A Valentine from Harlequin

blame for what John did,” James protested, every line of John’s last letter bemoaning his anguish and shame burned into his brain. If Charlotte mourned anything, it was the loss of his brother’s money.
    Duncan eyed him shrewdly, as if James were a merchant trying to sell him something of dubious quality. “Whatever you think of the past, it is last night I am most concerned with today. You compromised Charlotte’s honor, and you will do the honorable thing, one way or another, or you’ll be hearing from my solicitor.”
    “I can afford the best solicitor in London to fight the suit.”
    “Aye, I have no doubt, but fighting me will cost you a pretty penny, especially as these things can drag on for so long. In the meantime, no woman of character will trust you, should you wish to marry and create an heir. Of course, if you plan to remain a bachelor all your days, that may not trouble you.”
    James did not plan to remain a bachelor. He wanted children, and not simply to provide an heir. He liked children. Many nights as he had lain awake listening to his comrades in arms snoring and snorting and tossing and turning, he had envisioned leading the life of a country gentleman, surrounded by a loving family, married to…his brother’s fiancée. He flushed and pushed away that shameful memory. “Do you intend to threaten Charlotte into agreeing, too? Will you sue her, as well?”
    “Charlotte will do what is best for her.”
    James scowled. “Of that I have no doubt,” he said as he strode to the door. When he went out, he slammed it even harder than Charlotte had.
    * * *
    “But, Papa, I don’t understand,” Dulcie pouted a fortnight later as she sat on the arm of her father’s chair in his mahogany-paneled study, which smelled faintly of cheroots and pomade. “Why did you invite him to dinner again? Charlotte refuses to see him, and he sits here scowling like a bear whenever he comes. Why, they loathe each other!”
    “Of course they do,” her father replied with a chortle as he chucked his beloved, but not overly intelligent, daughter on her round little chin. “I don’t intend that they should marry. I have other plans for the duke.”
    He eyed Dulcie so significantly, even she caught on. “ Me? ” she squeaked. “You want him to marry me? ”
    “Yes.” He patted her arm. “The more annoyed he gets with Charlotte, the lovelier and more pleasant you will seem.”
    Dulcie pouted again. “I thought I was pretty and pleasant.”
    “Oh, you are, my dear, you are, and the duke can hardly fail to notice that fact every time he comes here.”
    Dulcie’s pale forehead wrinkled with a frown. “Yet you said you’d sue him if he doesn’t marry Charlotte.”
    “Only to ensure that he would stay in London and visit us. The moment he tells me he would rather marry you instead, all talk of breach of promise will be quite forgotten.”
    Dulcie toyed with her rings and didn’t meet her father’s gaze. “That seems a bit hard on Charlotte, Papa, using her to lure the duke here to fall in love with me.”
    “All’s fair in love and war, my dear. Indeed, we are really doing her a favor.” He warmed to his subject. “The gossip will go against her if the duke doesn’t at least seem to be doing the honorable thing, but if he jilts her in your favor, she’ll appear to be the one hard done by. All the ladies will sympathize with her, even those who were so quick to blame her in that other unfortunate business.”
    Dulcie continued to frown. “What if they blame me for stealing the duke away?”
    “They won’t,” he assured her. “If there’s any blame in this, it will attach to him.” He gave his daughter an indulgent smile. “Besides, what does it matter what they say if you marry a duke in the end?”

Chapter Four
    Charlotte looked unseeing out the tall, narrow windows of the town house in Mayfair. She felt like a prisoner in her home—or at least, her uncle’s home. She had never been completely comfortable living with her uncle and cousin, but after her father’s death, she had no other alternative. Now, with the unwelcome presence of the Duke of Broverhampton haunting her like a ghost, she felt more imprisoned than ever.
    She heard a small sound and turned away from the window, to find Dulcie standing near her dressing table.
    “Yes?” she asked, noting that her usually placid cousin looked worried and uncertain. Perhaps the strain of this forced marriage nonsense was wearing on