“Are you?” he countered.
Felicity supposed that was fair. “No.”
He shrugged one shoulder. “Then perhaps I’m not, either.”
“You don’t know me.”
He looked to her. “You would be surprised by what I know of you, Felicity Faircloth.”
A thread of unease passed through her at the way he said her name, an echo of another man. The fairest of them all. “I’m sure I would, Your Grace, as I am surprised you were even aware of my existence.”
“I wasn’t honestly, until late in the evening on the night of my ball, when a half-dozen doyennes of the ton—none of whom I knew existed, either, by the way—waylaid me on the way to the water closet to confirm my engagement to—what was it they called you?—poor Felicity Faircloth. It seemed they wanted to be certain I knew precisely what sort of cow I was purchasing.”
“Hog,” she corrected, immediately regretting the words.
He looked to her. “I’m not certain that’s more flattering, but if you prefer it.” Before she could tell him she was not enthralled by either descriptor, he pressed on. “The point is, I narrowly escaped the gaggle of women and then the ball—I should thank you for that.”
She blinked. “You should?”
“Indeed. You see, I no longer had need of it, as my work had been done for me.”
“And which work is that?”
“The work of finding a wife.”
“And an heir,” she said.
He lifted a shoulder. Dropped it. “Precisely.”
“And you thought a madwoman who pronounced you her fiancé was a sound choice for the mother of your future children?”
He did not smile. “Many would say a madwoman is my best match.”
She nodded. “Are you a madman, then?”
He watched her for a long moment, until she thought he was not going to speak again. And then, “Here is what I know of you, Finished Felicity. I know you were once a perfectly viable option for marriage—daughter to a marquess, sister to an earl. I know something happened that landed you in the bedchamber of a man to whom you were not married, and who refused to marry you—”
“It wasn’t what you—” she felt she had to explain.
“I don’t care,” he said, and she believed him. “The point is, after that, you became more and more curious, an oddity on the edges of ballrooms. And then your father and brother lost a fortune and you became their only hope. Unbeknownst to you, they took your freedom from you, and shipped you off to—do I have this right?—vie in a competition for a married duke’s hand?”
“Yes,” she said, cheeks blazing.
“That sounds like the plot to a ridiculous romantic novel.”
“It wasn’t ridiculous. And it was terribly romantic for the woman already married to the duke.”
“Hmm,” he said. “So, I have it all right? Impoverished spinster wallflower?”
Felicity rather hated to be boiled down to three unflattering words, but, “Yes. You have it right. Except for the bit where I proclaimed to be affianced to a duke whom I had never met.”
“Ah. Yes. I had nearly forgotten that.” The words weren’t dry. They were honest. As though he had forgotten why they were conversing altogether.
He might be mad.
Felicity pressed on. “I’m sorry, Your Grace, but why on earth would you—a young, handsome duke with a clear past—choose to remain affianced to me?”
“Are you trying to convince me not to remain affianced to you?”
Was she?
Of course she wasn’t. He was, after all, a young, handsome duke with a clear past, was he not? She’d falsely proclaimed him her fiancé, plunging herself and her family into certain social and financial ruin, and here he was, offering her rescue.
I promised you the impossible, did I not?
For a strange, wild moment, it occurred to Felicity that it was not the duke offering rescue at all—it was the Devil, with his outrageous offers and his wild deals and his wicked deeds.
A ducal moth, straight to her flame.
And here it was.
Magic.
“But . . . why?”
He looked away then, turning back to the dark gardens, his gaze searching, as hers had done before he’d appeared. “What do they call it? A marriage of convenience?”
The words settled between them, simple and unsatisfying. Of course, the offer of a marriage of convenience should have sent Felicity into convulsions of pleasure. It meant she’d save her family’s reputation, and her own. It meant money in her father’s coffers, the restoration of the estate, the protection of the name.
And that was all before she became a duchess, powerful in her own right, welcome once more in the bright, glittering ballrooms of London. No longer strange or scandalous, but valued. Returned to the place she’d been before—plain, but empowered. Duchess of Marwick.
It was all she’d ever wanted.
Well, not all. But much.
Some.
“Lady Felicity?” the duke prompted once more, pulling her from her thoughts.
She looked up at him. “A marriage of convenience. You get an heir.”
“And you get a very rich duke. I’m told that’s a precious commodity.” He said it as though he’d just learned the fact earlier that day, as though all of recorded history hadn’t been predicated on women being forced to find wealthy matches.
Her mother would be beside herself with pleasure.
“What say you?” he prompted.
She shook her head. Was it possible it was so simple? A single meeting, and her lie made true? Her gaze narrowed on the duke. “Why?” she repeated. “When you could have any of them?”
She waved a hand at the open door to the ballroom, where no less than a half-dozen women openly watched them, waiting for Felicity to misstep, and for the duke to realize his mistake. Frustration flared, alongside that familiar indignation—the emotion that had set this insanity in motion. She resisted it as his gaze followed hers, lingering on prettier, younger, more entertaining unmarrieds, considering them.
When he turned back to her, she expected him to have realized that she was not the most qualified bride for him. She was already imagining the disappointment in her mother’s eyes when this false engagement was no longer. She was already scrambling for a solution to Arthur’s empty coffers. To those of her father. Perhaps she could convince the duke to break off the engagement without revealing her stupid mistake. He did not seem a bad man. He simply seemed . . . well, frankly, he seemed uncommon.
Except he did not break off the engagement as she’d expected. Instead, his eyes met hers and, for the first time, it seemed as though he saw her. And, for the first time, she saw him, cool and calm, not at all unsettled by the fact that she was there, and they were about to be engaged. He seemed not to care at all, actually. “I don’t want them. You turned up at the right time, so why not you?”
It was ridiculous. Ducal marriages did not happen like this. Marriages in general did not happen like this—on empty balconies with no more than a vague whim born of convenience.
And yet . . . this was happening.
She’d done it.
No, Devil had done it. Like magic.
The words whispered through her, at once true and terribly false. Devil hadn’t worked magic. This duke was no moth. Felicity was not flame. She was convenient.
And there was nothing magical about convenience.
“Have you room on that fan for another dance?” the duke said, interrupting the rush of awareness that flooded her at the thought.