The clever-but-not-too-clever part certainly described her sisters. As Papa’s Plan for Raising Perfect Ladies dictated, they sang and played the pianoforte—before it was sold—they painted tolerably in watercolors, and they could make graceful curtsies. But they were not sensible girls, and not one of them was likely to improve the intellectual fiber of anything.
If Rose rejected the duke’s proposal, things would get worse. Wycliffe Park would have to be sold. Marguerite would have to find work as a governess or companion to support her mother and sisters. But if Rose accepted the proposal, the Temberlay fortune would provide for them all, and even ensure that Lily and Minnie had rich dowries when the time came. She blessed the fact that a man as wealthy and eccentric as the Duke of Temberlay could afford to select a bride like Rose, solely for her beauty, without a fortune to bring to the match.
“Has Lady Rose had other offers for her hand?” the duchess asked. “She’s a pretty girl, and appears healthy enough, even if she lacks sense.”
Marguerite raised her chin at the old lady’s bluntness. “Rose has a great many admirers, Your Grace, but she has not made her formal debut.” The duchess was staring again, and Marguerite felt as if the old lady could see inside her head and read her thoughts. She lowered her gaze to her hands, tried to look demure.
“And you, young lady, do you also have ‘admirers’?”
Marguerite looked up again, her temper flaring. It was true enough that no one noticed plain Marguerite when lovely Rose was in the room, but she did not appreciate the duchess’s reminder of it. Papa had despaired of ever finding a man of title to marry her, and the sting of that fear went even deeper coming from a complete stranger.
“Admirers? Of course I have. Dozens.”
“And have you come out yet?” the duchess asked, and Marguerite felt hot blood rise from her toes to her hairline.
“Perhaps once Rose is married, eh, Meg?” Hector said. “Perhaps Rose—or even Her Grace—will sponsor your debut next Season.”
“Yes, I daresay when my money fills your family’s empty coffers you’ll be a prime catch,” the duchess added.
Pride prodded Marguerite’s temper. “Or the connection may worsen our chances. We have heard of your grandson, even here in Somerset. Who in England has not? They call him Devil, do they not? We’ve read about the women and the scandals he causes with just a wink of—”
“Meg!” Hector said, stopping her, but the duchess laughed.
“Odd. Your father was a reformer, a crusader for the purity and morals of English womanhood. You don’t mean to say that he let you read the London scandal sheets?”
Of course he didn’t. They purloined them from their maid, read them in secret. Papa would be horrified. Meg felt herself flush. “My father has been dead for over a year.”
The duchess did not offer condolences.
“As for my grandson, they do indeed call him Devil. The name suits him. If his brother had not died, I would be content to leave Nicholas to his women and his drink, but he is now the Duke of Temberlay, and he must reform. His bride and his heirs will be impeccably respectable even if he is not.”
Marguerite laughed before she could stop herself. Hector cleared his throat and she dropped her gaze. Rose was hardly the type to turn a rake into a paragon.
The door opened before the duchess could take her to task for her rudeness, and Rose entered with Flora at her back. She stopped in the doorway and stared at the floor. Her mother prodded her forward.
“I accept,” she murmured, but her shoulders began shaking again.
The duchess’s eyes filled with heartless triumph. She didn’t offer a single word of comfort or congratulations. Marguerite rose to take her sister’s hand before she said something unforgivably rude to their guest.