A Duchess to Remember by Christina Brooke Page B

been announced yet. Not too late to call the betrothal off, you know.”
    “Good God, no!” she said, frowning. “Nothing like that. But there is something I would ask of you. Something very particular.”
    He had the sense to look wary. “Indeed? Happy to serve, as ever, Lady Cecily.”
    She fixed him with her most guileless expression, which any member of her family would know spelled trouble. “I wish you to tell me about the Promethean Club.”
    His face blanked. “The Promethean Club?”
    He looked for a moment as if he’d deny all knowledge of the organization.
    “Yes,” she said hastily. “My brother belonged to the club, as you are no doubt aware. I read his diary and he—he mentioned you.” That was a lie, but she couldn’t admit she’d been at Ashburn House and identified Norland by his singular laugh.
    “ Did he?” Norland’s expression turned thoughtful. “Ye-es,” he said slowly. “I am a member, as it happens. Though I can’t quite see what it has to do with you.”
    In a rush, she said, “Would you take me to one of their meetings, Your Grace?”
    His head jerked up as if she’d slapped him. “Certainly not.”
    Cecily stared at her fiancé, utterly disconcerted. She’d never heard him express himself so decidedly before. If he stood up to his mother this way, he’d lead a much more comfortable life.
    She couldn’t believe he’d refuse her, not on a matter so important. “But—but surely—”
    With an impatient shake of his head, he cut in. “The Promethean Club is for men of science, men of philosophy. We discuss new ideas and inventions. All dull stuff to you, but to us…” He puffed out a breath. “Oh, you would never understand.”
    His dismissive attitude stung but she refused to let him provoke her into a heated response. Evenly, she said, “How do you know what I might understand, Norland? You have never asked me about my interests or my education.”
    “Ha! Furbelows and folderol. That’s all you young ladies care about.”
    A flare of anger nearly made her lose sight of her objective. But she’d run up against such prejudice often enough to know that argument would gain her nothing.
    “I am interested in science and advancement and ideas,” she said, striving for calm. “I didn’t receive a formal education, but you may be sure that I am far from ignorant. How could I be? I am Jonathon Westruther’s sister. Just because I do not wear my knowledge on my sleeve like a bluestocking or thrust it down other people’s throats, just because I happen to like beautiful things, that does not make me an empty-headed ninny.”
    Blotches of pink swarmed Norland’s cheeks as his choler rose. “I’ll not have it, I tell you! The meetings of our society are not spectacles to be gawked at by frivolous young ladies with nothing more amusing in their social diaries.”
    He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone was adamant. And more than a touch contemptuous. Cecily realized—rather belatedly, if she were honest—that even a man who was in general mild and compliant might have one conceit. Apparently, Norland’s was his intellect. And intellect, unfortunately, didn’t preclude stupid, blind prejudice.
    Frustration consumed her. She had been the stupid one, in this instance. She’d approached the matter too bluntly. She’d underestimated his arrogance and his resolve, and now she paid the price.
    Trying to retrieve her false step, she said. “ Please, Your Grace. Give me a chance to show you I am in earnest.”
    “No!” But as he looked at her, he must have seen the pain and longing in her eyes, for the fire gradually died from his expression.
    Avoiding her scrutiny, he waved a hand. “Your interest in our society might not be frivolous but it is far from earnest. You wouldn’t even think of joining us if you weren’t curious about your brother. I deeply regret his death and I am truly sorry for your grief. But you won’t find whatever you’re looking for at the