“I’ll Marry the First Man Who Enters,” She Joked — Then the Duke Walked In
Chapter 3
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Bella set her glass down so hard the crystal cracked. "Get my cloak, Philip," she whispered, her hands shaking. "We are leaving. Now."Morning light did no favors to the Holloway townhouse. It crept through the grime-streaked windows of the drawing room, illuminating the water stains on the ceiling and the worn, threadbare patches on the Persian rug.Bella sat at a scarred wooden desk, her fingers stained black with ink. It was 10:00 in the morning; she had not slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the flat, muddy gaze of the Duke of Westford and heard the mocking laughter of the ballroom. She was currently staring at a ledger that proved, in stark mathematical terms, that they would have to sell the silver candlesticks just to buy coal for the week.A sharp, heavy knock echoed from the front door. It wasn't a polite tap; it was a knock that rattled the door frame. A moment later, the lone maid, a terrified girl of 16, poked her head into the drawing room."Miss Bella... there is a... a gentleman."Before Bella could ask for a calling card, the gentleman filled the doorway.Augustus Wallace had to duck slightly to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. In the harsh daylight, he looked even less refined than he had the night before: he wore no cravat, merely a simple linen shirt open at the throat and a heavy wool riding coat; dust coated his leather boots; he carried the scent of wet cobblestones, horses, and something sharp like cold iron.Bella stood up. The ledger slid from her lap, hitting the floor with a loud slap.Augustus looked at the ledger, then at the faded walls. He took in the missing ornaments on the mantelpiece, the cold fireplace, and finally, Bella herself. She was wearing a plain gray morning gown, her hair pinned up haphazardly."Your Grace," Bella said, her voice cracked. She cleared her throat, lifting her chin. "To what do we owe the honor?"Augustus stepped into the room. He didn't wait to be offered a seat; he took the armchair opposite the sofa. The wood groaned in protest under his weight. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. His hands were huge: the knuckles were white and scarred, with tiny black lines of coal dust permanently tattooed into the creases of his skin."I am a practical man, Miss Holloway," Augustus said. His voice was a deep, gravelly rumble that sounded like stones grinding together. "I don't care for games. I don't care for the whispers in these absurd parlors, so I will speak plainly."Bella crossed her arms, suddenly painfully aware of the ink on her fingers and the fraying cuffs of her sleeves. "I prefer plain speech, Your Grace.""Good." Augustus stared at her. "I am told you are in the market for a husband. I am told you are so thoroughly desperate that you announced to a room full of vipers you would marry the very next man who walked through the door."