Free To Marry The Duke by Julianne MacLean

have something very particular I wish to discuss with you.”
    Her mother stood. “Perhaps I’ll wait in the front hall.” She walked out, looking a little pale. Sophia was beginning to feel a little pale, herself.
    “Miss Wilson, I would like to ask for your hand in marriage,” he said flatly.
    That was it? No caveat? Not even a little bit of flattery to precede the offer? Good God, did these Brits know nothing?
    She moved fully into the room and stood before him only a few feet away. He looked a little taken aback, nervous all of sudden, when he had not been nervous before.
    Gently, she said, “I thank you, Lord Manderlin, for the generous proposal. It is most tempting, but I’m afraid I must decline.” She was about to give him a polite reason why—to tell him that she wasn’t ready to accept
any
offer of marriage quite yet—but he stopped her with a bow.
    “I do thank you for your time on this lovely morning, Miss Wilson. You have been most kind to hear my offer.” With that, he was out the door.
    Sophia stood in the middle of the room, feeling utterly dumbfounded.
    Her mother walked in. “What did you tell him?” she asked in a panic.
    “I told him no, of course.”
    “It happened so fast. What did he say?”
    Florence came dashing into the room to hear what was said as well. Sophia repeated it—it took all of two seconds—and the three of them sank into chairs in the parlor.
    “I told him it would be a mistake,” her mother said. “Truly, I tried to talk him out of it, but he would have none of that. He came here to propose to you, and he wasn’t going to leave here until he had done just that!”
    The weight of the shock lifted, and Sophia began to feel her heart sinking. “That was the most
un
romantic proposal I’ve ever heard of. He must know the amount of my dowry.”
    Her mother and Florence were quiet. The parlor maid brought in a large tray with a silver teapot, cups, and a plate of scones.
    “Well, at least you have the Earl of Whitby to fall back on,” Florence said, pouring a cup of tea and trying to change the subject. “A much handsomer man. And I daresay, if the flowers are any indication—a more romantic one. Don’t you agree, Beatrice?”
    Sophia, feeling a little uncomfortable at the reminder, accepted the teacup Florence handed to her.
    “Let’s not forget the duke,” her mother said. “I haven’t given up on him yet. Perhaps he just needs a few more opportunities to see Sophia. Then he’ll be sending red roses, too.”
    Florence was strangely quiet for a moment. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the duke.” She sipped her tea.
    Sophia sat forward. “What do you mean, Florence? What do you know about him?”
    The countess shrugged. “Oh, nothing really. I just don’t think he’s the marrying kind, and there’s no point wasting our
efforts when they would be better spent elsewhere, in areas with more potential, so to speak.”
    “What makes you think that?” Beatrice asked. “He spent time alone with Sophia at the assembly the other night, and danced with her at the ball. He seemed the perfect gentleman, and very attentive to her.”
    Florence began to speak in hushed tones. “Yes, but he has been known to do that from time to time, with some of the more attractive ladies in the Set. Nothing ever comes of it, though.” Florence lowered her voice even more and glanced over her shoulder at the door. “This is rather scandalous to speak of, but he has also been known to have brief affairs—discreetly of course—with married women. He’s broken a few hearts, I assure you.” Florence sipped her tea again. “He’s quite a womanizer. Without compassion, they say. He’s only interested in one thing and nothing beyond it. He’s said to have a black heart.”
    Sophia felt sick.
    “But who’s to say he hasn’t decided it’s time to choose a wife?” Beatrice argued. “He’s a duke after all, with a responsibility to carry on his line. Surely he must