She bowed her head again, no longer able to look him in the eye. It had been a mistake to come here. Her behaviour had been outlandish, but she had not been trying to compromise herself. In walking to the house, she had risked all, and now, if the duke turned her out and she had to find her own way home, there would be no way to repair the damage to her reputation.
He gestured around the room. ‘You’re miles from the protection of society in the company of a pair of notorious rakes.’
‘Notorious?’ She compared them. The duke looked dangerous enough, but it was hard to believe his brother was a threat to her honour.
‘In these parts, certainly. Does anyone know you’re here?’
‘I asked direction of a respectable gentleman and his wife.’
‘The man, so tall?’ The duke sketched a measurement with his hand. ‘And plump. With grey hair. The wife: tall, lean as a rail. A mouth that makes her look—’ he pulled a face ‘—a little too respectable.’
She shrugged. ‘I suppose that could be them. If he had spectacles and she had a slight squint.’
‘And when you spoke to them, you gave them your right name?’
She stared back in challenge. ‘Why would I not?’
The duke sank into a chair with a groan.
His brother let out a whoop of laughter.
The duke glared. ‘This is no laughing matter, you nincompoop. If you care at all for honour, then one of us is up a creek.’
St John laughed again. ‘By now you know the answer to the first part of the statement. It would lead you to the answer to the second. I suppose that I could generously offer—’
‘I have a notion of what you would consider a generous offer. Complete the sentence and I’ll hand you your head.’ He ran fingers through his dark hair. Then he turned slowly back to look at her. ‘Miss...whatever-your-name-is...’ He fumbled with the letter, reread it and began again. ‘Lady Miranda Grey. Your arrival here was somewhat...unusual. In London, it might have gone unnoticed. But Marshmore is small, and the arrival of a young lady on a coach, alone, is reason enough to gossip. In the village you spoke with the Reverend Winslow and his wife, who have a rather unchristian love of rumour and no great fondness for this family. When you asked direction to this house, where there was no chaperon in attendance, you cemented their view of you.’
‘I don’t understand.’
St John smirked. ‘It is no doubt now well known around the town that the duke and his brother have reconciled sufficiently after the death of their mother to share a demi-mondaine.’
‘There is a chance that the story will not get back to London, I suppose,’ the duke said with a touch of hope.
Which would be no help. Because of her father, London was still too hot to hold her. If she had to cross out Devon, too... She sighed. There was a limit to the number of counties she could be disgraced in, and still have hope of a match.
St John was still amused. ‘Mrs Winslow has a cousin in London. We might as well take out an ad in The Times.’
The duke looked out of the window and into the rain, which had changed from the soft and bone-chilling drizzle to a driving storm, complete with lightning and high winds. ‘There is no telling the condition of the road between here and the inn. I dare not risk a carriage.’
The look in his eyes made her wonder whether he expected her to set off on foot. She bit back the response forming in her mind, trying to focus on the goal of this trip. A goal that no longer seemed as unlikely as it had when Cici first suggested it.
‘She’ll have to stay the night, Marcus. There’s nothing else for it. And the only question in the mind of the town will be which one of us had her first.’
She gasped in shock at the insult, and then covered her mouth with her hand. There was no advantage in calling attention to herself, just now. Judging by the duke’s expression, he would more likely throw her out into the storm than apologise for his brother’s crudeness.
St John slapped his brother on the back. ‘But, good news, old man. The solution is at hand. And it was our mother’s dying wish, was it not?’
‘Damn the woman. Damn her to hell. Damn the vicar. And his pinched-up shrew of a wife. Damn. Damn!’
St John patted his apoplectic brother. ‘Perhaps the vicar needs to explain free will to you, Marcus. They are not the ones forcing your hand.’
The duke shook off the offending hand. ‘And damn you as well.’
‘You do have a choice, Marcus. But Haughleigh?’ The title escaped St John’s lips in a contemptuous puff of breath. ‘It is Haughleigh who does not. For he would never choose common sense over chivalry, would he, Marcus?’
The duke’s face darkened. ‘I do not need your help in this, St John.’
‘Of course you don’t, your Grace. You never do. So say the words and get them over with. Protect your precious honour. Waiting will not help the matter.’
The duke stiffened, then turned towards Miranda, his jaw clenched and expression hooded, as if making a great effort to marshal his emotions. There was a long pause, and she imagined she could feel the ground shake as the statement rose out of him like lava from an erupting volcano. ‘Lady Miranda, would you do me the honour of accepting my hand in marriage?’
‘But that’s ridiculous.’ It had slipped out. That was not supposed to be the answer, she reminded herself. It was the goal, was it not, to get her away from scandal and well and properly married? And to a duke. How could she object to that?
She’d imagined an elderly earl. A homely squire. A baron lost in drink or in books. Someone with expectations as low as her own. Not a duke, despite what Cici had planned. She’d mentioned that the Duke of Haughleigh had a younger brother. He had seemed the more likely of the two unlikely possibilities.
And now, she was faced with the elder brother. Unhappy. Impatient. More than she bargained for.
‘You find my proposal ridiculous?’ The duke was staring at her in amazement.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t ridiculous. Of course not. Just sudden. You surprised me.’
She was starting to babble. She stopped herself before she was tempted to turn him down and request that his brother offer instead.
‘Well? You’ve got over the shock by now, I trust.’
Of course, she thought, swallowing the bitterness. It had been seconds. She should be fully recovered by now. She looked to St John for help. He grinned back at her, open, honest and unhelpful.
The duke was tapping his foot. Did she want to be yoked for life to a man who tapped his foot whenever she was trying to make a major decision?
Cici’s voice came clearly to her again. ‘Want has nothing to do with it. What you want does not signify. You make the best choice possible given the options available. And if there is only one choice...’
‘I am truly ruined?’
‘If you cannot leave this house until morning, which you can’t. And if the vicar’s wife spreads the tale, which she will.
‘I’m sorry,’ he added as an afterthought.
He was sorry. That, she supposed, was something. But was he sorry for her, or for himself? And would she have to spend the rest of her life in atonement for this night?
‘All right.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘If that is what you want.’
His