Meg scoffed, turning back to Pan. A tiny bit of gold on the flute would look like sunshine. “I take it by that response that I am mistaken,” Dougal said drily.
“There are a great many debutantes who have no other recourse but to marry.”
“They could work.”
“They could. As governesses, at the mercy of their employers’…appetites.”
He winced.
“Or as dressmakers, maybe. But they have no skills because they have not been taught any, on purpose, and are under the control of fathers who do not want governesses for daughters.”
“They want duchesses for daughters.”
“Precisely.” She added a touch of the same gold to an oak leaf, before realizing she was working dangerously close to Pan’s groin. And the original painter had apparently focused on that area. With a great deal of optimism. Back to oak leaves and ladies. “Not to mention that the war has taken too many of our young men.” It had nearly taken Henry. She’d gladly run Napoleon through herself for that alone. “Fewer men mean fewer marriages.”
“You are very mercenary.”
“Practical,” she corrected, though she had to also correct a slight slump to her shoulders. Mercenary ladies who fell off ladders were not precisely in demand.
“I like it,” Dougal said softly. She struggled not to blush again.
Caught between his warm attention and Pan’s erection, Meg opted to change the subject. Discretion and valor and all that. “What have you got there?” She asked, finally noticing the parchment tucked inside his waistcoat, instead of the crinkle at the corner of his dark eyes.
He followed her glance, made a face. “A letter from the Prince of Wales.”
“Goodness.”
“With a list of his choices for my upcoming nuptials.”
“Ah.”
So much for a change of subject.
It was for the best. She couldn’t afford to forget her place or the reality of her situation. She might like Dougal more than she ought to, and he might like her, a little bit, but it didn’t change the fact that she had no dowry and one scurrilous uncle who liked it that way.
“You can’t know how it feels to be forced into marriage.”
Her glance was so dry it fairly crackled.
His mouth twitched. “That was an idiotic thing to say, I apologize.”
She waved it away. “Who has he suggested?” The Prince of Wales was not exactly known for being selfless. He might be a fine patron of art and architecture, but he was less careful with his cronies. And his own habits. “I might recognize their names, even if we are not friendly.”
Dougal leaned a shoulder against her mural and sighed. “A Lady St. Ives.”
“Granddaughter of a duke. She’s clever, kind.”
She’d always liked Lady St. Ives. Until today.
“Lady Susan Acton.”
“Her father is a nightmare. And a good friend to the Prince.”
“Of course, he is.”
She met his sardonic look with her own. “Who else?” she asked. Hopeful ladies in the garden were one thing but this was something else entirely. This was duty and royal decree and a cold splash of reality. She hadn’t expected to feel quite this… cross at the thought of his marrying.
“Miss Linden.”