Romancing the Duke

Page 32

In an instant, Ransom’s demeanor changed entirely.
Izzy’s heart sank. She’d been hoping he would take this well. But it would seem she’d hoped in vain.
He frowned. “What do you mean, dinner?”
Damn it to hell. Ransom hadn’t counted on this.
“Why does there need to be a dinner?”
“With any luck, there won’t be a need,” she said. “But we must be prepared for the possibility. The solicitors will have traveled all this way from London. They’re going to be fatigued, hungry. We’ll probably have to offer them lodging for the night, too.”
He cursed.
“Don’t worry. I’ve planned everything, and we’ll walk through it right now. Duncan will invite us in to dinner.”
She motioned in Duncan’s direction, and the valet-cum-butler did as she asked, intoning, “Dinner is served.”
“Then you offer me your arm,” Izzy said, taking the arm in question before he’d offered it at all, “and we’ll lead the way to the dining room.”
As they walked down the corridor to the dining room, Ransom felt as though he were walking toward the gallows. Every step he took was one step closer to doom.
Dinner. Of all the things. She couldn’t have set him up for failure any better if she’d arranged for a target-shooting demonstration.
They reached the dining room. They must have been planning this out. On either side of the endless dining table stood an armored row of knights, waiting at attention in their role as footmen. He heard a wince-inducing creak as one of them shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“I’ll suggest seats for our visitors.” She directed the costumed ladies in their oversized, dark coats to take various seats.
“You have to sit at the head of the table, of course.” She nudged Ransom toward the appropriate chair. “As hostess, I’ll need to be at the opposite end.”
In other words, miles away.
He caught her arm and pulled it, keeping her close. “We’re not doing this.”
“Please don’t panic.”
He clenched his jaw. “I don’t panic.”
“It’s fine,” she whispered. “I promise. I’ve arranged for all the courses to be served à la russe. All the courses are plated in the kitchen and served individually. No carving, no serving. It’s the newest style in France. We’ll seem fashionable.”
“I’m so glad you’ve thought this through,” he said tightly. “However—”
“The first course is soup, of course. That’s straightforward enough. For the meat course”—she motioned to one of the overgrown toy soldiers—“we have beefsteak.”
A plate appeared on the table before him.
She pulled up a chair and sat next to him.
“I understand,” she whispered. “Ransom, you can’t think I haven’t noticed that you never eat in front of us. You’ll take a bit of bread, maybe, or a sandwich. But never a proper meal. So I tried eating a meal blindfolded, managing a knife and fork by touch. I made a hash of things before getting three bites in my mouth. I do understand.”
Her voice was sweet. But she spoke to him like a damned infant. And bloody hell, she did not understand.
She took his hand and guided it around the plate. “I’ve made arrangements with Cook. Everything on your plate will be in bite-size pieces, save for the bread. Buttered roll at twelve o’clock, then beef from three to seven. Potatoes and broad beans from eight to twelve.” She put a fork in his hand. “Go on, try.”
“Izzy . . .”
She touched his shoulder. “Don’t be discouraged. I know you can do this.”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm. “I will eat when and where and how I wish. I don’t need things cut in pieces for me. I’m not a child.”
There it was, sitting on the table before him . . . All the frustrations of his life, dished up on one plate.
Here, Your Grace, have a serving of helplessness. With an accompaniment of bitter humiliation.
This—this, right here—was madness. He’d been a fool to agree to this plan. Within five minutes at the dinner table, his solicitors would see him for what he was: a blinded wretch. At best, he would be branded an invalid. At worst, he’d be institutionalized. He would lose his title, his fortune . . . possibly even his personal freedom.
And he would lose her. Any ability to protect her. Any chance to hold her tight and feel her sweet touch on his skin.
All because he couldn’t cut beefsteak in the dark. The sheer stupidity of it gutted him.
Meanwhile, the handmaidens whispered and giggled. The knights clanked in their armor. The scrape of metal on metal felt like fingernails raking through his brain.
“I’m not hungry.” He motioned toward the armored footman. “Take this away.”
No one moved.
“Take it,” he growled, “away.”
The armored idiot stepped forward and retrieved the plate. Ransom winced with each creak and clank. At the base of his skull, he felt a headache looming. It was like knowing a villain stood poised behind him with an ice pick, ready to stab at any moment.
That settled it. He was done with this. He rose from the table.
Izzy followed, stopping him before he even reached the corridor.
“It’s my fault,” she said. “I should have known better than to surprise you. I know you must be exhausted. We’re all exhausted. We can try again later. Perhaps for now, you should go upstairs and rest.”
Now he needed a nap?
That was the final indignity.
He said, “We’re done with this. All of this. Thank your Morphinians for their time, and then send them all away.”
“Send them away?” She grabbed his sleeve, holding him in place. “We can practice for as long as it takes. But we can’t give up. There’s too much at stake for us both.”
“You don’t have to tell me what’s at stake.”
Her entire future hung in the balance. Ransom scarcely cared for himself anymore, but he had to make certain she’d be safe.
This plan of hers—passing himself as sighted, while dozens of fancy-dress dreamers looked on—simply wasn’t going to work. He could stand here and argue the facts of it, but he knew Izzy. She wouldn’t surrender that romantic optimism. Not with all her admirers standing about, hanging on her every word. She was too afraid of letting them down.
She was never going to choose Ransom over the goodwill and sweetmeats of a thousand strangers. Even if it was for the best.
So he would make the choice for her.
“I’m not giving up,” he said. “I’m changing the plan.”
“It’s on to Plan E!” one of the knights called out. “Plan E, everyone! Who has the ermine?”
“Not that plan,” Ransom said, gritting his teeth. To Izzy, he said, “There’s no time to lose. Go upstairs and get your wrap.”
“My wrap? Why? Where are we going?”
“To Scotland,” he said. “We’ll be married tonight.”
Married?
Izzy was speechless for a moment. Her brain was awhirl. There were children’s tops that spun slower than her thoughts were doing.
When at last she spoke, she did so carefully. And quietly, though there was no doubt that the assembled knights and handmaidens could hear everything.
“You want to be married? To me? Tonight?”
He pushed a hand through his hair. “I know. I don’t like the idea either, but it’s the only option. Get your things. We can reach the Scottish border in a few hours, at most.”
“But . . .”
“The advantages should be plain.” His voice was emotionless. “If we marry, that changes everything. At the very least, they’d wait to see if you’re pregnant with my heir. During that time, I can make certain you get the money you’re owed.”
“Well, that sounds very . . . transactional. I hope you’ll pardon the honesty, but this isn’t quite the romantic proposal a girl hopes and dreams to hear.”
“You’re twenty-six years old,” he said. “How many other proposals were you expecting?”
His cold words froze the breath in her lungs.
“Perhaps none,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to rejoice in one so unfeeling.”
“Grow up, Izzy. What are you waiting for? Some dashing hero? It’s time to stop living in this”—he waved his arms at the knights and handmaidens—“fairy tale.”
She stared at him, unable to believe the words coming from his lips.
“You’re doing this on purpose,” she said, slowly understanding him. “You’re pushing me away because you’re afraid.”
“I’m not pushing you away. I believe I just offered to marry you.”
“In the most insulting, unappealing way possible.”
Wendell clanked a few steps forward and called out to them. “Can I offer my lady some assistance?”
“She’s not your lady,” Ransom shot back. “She’s Miss Goodnight. A grown woman. And it doesn’t matter how many of your granny’s tea trays you strap on your chest. They don’t make you a knight.”
Izzy crossed her arms. So, it wasn’t enough for him to push her away. No, he wouldn’t rest until he’d pushed away everyone.
“Your Grace, I am a knight,” Wendell said. “I’m a Knight of Moranglia.”
“And what makes you a Knight of Moranglia?”
“I swore an oath.”
“Oh, you swore an oath. On what? A sword made of a vegetable marrow? You’re not a knight. You’re delusional. All of you.” He lifted his voice. “Admit it. That’s why you’re here, styling yourselves as handmaidens and knights of honor. Because your own lives are too pitiful to face.”
“You’re jealous.” She shook her head. “You’ve never known what it’s like to be a part of something like this, and you’re envious.”
“Envious,” he scoffed. “Of these men? I’ve ten pounds that says Sir Wendell here still lives with his mother.”
Wendell’s face flushed bright red. “A great many bachelors live at home until they marry.”
“Oh, yes,” Ransom said. “And what marriage prospects are on your horizon? Do you have a sweetheart? An intended? At least tell me you’ve groped a tit or two.”
Izzy stomped on his boot and ground her heel into his toe. “I said, that’s enough. If your aim was to make a jackass of yourself and ruin everything we’ve been working toward, believe me, you’ve done more than enough.”
But Ransom wouldn’t let up. “Come along, ‘Sir’ Wendell. Admit it. You’ve never even kissed a girl, have you?”
Poor Wendell. His cheeks blazed an alarming shade of crimson.
Izzy couldn’t see anything but red.
And then Abigail Pelham crossed the dining hall in determined steps, took a shocked Wendell Butterfield by the shoulders, and kissed him full on the lips.
“There,” Abigail said. “He’s kissed a girl now.”
Inwardly, Izzy cheered. Good for Abigail.
With a desperate tug, she tried to draw Ransom aside. “Now that’s enough. You’re going to apologize. We need these people. And even if you are determined to destroy your own chances, I need these people. They’re always here for me.”
“They’re not here for you. They are here for a wide-eyed, precious little girl with emerald green eyes and sleek, amber hair. They were never here for you.”
Oh, God.
The words came as such a blow to her, she actually fell back a step.
“I am here for you,” he said, taking her by the waist. “Izzy, if we marry, it doesn’t matter what they do to me. They can throw me in Bedlam and swallow the key. As long as my child is in your womb, you’ll be protected.” His hand slid to her belly. “We both know you could be carrying my heir already.”