“If I’m repulsive to you, I wonder why you’d insist on marrying me?”He stalked toward the fireplace and faced her, his scowling face reflecting his anger. “Because I’ve just assaulted you. Can you know so little of propriety, you don’t realize you’ve been completely compromised? Ruined? I will speak to Sherbourne first thing in the morning.”
Jane considered reaching for one of the glowing embers and dropping it into his breeches. If she wouldn’t burn her fingers, she would. And enjoy his pain. Drawing herself up, she forgot she was in a dressing gown, that it was past two in the morning, that his hand had only just been in her most private place, that he’d offered what she wanted above all things. All she could think of were his cutting, hurtful words. He would marry her because he had to. Not because he wanted to. “Rest assured, I won’t hold you to any such terrible fate, nor will I thrust my passionate personage upon you in the future. Don’t touch me again, or you’ll become a man with one hand. Don’t speak to my father, or you’ll become ridiculous. You’ve taken me to the height of passion, then disparaged me cruelly. My love for you is indeed misplaced, a mistake I’ll not make again.”
“You’re but a child, Jane. What would you know of love?”
It appeared he was not done insulting her. “Evidently, nothing at all. I always thought myself of above average intelligence, but I’ll have to reconsider after tonight. I’m clearly no cleverer than a bleating ewe, following the herd, regardless of peril. I misjudged you entirely and I’m perplexed by my lack of insight.” She allowed her gaze to travel the length of him, uncaring of her insolence. “What a pity such masculine beauty is wasted on one so cold, cruel, and self-righteous. Perhaps I’m a child –a mannish child –but I’m quite capable of giving and receiving affection. You sir, are not, and for that, I’m sorry for you.” She stopped her perusal at his eyes, noting he looked angry, and maybe a little astonished she would speak so rudely to him, a duke. “You’ve all the warmth of a block of granite and I pity any woman who must call you husband. Good night, Your Grace.”
She turned and walked out, closing the door behind her. In the dark, she found her way upstairs and reached the quiet solitude of her room.
She didn’t cry, she packed. And grew up, having left the last vestige of childhood and fairy tales in the Bonderant library.
The devil with Blixford. She would return to London in spring and make the most of her second Season. There was a gentleman out there who would not disapprove of her, who would appreciate her unconventional talents, who would not disparage her passion. There must be, and she would find him, marry him and give him children.
Blixford could rot in Hell for all she cared. He was, indeed, a dreadful stick. Robert was correct. The look she’d seen on Blixford’s face after Annabel’s burial was simple aggravation that she’d had the audacity to die and take the heir he coveted with her.
But even as she thought it, she didn’t really believe it. At that moment, he had truly looked bereft, lost, completely vulnerable.
It did not, could not matter. He would never allow whatever softness lay within his soul to rise to the surface, but instead remain a hard, cold, imperious man, incapable of expressing affection and quite capable of cruelty.
Mannish, indeed. How she despised what he’d said, and it naturally followed, she despised him for saying it.
***
Thinking of her brother, Blix, and his determination to marry a woman he could never love, Lucy lay in her bed and listened to the clock in the hall downstairs as it chimed the hour, yet again. Three o’clock, and still she couldn’t sleep.
Deciding to give up, she threw back the covers and reached for her dressing gown. She went to the fireplace, retrieved the coal spade, and tossed a few lumps upon the embers, stirring them about until a small fire blazed. She lit two candles and sat at the secretary positioned before one of the windows in her chamber. Pulling her latest drawing from a narrow, hidden compartment, she gazed at it critically. It wasn’t right. It was disproportionate, the man’s legs too large for his torso. Her last attempt had the man’s legs too thin, not nearly muscled enough. The etchings in Mr. Paisley’s discourse had not been much help to her, his aborigines rather on the diminutive side. She desired her drawing to reflect a man of tremendous masculinity, his physique impressive. It was necessary for proportion, in order for his cock to be large enough for her purposes.
Lucy sighed and withdrew another drawing, taking heart as she gazed at this one. She’d managed to master capturing a feminine figure, and she thought her charcoal woman was lovely; full figured, with long, shapely legs, a definite dip to her waist, and round, plump breasts topped with perfectly sized nipples.