The Bachelor's Bargain by Catherine Palmer

head and frowned at Miss Watson’s moonlit profile. “Machine lace?”
    “Oh, it cannot be so bad, Anne. Without the embroidery stitched upon it by hand, it is nothing more than boring and tedious net. You must not feel so threatened.” In contrast to Anne’s straight nose, Miss Watson’s tilted upward at the tip, giving her a pert look—though lately Prudence had been anything but pert.
    “You must be reasonable, Anne,” she continued. “You can remain on the staff here at Slocombe, or you can think of something else rational to do. It is not as though there are many choices.”
    Anne stroked her fingertips across the hem of the sheet. “I could always be a marchioness.”
    “There you go again. You will not be logical.”
    Anne tugged the sheet up to her neck. She knew she needed to sleep, but every time she shut her eyes, she saw the Marquess of Blackthorne winding her lace around his finger and then stuffing it into his pocket. He had known its value at once. He also had recognized the significance of the lozenge, and he understood that the lace had no value to anyone but the Chouteau family. He wanted it for himself, the fiend.
    Wicked man. Insufferable lout.
    Clenching her fists, Anne fought the rising tide of helpless anger. He had trapped her. Stealing the lace from him would send her to prison. Begging for its return would be useless. Working another lace border in hopes of freeing her father would take far too long. And she could never betray his ideals by using her skills in the manufacture of machine lace.
    “What about taking a husband?” Prudence asked. “The gamekeeper has made his intentions clear. I understand William Green is more than a little put out at your rejection. In spite of his jealous manner, he is not so bad, is he? You would have your own cottage, and you could send your wages to your family in Nottingham.”
    Anne tilted her head to one side and eyed her friend. “And be subjected to the gamekeeper’s brutishness and vanity night and day? Miss Watson, now it is you who will not be reasonable.”
    “Then look for a soldier to wed. I read in The Tattler that Napoleon has escaped from his island exile. Miss Pickworth predicts that England may go to war with France again. Can you imagine? Dreadful thought! Yet, why not make the most of it? As near as we are to France, Tiverton will be full of handsome officers in their regimentals. Soldiers earn solid pay, I should wager. You ought to look for a husband among them as soon as may be.”
    Anne lifted herself up on one elbow and studied the young woman in the grand canopied bed nearby. “You must try to rest, Miss Watson. You know how important it is to be fresh at breakfast. I am sure the duke will want you to meet his elder son.”
    “Perish the thought! I abhor introductions and polite, meaningless chatter.” Prudence looked at Anne with luminous eyes. “What will you do, dearest friend? Oh, you will not attempt anything foolish, will you?”
    Anne let out a deep breath. “Of course not,” she replied. “Do try to get some sleep now.”
    As Prudence’s breathing began to slow, Anne studied the curls of mist on the windowpane. Again she thought of the marquess, a man of shadows and darkness. She remembered perfectly the way his fingers had raked through the thick rumple of black curls on his head, the way his cold gray eyes had assessed her, the way his mouth had curved upward in a cynical smile.
    She remembered, too, how his hand had felt as it held hers—warm, firm, strong. She recalled the timbre of his voice as he had pronounced her a beauty, had admired her eyes, had called her hair a sheet of bronze, had asked to be her protector.
    Protector? There was only one way a man like Blackthorne could protect a woman like Anne Webster.
    “You will forget about that lace, will you not, Anne?”
    Prudence murmured, half asleep. “You will heed my advice?”
    Anne watched the sky lighten outside the small window of her bedroom.