expressed the same sentiment to me some years ago, and I cannot imagine what has changed your mind."
She was unbalanced. There was no other explanation for a woman's proposing to a duke, let alone imagining that he would accept. She suffered from delusions.
"I can hardly imagine the scandal that a marriage between us would cause," he added.
"I am aware that our union would be a subject of speculation," she said, for all the world as if they were discussing the weather. "I try not to let gossip bother me. Besides, I have come to view our parents' relationship as something of a star-crossed tragedy."
"It's a tragedy, all right," he drawled. "Your bastard of a father seduced my mother, made her into a whore, and ruined my family name."
Her grip tightened on the arms of her chair, but she showed no other sign of being intimidated. "Our parents loved each other, Your Grace. Their union was not sanctioned by society, but to the best of my observation, it was positively tedious in its domesticity. If not for the accident that took their lives, I am certain that they would have spent the next forty years together."
Vander suppressed a shudder. He had loathed Carrington as no other man. He'd worn his hatred for so long it had become comfortable, and he had no interest in reappraising the way it fit.
For years, he had made damned sure that he and Carrington were never found in the same residence, even if he had to bed down in the stables.
Which meant that he hadn't seen his mother for months before her death.
A stab of guilt made his tone harsher than he intended. "Miss Carrington, I cannot imagine why you believe I would consider your request, let alone agree to it. When-if-I decide to marry, I will both choose the woman, and propose to her myself."
Damn it-this was absurd. He had no mistress at the moment, but if he had, anyone in England would guess that she wouldn't be a short, round woman dressed like a missionary.
"Why in the hell do you come to me, of all people, with this request?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. "There are a million men in England whom you could marry, if you have determined to go against custom and do your own wooing. Though, to be perfectly candid, I don't think it's a good idea."
Under her dreadful gown, he'd guess that she was as lush as she had been at fifteen. Voluptuous, even. If she put her assets on display, she could probably marry almost anyone she wanted. He might prefer the tall, willowy type, but he knew plenty of men who preferred a pocket Venus.
Beyond which, it wasn't her mother who had been an adulteress. Far less shame attached to a man who made a duchess his mistress.
"You have a dowry, don't you?" he asked, since she hadn't responded to his previous question. Her family's lands ran adjacent to his ducal seat, so he would have heard if there were obvious problems. Last he heard, Sir Richard Magruder was running the estate because the Carrington heir was underage. Sir Richard was not a man he admired, but he'd probably do an adequate job.
"I have a dowry." She hesitated for a moment, then took a deep breath and pulled a sheet of yellowed paper, folded many times into a small square, out of her reticule. "I also have this."
"Bloody hell," Vander said with a groan. "Not another poem. I'm not a literary fellow, Miss Carrington. You can't change my mind with a lyric."
Her cheeks flamed a surprisingly lovely shade of red. "I would never-" She caught herself and started over. "No, it is not a poem. It's a letter."
He narrowed his eyes, a drop of ice sliding down his spine as a realization hit him. "You intend to blackmail me? I suppose that is some revolting piece of tripe that my mother addressed to your father."
He stood up and took one stride forward, leaning over and bracing his hands on the armchair. "Publish and be damned, Miss Carrington. Publish, and go to hell while you do it."
She was staring at her hands and didn't look at him, even though he was leaning so close to her that he almost touched her forehead. He caught a delicate whiff of honeysuckle-an unexpected scent for someone thoroughly swathed in thick wool.
"I gather you planned to force me to marry you?" He spoke through clenched teeth, enraged by his body's disturbing response to being close to her. "To hell with that. Take care you get a premium from whatever Grub Street hack buys your letter, because I give you fair warning: I shall ruin you."