“I imagine most girls dream of being a duchess,” she said. “We’re taught from the cradle that it is the pinnacle of womanhood.” She rolled her eyes then, and her lips pursed. “But for me, it’s not a dream. It’s expected.”
She released her hands, bringing them to her sides in fists.
“I live my life allowed only to do that which increases my marital prospects. And because of my—” She darted a glance at him, her cheeks pinking before she looked away again. “Because of how I look, I am often treated with snideness from other women. I am over-scrutinized and talked about wherever I go—just loudly enough that I can hear them even though I must pretend that I don’t.”
While she no longer wrung her hands, the thumb on her left one worked furiously against another of her fingers. An expression of nerves, he’d wager. Then her lips twisted into a wry smile. “I know, poor little rich girl.”
“I wasn’t thinking that at all,” he said. “I was thinking how of awful that must be.”
She dipped her head in acknowledgement. “I no longer wish to be an object of society,” she said. “As a duchess, it will be even worse. Perhaps I’d have more liberty as a married woman—if my husband allows it. But I’d be even more in the stage lights. Expected to be perfect all of the time.”
He didn’t think she could ever not be perfect, but this didn’t seem the time tell her so.
And he understood her fears. Hadn’t he been looking at the dukedom as a prison of sorts? But maybe it didn’t have to be. Maybe, together, they could create their own freedom.
“That’s not the worst of it, though,” she all but whispered, making this quiet, foggy footpath feel even more like a place of confession. His ears pricked at the seriousness of her tone. Here, they would come to to crux of it.
“I have a sister,” she said. “An older sister. She is my favorite person in the world. She is kind and funny and…well, she is all that is good.”
She went silent again. And again, that thumb slid over and over its neighboring knuckle.
“She sounds delightful,” he offered, hoping she’d continue her thought.
“She is, though you’ll never convince her of it. You see…” She looked over at him and the pain that strained the lines of her face hurt to look upon.
“My sister is what most call plain. I think her beautiful in every way, but our parents…well, they value only what others see, only what they deem the loftiest lord will wish to marry. Our entire lives, they have compared the two of us and…found her wanting.”
Her voice warbled and bright red splotched her cheeks now—from anger, or embarrassment, or chafing from the wind, he couldn’t be certain.
“And now they have forced her into an engagement with someone entirely unworthy of her, simply to clear the way for me to land their duke,” she spat.
Definitely anger at the injustice, then. He expected nothing less from his Boadicea.
But he also saw shame shining bright and wet in her eyes.
She was stunningly beautiful. She’d taken his breath away from the moment he’d first seen her. But he’d been equally taken by her bravery, her protectiveness and her spirit.
He couldn’t imagine what it must have done to that spirit, growing up watching someone she loved being put down and made to feel inferior to her. The way she’d said “compared” conveyed a wealth of emotion, and anger boiled inside him at these unknown parents. They had undoubtedly hurt her sister, but they’d also hurt her.
He reached for her hand, stilling her agitated movement, enfolding it in his own. He brought them to a stop in the middle of the path and gave a gentle tug. She turned toward him willingly enough, but she wouldn’t look up at him.
Maxwell reached for her other hand, too, and squeezed lightly. “It’s not your fault.”
She did look up then, another half-shrug lifting one shoulder. That vulnerable, disbelieving gesture nearly undid him.
Her left hand flexed in his, unconsciously he thought. She likely wished to wring her hands once more, but he had no intention of letting her go. Max ran his thumbs soothingly over her knuckles instead, wishing he knew what to say.
As he passed over one of her fingers, he felt a raised knot. He glanced down and saw that her pinky was permanently bent at an odd angle.
When she noticed where he was looking, she tugged her hands from his and tightened the left one into a fist, as if to hide her imperfection from him.
And his heart broke for her.
Just like her sister, it seemed, she had no idea that it wasn’t how she looked on the outside that made her so beautiful to him.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said, shaking her head. “What’s done is done. No matter how hard I fight it, in the end, my sister shan’t have the love match she deserves, and neither shall I. She shall marry the despot they found for her, and I shall be forced to marry their duke.”
Their duke, she’d said again. As if she were already building a wall around her heart where he—where the duke?—was concerned, if only because she associated him with her cruel parents.
“Perhaps this duke won’t be so bad,” he said gently. Christ, was he speaking of himself in the third person now? “Perhaps he will be your love match after all.”
One single tear slid from the corner of her eye, trailing over the apple of her cheek and brushing the corner of her mouth. Then another.
“But that would be awful. Don’t you see? How could I live with always knowing that my happiness came at the expense of my sister’s?”
Her words pierced like a dagger. What could he possibly do about that? He wanted to fix this for her—he had to fix this for her.
Maxwell wasn’t positive how aristocratic marriages worked, per se, so the barrister in him asked clarifying questions. “So, your parents are insistent that you marry this duke?”
She nodded miserably.
“And I’m to understand that a younger sister cannot become engaged until the older sister is spoken for?”
She blinked up at him, a bemused crease forming between her brows as she considered his questions. At least there were no more tears.
“Well, it’s not a law or anything, but yes, that is the custom. And my parents are nothing if not traditional.”
“I see. How, if at all, can an engagement be broken?”
She winced. “Breach of promise is a serious offense. If a man breaks off the engagement, the woman is all but ruined. He, too, can face harsh repercussions if her family is not amenable.”
“And if a woman instigates it?”
“A woman can cry off more easily, if the gentleman goes along with it. However, if you’re thinking of my sister, my father would disown her even if her lout of an affianced would let her go. She could end up without a home or any means of support.”
Maxwell nodded, his resolve growing. He hadn’t wished to become a duke, but in the past weeks, his eyes had been opened to the possibilities it would afford. While he would no longer be able to help individuals as a barrister, he would have the power to help more people by working for their interests in Parliament.
And only he could help this woman—and her sister. In doing so, he might even win her love. If that wasn’t worth embracing a dukedom for…
“Then your duke shall simply have to take your sister in. Or insist that she be given the time to find a proper husband, if she desires, and wait for you until she does so.”
His Boadicea no longer looked bemused—her black brows had lifted and her mouth had dropped open in pure incredulity. Then she made a sound that was part huff, part snort of disbelief. “No man would do that.”
Maxwell reached for her then. He cradled her face in his palm, wiping away the last vestige of her tears with his thumb.