“Badly.”
“Well? What are your accomplishments?”
“I’m writing a novel for publication.”
Lady Glynis shuddered delicately, her thin lips turning down. “Don’t ever mention that in public. Warburton will dower you generously, of course, otherwise we have no hope.”
“Pardon me, but no hope of what?”
“Making a success of yourself on the marriage mart. You must be a credit to this family. I can’t very well sponsor a girl who will shame us.”
“I’ve no wish to debut in society, nor to find a husband.” She’d told Mr. Norwood she had a titled fiancé, but surely a titled guardian would do just as well? Once she wrote a brilliant half of a Clovercote novel, she could then inform him that she had the patronage of a duke. She didn’t require a fiancé now. But how was she to write the novel if she was to be readied for a debut? No, she must wriggle out of it somehow.
“Then why am I here?” Lady Glynis turned to the duke. “Warburton, this young lady has no wish for a husband, therefore she has no need of a chaperone. I’ll bid you good day.”
Warburton slammed the ledger closed. “Not this again. Miss Crewe, I’m becoming rather tired of your contrary nature. We discussed the need for you to be settled.”
“I don’t recall a discussion. I recall you barking orders and ignoring my plans for my future.”
“Well!” Lady Glynis shook her head disapprovingly. “She has neither the docile temperament nor classic beauty to be a success. Perhaps you should allow her to pursue her own future and wash your hands of her.”
The duke closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger as though he had a headache coming on. He turned to his aunt, opening his eyes. “Aunt, you will instruct Miss Crewe in the niceties of making her debut. She will enter society in a matter of weeks. She will make a respectable match and her future will be secured.” He turned to Ana. “And you, Miss Crewe, will obey my aunt’s every instruction. Is that clear?”
“Clear as a bell, Your Grace.”
“Excellent. Your lessons will begin immediately—”
“However,” Ana broke in, “I don’t wish to attend the Season, therefore I won’t follow instructions.” She had a novel to write.
Lady Glynis rolled her eyes heavenward. “Nephew, I’m leaving. When you have your ward in hand, fetch me again. Until then, I bid you good luck.” She left with a swish of heavy silk skirts and an indignant sniff.
“Do you always have to be so argumentative?” asked the duke.
“Did you see her evaluating my teeth? She forbade me to smile with my lips open.”
“She’s a paragon of propriety. With her by your side your celebrated entrée into society will be assured.” He rose from the desk and stood in front of her, forcing her to tilt her chin to meet his gaze. “I’m weary of you thwarting my every attempt to help you, Miss Crewe. My aunt will chaperone you. I’ll dower you generously. I will see you comfortably settled.”
His unspoken words: he’d buy her a husband. Then she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.
What was it about his size that made her tremble? She’d faced down larger men. She knew she was petite. A pint-size virago. A big life force in a small package. But she’d never been aware of her body in the way that he made her aware. She stared at his handsand remembered when he’d lifted her by the waist and plunked her into the carriage.
Something about him felled her like she was a sapling under a woodsman’s axe. It was the sheer magnitude of his presence. The way he seemed always a hairsbreadth away from losing his temper and doing something outrageous.
Like now. He could be towering over her because he wanted to shake some sense into her, wanted to bend her to his will. Or he could be standing so near because he wanted to kiss her.
Kiss her? What a ridiculous thought. Where had that come from? “Your Grace, I’m far too busy to attend the Season. I have a novel to write, or have you forgotten?”
“I haven’t forgotten. And I don’t care if you write ten novels. Only do so after you are safely married.”
“You have my future all planned out for me. A wealthy husband, a townhouse in London and a home in the countryside, no time to write frivolous novels or gallivant around the country on doomed missions to locate my missing father.”
“No, you had your future planned in the letters you wrote. You wanted to attend balls, find your true love, set about creating a large and happy family. I’m only trying to give you what you envisioned.”
“I wrote those letters when I was fifteen. I didn’t know what I wanted, or who I was. I only knew what I was supposed to want. And, yes, I did long for a large family because I had never known one, but now I want other things. I want financial independence, the chance to travel and experience life like Lady Claridge did.”
“Your patroness was protected by her status as a respectable widow while she was traveling.”
“Then I shall invent a husband and kill him off quite handily.Let’s see... dear Reginald. He was a devoted husband. We married when we were young. He wrote me truly awful poetry. He had red hair, like mine. We were doomed to produce redheaded children, though it didn’t bother us because we were quite jolly and content with our quiet life in the countryside. Until poor Reginald, poor sweet soul, was killed by a... runaway bull in the paddock. I’ll wear a ring when I travel and tell stories of my dear departed Reginald.” She sniffled. “See there? I’ve nearly made myself cry thinking about Reginald and what a devoted husband he was until he was gored by that bull.”