by Philippa Carey
Jilted!
SHE had laughed in his face! Not a ladylike chuckle but a full-throated, derisive laugh.
“Oh, do get up, you silly man,” she had said. “Do you seriously expect me to accept an offer from a mere baronet like you when I will get an offer from the Duke of Pevensey at any moment?
“You are fun to be with, Martin, but not someone I would ever marry!”
Shocked, Sir Martin Locke had risen to his feet from where he had been on one knee in front of Cecilia.
He had been so sure she would accept his proposal he hadn’t considered the possibility of her refusing him.
He blinked at her in disbelief. She was grinning. He swallowed, stood, stepped back a little and gave a perfunctory bow.
“I beg your pardon, Cecilia. I have misunderstood you completely. I apologise for having wasted your time.”
Martin did a smart about-turn and strode from the room, lips pressed together. He collected his overcoat, gloves and hat from the butler without seeing him, then hurried down the steps to the street.
He squeezed his eyes closed for a moment so that no tear should escape. Men did not cry, this was only because there was a keen, biting wind in his face.
It was snowing and a dusting of snowflakes swirled along the pavement. He hunched and pulled his coat lapels together as he walked home.
He felt humiliated – and angry.
Angry at himself for being a deluded fool, taken in by a pretty face and bubbly personality.
Angry because only now did he realise she was a shallow, self-centred flirt.
Angry that she had made him think she cared when she had only been toying with him.
And angry because he hadn’t realised she was so mercenary.
Mercenary was probably the wrong word. After all, she would have lived in comfort and luxury as his wife.
No, socially ambitious was more accurate. Martin didn’t suppose she cared any more for the Duke of Pevensey than for him.
Perhaps the Duke cared as little for her. Who knew? She would become a duchess, he would get a decorative wife.
Maybe Martin was best out of it. It would have been much worse to marry Cecilia and only then to discover her true nature.
How could he have been so stupid as to think she loved him? The answer was that he had been blinded by that pretty face.
It wasn’t far to his house in Berkeley Square and he bounded up the steps, keen to get into the warmth. As he handed his coat to the butler, Constance, his younge
