When a Duke Says I Do by Jane Goodger Page B

of him and he knew and probably expected it. She half suspected Lord Hathwaite was terrified of the old duke, as well.
    She knew she was being difficult, but it was as if she’d awakened after a long sleep only to realize her entire life had passed her by. Though she hadn’t looked forward to her marriage, she’d never actually dreaded it. And now she did.
    Because of one—or perhaps two—kisses.
    If only Lord Hathwaite had shown even the smallest interest in kissing her... or talking to her or looking at her or walking with her. She supposed when you knew who you were going to marry since the time you could think, the idea of pursuit never entered one’s head. Perhaps if she pursued him, it might be fun.
    With determination, she said, “I’ll go play.”
    When she reached the group, she called out, “Can you have one more player?” They agreed and she took up the ugly yellow mallet that was left. “You’ll have to refresh my memory as I’ve only played once. Lord Hathwaite, perhaps you can be my mentor.”
    He looked slightly put out, but maybe Elsie, in her contrary state, was simply imagining things. “Of course,” he said, giving her a graceful bow. Ever proper, ever polite.
    She looked up at him in what she imagined was a coquettish manner. “How does one hold the mallet?” she asked, purposely holding it wrong.
    “That’s fine,” he said, distracted. “Hey, good shot, Whitmoore.” Then he looked back at her. “You’ll be fine. It’s a simple enough game and it doesn’t matter who wins, after all, does it?”
    And off he went. Elsie stared after him, then gave her aunt a pointed look, as if to say: See what I mean? Aunt simply laughed and waved her hand at her niece as if all was well in the world, which it was. Her niece would be a duchess some day. What could possibly be wrong with that?
     
    “You look particularly glum, Hath,” Lord Whitmoore said to his old school chum. “And your father isn’t even here.”
    “But he hovers like a black specter in my life,” Oscar said, pulling back a long drink of fine French brandy. He stared at the rich, amber liquid, swirled it about, then placed it firmly on the mantel. It wouldn’t do to get drunk before lunch. “He’s set the wedding date.”
    “Ah,” Whitmoore said. He stood by a large bank of windows overlooking the Stapleford gardens where several young ladies were examining the Wrights’ prize-winning roses. Among them was the lovely Miss Elizabeth. “She’s grown into a beauty. That’s some luck there.”
    Oscar grunted. “I suppose.”
    Whitmoore laughed. “I still wouldn’t trade places with you for a harem of beautiful women.”
    “Thank you for your encouraging words,” Oscar said dryly.
    “Hell, Hath, we all know what a miserable codger your father is. And we probably don’t know the half of it. But this marriage is your escape. You can move to your town house in London and never speak to him again until he’s on his deathbed. You can start the life of idleness and debauchery you’ve always wanted to lead.”
    Oscar smiled grimly. “I was thinking of going to Northumberland. Or Scotland. But I fear his tentacles will find me no matter where I go.”
    Whitmoore looked suitably shocked. “You cannot drag a new bride to Northumberland. She’d leave you in a day.”
    Oscar actually looked happy for a moment. “Precisely.”
    “It’s not as if she’s a shrew. She seems rather nice to me,” Whitmoore said with clear puzzlement.
    “Then you marry her.”
    “Too late for that, you know.”
    “Nothing is more disgusting than a happily married man.”
    Whitmoore grinned. “You might be happy, too, if you’d put your mind to it.” He peered out the window again. “She seems to get on with my Agnes. We could have dinners together and attend the opera in Town.”
    “And raise our heir and a spare together,” Oscar said bitterly. He hated this, hated feeling sour and sad and angry all the time. He’d hated his