The Duke I'm Going to Marry(59)
No doubt she’d lose her composure and poke some old biddy in the nose, making matters worse. Then she’d be considered not only loose with her morals but violent to boot. Not that she cared. However, her parents would be heartbroken.
There was no help for it. She had to return to Coniston, for how could one think amid the mad London whirl? There, she could immerse herself in peaceful isolation, take long walks down country lanes, and gaze for hours at Coniston’s scenic splendor. Indeed, she needed to be alone and away from her meddling, although well-intentioned, family. Away from Ian, for she couldn’t hold a thought when he was near. He overwhelmed her senses.
She’d give herself two weeks to come to a decision. In that time, Ian might lose interest and effectively make the decision for her. No, she realized at once. He was determined to protect her, and a determined Ian was not easy to overcome. He’d be ruthless in getting his way, using his considerable powers of seduction to lure her into accepting his proposal.
She was so close to surrendering. The butterflies in her stomach were already flitting about inside her, cheering and shouting, Yes, my love! My dearest! Yes, yes, yes! By tomorrow, they’d be dancing to the tune of a wedding waltz.
The only holdout was her heart.
She sniffled, realizing she was still holding Ian’s handkerchief and had held on to it all night. Crumpets, she was a pathetic creature for needing a piece of Ian beside her, even something as inconsequential as a small square of cloth. Ian, I wish you loved me.
Her tears began to flow again, confirming that she had officially turned into a watering pot. She was misty eyed, red nosed, and a blubbering, sputtering mess. She cried until morning. She cried until the sun shone brightly through her window. Then she dried her tears, dressed, and rang for Gladys. “Pack my trunks.”
The sweet girl’s eyes popped wide. “Where will you go?”
“I’m returning to Coniston.”
She announced her plan to her parents when they came down to breakfast later that morning. Dillie had been waiting for them and was already seated at the dining table, an untouched glass of milk in front of her. She hadn’t eaten any food. She hadn’t the appetite, for her stomach was twisted in a painful knot. “I don’t want anyone to accompany me. I’m going alone.”
Her father, who had just filled his plate with sausage and kippers and then sat down beside her, threw his napkin onto the table and rose. “Sophie,” he said, pushing back his chair, “our daughter is determined to put us into an early grave. Alone, Dillie? Are you jesting? Isn’t it what got you into this scrape in the first place?”
Dillie’s mother left her plate on the sideboard and hurried to his side. She patted him on the shoulder. “Now, John, you know none of this is Dillie’s fault. The duke was hurt. Dillie and George saved his life. I’m quite proud of her. You ought to be as well.”
Dillie smiled for the first time in what felt like centuries. “Thank you, Mama.”
“And the duke is willing to marry her. He could offer nothing less, of course. After all, she did save him.” She nibbled her lower lip as she turned to Dillie. “So why won’t you marry him? Is there something you aren’t telling us?”
“No. I simply don’t wish to be the only Farthingale trapped in a loveless marriage.”
Her mother shook her head. “I still don’t see the problem. I’ve noticed the way you look at him, child.”
Of course, because she didn’t know how to hide her feelings. Especially about Ian. She turned into a tongue-dragging, stumbling, bumbling idiot whenever he was near. “It isn’t that simple.”
Her mother cast her the gentlest smile. “Yes, it is.”
Perhaps for her mother. She glanced from one parent to the other. Her mother had always had her father’s loyalty and affection. He’d loved her from the moment he’d set eyes on her. Not on Chipping Way. He’d met her in Coniston. She hadn’t needed the Chipping Way curse to catch a husband.
“I just need time alone to think, time without everyone looking over my shoulder and commenting on everything I do or say. Abner can drive me up in one of our carriages. Or I’ll take a hired coach.”
Her father slapped his palms on the table. Dillie jumped at the resounding thwack. “The devil you will! You’ll take a Farthingale carriage. And your aunt Imogen will accompany you.”
“Aunt Imogen?” Dillie groaned. “Oh, not her! Anyone but her. She reeks of rosewater and never stops talking.”
Her mother let out a small gasp. “That isn’t a nice thing to say.” But she was pursing her lips and trying her best to hold back a grin.