The Taming of the Duke

"That is an excellent idea," Griselda approved. "A gentleman, naturally, but someone who keeps to himself. Perhaps Rafe has some particularly rustic friend who might interest you for a brief time. It is better to find someone who is absolutely not husband material."

Imogen shook her head. "I am amazed, Griselda. Truly, I am."

"If you will forgive me for saying so, my dear, you have been quite at the mercy of your emotions for several years. But emotion is an unreliable guide to men. I find it helpful to observe the male sex objectively whenever possible. They have great charms. Yet one should avail oneself of those charms only in situations in which one has the upper hand at all times."

She settled her rug around her more snugly. "Men are troublesome to one's dignity and one's peace of mind. Keep that firmly in mind, and choose a man with no wish to claim you in marriage."

"I am amazed," Imogen repeated. "Amazed."

Griselda raised an eyebrow. "Amazement is a neces-sary precursor to sophistication, my dear. Let me add that if you feel the inclination to befriend someone, do so for one night, or at the very most, two. If we females become overly intimate, we run every risk of falling in love. I have seen it happen to friends a hundred times."

Imogen opened her mouth but Griselda held up a delicate hand.

"I am well aware that you have already suffered a bout of love. While it undoubtedly cured you of a desire to repeat the experience, beware! Be very careful."

Imogen nodded. Griselda referred to love with all the horror that one might describe a bout of measles. It was eye-opening.

"One night, or perhaps two, if the gentleman in question is particularly amiable. Naturally, you must avoid having a child. I can give you some instruction on that matter."

"Nothing came of my marriage," Imogen said sadly. "I'm not certain that children are something I should worry about."

"You were only married for a few weeks. Now I was married for a year, but the truth of it was that poor Willoughby was rather too large to be comfortable in those circumstances. My dear friend, Lady Feddrington, tells me that her husband suffers a similar indisposition.

"End the affair briskly, and without allowing the slightest room for doubt," Griselda continued. "Tell the gentleman that while you are grateful for the lovely time that you spent in his company, you have seen the error of your ways and wish to lead a celibate existence. You can add some flummery about his having given you pleasure you never experienced before, if you wish."

Imogen nodded, wishing that she had Josie's little book to take notes in.

"On occasion, a hitherto rational man might act in a thoroughly distracted fashion when you inform him of your wish to end the relationship. I generally inform them that while I am not betraying poor Willoughby (he is dead, after all), I have decided, upon reflection, that I am betraying myself. They never have any adequate rebuttal, and you can part on the best of terms. If it weren't for this foolish stomach of mine, I could perhaps think of something else… oh, there is one more thing."

"Does every widow know these rules?" Imogen asked, fascinated by this glance into Griselda's life.

"Certainly not, or there wouldn't be so many foolish women throwing their reputations away. The most important rule is that you never look to the servants. I have to tell you, my dear, that there have been ladies who looked aside to footmen." She widened her eyes impressively. "Even gardeners!"

Imogen and her sisters had studied every London journal they could find during their childhood in Scotland, and they were well acquainted with the occasional shocked comment that the Countess of Such and Such had escaped to France in the company of a member of her household.

"Widowhood can be a long and a lonely state of affairs, Imogen. But only—" Griselda smiled—"if one chooses to experience it in that fashion."

Imogen nodded.

"I foresee a happy widowhood for you," Griselda observed. "Will you ring that bell again, my dear? I am afraid it is a matter of some urgency."

Chapter 4

In Which it is Discovered That Marriage is the Greater of Many Evils

A house party, Wintersall Estate Somerset

Gillian Pythian-Adams was bored. It wasn't an unusual sensation, but it was certainly an unpleasant one. "Mr. Wintersall," she said, painstakingly reminding herself that in matters of grave importance, sincerity was not important. "I honor you enormously. I—"

"My mother is quite carried away by the boldness with which I affirmed to her that you were the spouse of my choice," Mr. Wintersall stated. "I think I hardly need tell you that, generally speaking, I take my mother's advice in all things. In fact, she asked particularly that I should assure you of that. I am not a man who refuses to take advice from a woman."

"I am touched by your—your boldness," Gillian said. "But—"

"Miss Pythian-Adams," Mr. Wintersall interrupted. It was likely a constitutional problem with him.

"Yes?"

"It seems to me that you may be laboring under a misapprehension…" And he was off again. Gillian caught sight of herself in the mirror on the opposite side of the room. There she was: green eyes, red hair, her mother's slender oval of a face. Her gown was, if she said so herself, exquisite. She was the picture of a perfect lady. So why was she so different from the other young ladies of her acquaintance?

Why was she the only one who found it a torment to listen to the insipidies and stupidities of men, to pompous, arrogant proposals given by half-baked men who expected her to respond with gratitude, if not slavish adulation? Her father laughed and said it was the penalty for reading too many plays. Her mother looked worried and said a man would come along who was not a fool.

For some years, Gillian had believed her. In the beginning she had punctiliously attended every ball to which she was invited, awaiting the moment when her less-than-foolish future husband would stroll into her presence. When that hope dwindled, she engaged herself to a fool, Draven Maitland, thinking that saving her family's fortunes was a passable alternative to loneliness. Then Draven had taken himself away, which left her prey to proposals.

The worst of it was that she was starting to dislike everyone. She no longer met a strange gentleman with the hope that he would prove himself different; she merely watched, indifferent, as the creature sprouted his silly chatter, his foolish persiflage. From Gillian's point of view, all men, including Mr. William Wintersall, were primitive, direct and deadly (to borrow a phrase from a second-rate play) in their pursuit of one thing. She wished she could pretend it was pursuit of beautiful eyes, or even desire for her company in the bedchamber.

As far as she could tell, her dowry trumped the above.

Mr. Wintersall provided an excellent example of pure lust for lucre overcoming his obvious lack of interest in her person. He had (finally) dispensed with his mother's views of marriage and had launched into a genial hymn of self-praise. Gillian had no doubt that were she dull-witted enough to accept his hand in marriage, that particular hymn would grow into a daily chorus in which she would be compelled to join. The very thought of it made her shudder.

"Mr. Wintersall," she said firmly, "I cannot marry you."

"Oh, but—" he said, floundering into a sentence so full of platitudes that he couldn't see his way to the end.