A Duke In Need Of A Wife
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Although, to be fair, she had apologised once or twice when she felt she’d crossed a line. She appeared to know that she ought not to be so familiar with him, but simply couldn’t help herself.
He thought about that for several hundred yards.
And then recalled the slightly anxious way Miss Underwood had glanced up at the front window, as if she could sense somebody watching her.
His brows drew down as he went back further still, to the aunt’s reaction to his decree Miss Underwood was to go out driving with him, alone but for a groom. He’d been too annoyed when he’d deposited her on her front step to notice it, but now that he was going over the scene again, he could see that she’d been bracing herself for a scold.
He supposed he should have gone in with Miss Underwood, and... He drew in a sharp breath. Wasted even more of his afternoon on her behalf? No, it was as well he hadn’t felt the urge to shield her at the time.
It was bad enough that she made him act out of character as far as she had done. He held to that opinion until he was clear of the town. But once he’d reached the open moorland which surrounded Burslem House and there was no traffic upon which to focus his mind, he slowed his horses to a sedate trot, to give himself more time to work out what, precisely, it was about Miss Underwood that made him act so unlike himself, every single time they met.
It wasn’t as if she exerted herself, especially, as far as he could tell. She didn’t pout, or preen, or simper, or flutter her eyelashes at him, like the eligible debutantes with whom he’d been mingling during the Season. She didn’t hang on his every word, but spoke to him in a frank and open manner that was...actually, it was rather refreshing, in a way, to come across a female who didn’t appear to have any idea how to flirt.
Or no wish to flirt, as far as he could tell.
Or at least, not with him.
Her mind clearly kept wandering far from him. He’d almost been able to see the thoughts flitting across her face.
And he hadn’t liked it. Any other woman would have been hanging on to his every word. Making the most of the situation to...to sink her claws into him. Because every other female of his acquaintance knew he was on the hunt for a bride this Season.
Her slight air of distraction, of being untouchable, had made him want to do something to make her take notice of him. That was why he’d invited her to drive out with him again, he saw now. He wasn’t falling under some sort of subtle female spell. She’d simply roused a very basic male urge to hunt, to conquer, that was all it was.
His mouth relaxed from its grim line as he drove through the stone pillars marking the start of the drive up to Burslem House. Because he’d finally understood why he’d invited her to drive out with him again. He wasn’t going soft. On the contrary, her apparent lack of interest had piqued him; she seemed so unattainable that he was rising to the challenge she represented.
By the time he pulled the curricle to a halt before the front steps, he was no longer frowning. Because he’d formulated a plan.
His groom jumped down and went to take the horses’ heads. His butler opened the door before he’d reached the top step. His head footman took his hat, coat and gloves, and then an under-footman opened the door to his study where a third, more junior servant was engaged in pouring him out a tankard of fresh ale. Perceval, who’d been sitting at his own desk, working through a pile of correspondence, got to his feet, ready to attend him.
Oliver took a pull of his ale and let out a sigh as his life resumed its orderly pattern, with everyone knowing their duties and performing them like clockwork.
Except...
He put down his tankard. ‘I have been having some thoughts about the house party we are to hold at Theakstone Court next week.’
Perceval blinked.
Oliver turned and walked round his desk. He didn’t like the reminder that normally, at this point, he would have been asking his secretary if there were any urgent matters that had cropped up while he was out that needed attending to before they got down to the vast amount of estate matters to which he devoted this hour of the afternoon.
He sat down, steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned back in his chair. Now that he’d decided to take a bride, he’d worked out that the most obvious way to determine which of this Season’s crop of debutantes would best fit the role would be to invite a select few to his principal seat. During the week they would stay there, he would be able to observe them more closely than he’d been able to do in town.
Because, on the face of it, there was little to choose between the handful of the most eligible, in the eyes of society. They were all well born, with perfect society manners and the usual feminine accomplishments. Which was just the trouble. He had no idea what lay behind the façade of good manners...if anything at all. At times he suspected they might all be just empty shells.
At least Miss Underwood was transparent. She said whatever popped into her head without thinking. Even when she was thinking, he could practically see her thoughts flitting across that expressive little face. Some people, he reflected, might describe her as a breath of fresh air.
‘I wish you to add another family to the guest list.’
‘At this late date?’
Oliver raised one eyebrow in affront.
‘The staff at Theakstone Court are well able to make the necessary arrangements in time. Or they should be,’ he concluded repressively.
‘Your Grace has possibly not taken into consideration the time required to contact the family in question, as well as awaiting a response from them before notifying Mrs Manderville,’ said Perceval apologetically.
‘Are you implying that anyone would be likely to turn down an invitation to spend a week at Theakstone Court?’ Most people would give their right arm to receive such an honour. ‘Especially not once I inform them of what is at stake.’
‘Then you would wish me to send the invitations to the, ah, fortunate young lady and her family at the same time as I notify Mrs Manderville to make rooms ready for her family’s arrival?’
‘That would be the most efficient course to take,’ said Oliver, wondering why his secretary had not thought of that in the first place.
‘And the, ah, young lady in question?’ Perceval went to his desk and dipped his pen in his inkwell.
‘Miss Underwood. She is eligible,’ he added, when Perceval’s pen hovered in mid-air for long enough to let a drop of ink splash on to the blotter. ‘As you yourself pointed out, she is the niece to the present Earl of Tadcaster as well as being the granddaughter of the former holder of that title.’ And more to his taste, physically, than any of the other, better-born young ladies he’d considered taking as his Duchess. She might have many flaws, but at least he wouldn’t find it a chore to produce the necessary heir, were she to become the bride in his bed.
Nor was she likely to bore him, the way the other candidates for the position already did.
What was more, he’d already discovered that she had a compassionate nature. True, all the other girls on his list had a reputation for being caring, but he hadn’t actually seen any of them rushing to the aid of an injured woman of the lower classes. Nor had they any idea what it was like to be torn from the only family they’d known and sent to live among strangers. Which would mean she would know exactly how his own little daughter felt. The daughter whose existence he’d only recently discovered.
In fact, he couldn’t imagine why he’d only just decided to consider Miss Underwood as a potential bride. The others might fill the role of Duchess more smoothly, but she was exactly the kind of woman he’d hoped to find to become a mother for Livvy.
Yes, no matter what the rest of the ton might think of his choice, in many ways she was exactly what he was looking for.
Chapter Six
‘You will never guess what that Duke of Theakstone has in mind with regard to Sofia,’ said Uncle Ned as he lopped the head off his boiled egg at breakfast the next morning. ‘He’s taken the queerest notion into his head to consider looking her over to see if she’d make him a suitable bride.’
Sofia struggled to swallow her mouthful of tea, rather than spraying it all over the tablecloth. Suitable bride? It couldn’t be true.
‘Sofia?’ Aunt Agnes appeared as shocked as Sofia felt.
‘I know.’ Uncle Ned shook his head with a bemused air. ‘Thought he must be castaway when he said it, but see, here,’ he said, tossing a stiff cream card across the table to Aunt Agnes. ‘The invitation came first thing.’
Invitation?
Aunt Agnes let out a little shriek. ‘Theakstone Court! He’s inviting us all to spend a whole week with him at Theakstone Court.’
‘Yes, he’s inviting a whole gaggle of girls with their families for the week to see how they manage there.’
What kind of man invited a whole gaggle of girls to his house, to see how they managed, rather than courting and proposing to just one woman? Why...why...he was going about it as though he was conducting a week-long interview for paid employment.
‘Of course, you will write and send our regrets, and so forth,’ said Uncle Ned, applying himself to his egg.
‘What? Why?’ Aunt Agnes looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.
‘Well, naturally we shan’t go,’ retorted Uncle Ned.
‘Why ever not?’
Yes, why wouldn’t Uncle Ned let her go there? Typical. Whenever she...
She took her teacup in both hands and took another sip, guiltily aware that until Uncle Ned had said she couldn’t go, she hadn’t actually wanted to go to Theakstone Court. It was only when he started telling Aunt Agnes it was out of the question that she was remembering all the other things she had wanted to do and not been allowed. The entire trip to Burslem Bay had been a series of disappointments. Uncle Barty had painted a picture of the kind of seaside holiday which would have been the perfect tonic. But Aunt Agnes hadn’t let her attend any assemblies, so she hadn’t danced with any dashing men in red coats, let alone acquired a coterie of beaux.
‘Waste of time,’ said Uncle Ned, waving his butter knife in Sofia’s direction to emphasise his point. ‘Sofia’s going to marry Jack. Been settled for some time.’
Oh, no, it hadn’t. Jack hadn’t proposed. They were not officially betrothed. The two families had just always assumed that one day Jack would drop the handkerchief...
‘Yes, but nobody needs to tell the Duke of Theakstone, do they?’ said Aunt Agnes in a conspiratorial tone. ‘And it’s not as if Sofia’s going to have her head turned by the prospect of a coronet. She dotes on Jack.’
Dotes? Hah! She might have done, once, before the scales fell from her eyes. She reached for a slice of toast to stop herself from blurting out the truth—that the prospect of being leg-shackled to an oaf like Jack filled her with revulsion. And, since she’d put the piece of dry toast straight into her mouth, there was a good chance that if either of them noticed the little grimace she made, they’d put it down to lack of butter. Not that they ever did pay her much heed once they’d embarked on one of their squabbles.
‘And you need not fear that a man like the Duke of Theakstone is likely to choose our Sofia over all those other girls you say he’s invited.’
They both turned to look at her in that rather pained way that was their habit. In attempting to avoid catching anyone’s eye, she managed to brush her hand against her teacup, spilling its contents into her saucer.
‘See? A man of his rank is bound to want a truly elegant female to preside over his homes, not a...well, a...someone like Sofia. I am sure there can be no harm in accepting his invitation.’
Sofia watched the tea stain spreading along the fibres of the once snowy-white tablecloth, rendering it a muddy brown. She didn’t have a burning desire to become a duchess. But hearing her closest relatives, the aunt and uncle whose approval she’d tried so hard to gain, declare the unlikeliness of such a thing ever happening, filled her with an all-too-familiar feeling of failure, made worse by the belief that Aunt Agnes was correct. She could never become a duchess. If even a callow boy like Jack could only stomach the prospect of marrying her because he would be compensated by getting his hands on her fortune, she was never going to win what sounded like a competition, against better-bred, better-trained girls, to win the regard of a sophisticated, attractive man like the Duke of Theakstone.
‘See, even Sofia knows it, don’t you?’ Now it was Aunt Agnes’s turn to wave her butter knife in her direction. ‘There can be absolutely no danger to your plans... I mean, for Jack and Sofia’s future happiness, in accepting the invitation. And much to be gained. I mean, a week at Theakstone Court, Ned! Can you imagine what Mrs Chalfont will say? Or General Benning, when they find out?’
‘Hmm...’ Uncle Ned took a thoughtful pull at his ale. ‘I do hear that there’s some very fine country round the Court. No shooting at this time of year, but the fishing is supposed to be excellent. And I must say, this place is cursed flat.’ He glanced out of the window. ‘Nothing but a pack of invalids and elderly spinsters wanting you to play whist and wittering on about their quack medicines.’
And so it was settled. She and Uncle Ned and Aunt Agnes were to spend a week at Theakstone Court so that the Duke could decide she wasn’t good enough to become his Duchess.
How ever was she going to contain her excitement?
With modestly downbent head, she left the breakfast table and went to her room to prepare for her morning dip.
Life definitely had a way of pushing you in directions you would really rather not go, she reflected later, as the two burly women ducked her beneath the waves and held her there for several seconds, reminding her that once again she had no escape. No choice. She never had. Her very earliest memories were tinged with the helpless feeling of being uprooted whenever Papa’s marching orders had come.
* * *
Her mood had not improved by the time the Duke came to take her for the promised drive in his carriage. What was more, instead of feeling rather pleased at doing something rebellious in going out with him alone, she was inclined to add him to her list of people who pushed her around without once consulting her. Fancy speaking to her uncle about his intentions, rather than making them known to her! And handing out an invitation to his stupid Duchess decision-making party without even asking her if she actually wanted to be his Duchess.
He angled her a perplexed glance as she heaved herself, with resignation, into his curricle, and pulled Snowball on to her lap. ‘Are you not feeling the thing today, Miss Underwood? You seem rather subdued.’
‘The thing?’ She sighed. The thing that was the matter with her today was actually no worse than it had been the day before. It was just that she felt more conscious of being stuck in her personal version of limbo. The stay in Burslem Bay had actually started to revive her spirits, in spite of not dishing up the beaux Uncle Barty had predicted. Simply getting away from Nettleton Manor had been enough to break her out of the depression that had dogged her since she’d stopped assuming her whole future would revolve around Jack.
It was just that the conversation at breakfast had brought it all back with a vengeance—what was she to do with herself, until she came into her money, if she didn’t marry Jack? Not that she could share such a personal matter with a man she barely knew.
And he was still waiting for a response from her. ‘I am just a touch blue-devilled, I suppose,’ she said, taking a measure of comfort in using a phrase Aunt Agnes would consider vulgar.
‘Perhaps I have some news that might cheer you up,’ he said, without showing by so much as a flicker of his eyelid that he disapproved of her choice of vocabulary. ‘I have instructed my secretary to include you on a very exclusive guest list. You should be receiving the invitation to attend a select house party at Theakstone Court today.’
‘Oh, yes, I know all about that,’ she said morosely. ‘It came at breakfast.’
The look he directed her way was most definitely affronted this time.
‘And it has not pleased you?’
Pleased her? No, at no point today had she felt pleased about the invitation. Though how could she explain her reaction to what he clearly felt should have sent her into raptures? ‘It is just...’ She kept her eyes fixed firmly on the gleaming backs of his matched greys. ‘I mean, Uncle Ned said...’ As she recalled what Uncle Ned had said, followed by what Aunt Agnes had said, she felt something very like a brownish stain seeping across her soul.
‘I sincerely hope,’ bit out the Duke, affront flowing from him in waves, ‘that he explained that all the other families I have invited are in possession of a daughter who has attracted my notice, for one reason or another.’
‘Yes,’ she admitted glumly. And they would all outshine her so much that she couldn’t see what point there was in her going, except to provide Uncle Ned with a week’s fishing and Aunt Agnes with the chance to boast of her stay at Theakstone Court to the principal families in the region of Nettleton Manor, when they returned.
‘And you are not flattered?’ Now he looked positively annoyed.
She supposed she ought to explain...
She shook her head. ‘I... I cannot... I mean...my feelings upon the matter are...’
‘Oh, please,’ he said with heavy sarcasm, ‘do not hesitate to express your feelings. My own, I do assure you, are immune to anything you might say.’
It had nothing to do with his feelings. She just could not confide in a man who she’d only met a matter of days ago. And his arrogant assumption that he was the cause of her dilemma made her see red. ‘Very well,’ she said, flinging up her chin. ‘For one thing, I find it extremely hard to believe you can seriously be considering me as...as...well, as your wife, when we hardly know each other.’
‘That is the whole point of inviting you to Theakstone Court. So we may get to know each other better.’
Oh. That was a fair point, actually. ‘Yes, but what can you hope to discover in a week? Or I about you? I mean, in a week, you could easily conceal all sorts of vices from me.’ After all, Jack had successfully done so for years and years and years. If she hadn’t been swimming in the lower lake and if Snowball hadn’t barked a warning so that she’d just had time to duck under the jetty and hide, and Jack hadn’t chosen to dismount and water his horses at that particular spot, she might never have learned the truth about him.
‘Vices?’ His voice turned extremely chilly. ‘You suspect me of concealing vices from you?’
‘Well, that’s just it. I don’t know, do I?’
‘I should think you might be able to judge me by my actions. As I did you. We were the only people at the Peace celebrations, barring Lord Gilray, who ran to help Mrs Pagett. Everyone else fled the scene to protect themselves.’
Which was another good point. She’d even admired him for having the presence of mind to collect the ice bucket on the way.
‘Yes, that’s true. But even so...’
‘Ah, here we are,’ he said, reining the curricle to a halt. ‘Your lodgings.’
Sofia blinked up at the façade of Number Six. How on earth had they fetched up here so soon?
Because, she realised on her second blink, he hadn’t taken her all the way to the seafront. He’d turned the curricle up a side street the minute she’d started expressing reservations about his character. And brought her straight back here.
Oh, dear, she really did owe him an apology. He did seem to be a decent man, who’d done nothing to deserve her harsh remarks.
But while she was searching for the words to explain herself, without going as far as confiding in him about the way Jack had deceived her, which would have been too humiliating, he’d climbed down, reached up to seize her by the waist and deposited her on the pavement.
‘I... I...’
He turned his back, plucked Snowball from the seat, thrust the dog into her arms and climbed back into his curricle.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said miserably as he put his horses into motion. Even though he could not possibly have heard.
She trudged up the front steps, feeling even more of a failure, and even lonelier than she’d felt since the day she’d heard Jack describe her to his London friend.
She buried her face in Snowball’s soft fur as she made her way up to her room, where she draped herself along the window seat.
Oh, well, she reflected as she gazed down over the rooftops sloping down to the seafront. It wasn’t as if she’d wrecked her chances with him. He’d never have proposed marriage. For she was not the kind of girl a duke would choose. She was dull as ditch water. Tainted by birth. And the only thing that might have tempted him—her money—he could know nothing about, because as sure as eggs were eggs Uncle Ned would have kept that juicy titbit from him. Because he wanted her to marry Jack.
‘Oh, Snowball, what am I going to do?’
Snowball licked her chin in a sympathetic manner, but did not provide Sofia with any inspiration. But then, Sofia had already spent hours, and days, and weeks, trying to come up with a plan she could present to her uncles to which they would agree. So how likely was it a dog could do any better? And anyway, time after time, when she started to form a plan that she thought might content her, she would run up against the strictures imposed upon women. She couldn’t just set up house somewhere, on her own, not without causing the kind of talk that all her family would hate. But neither could she bear the thought of staying with Aunt Agnes and Uncle Ned once they’d learned she had no intention of falling in with their plans for her and Jack.
Going to live with Uncle Barty and his new wife would be acceptable in the eyes of society, but although he was always criticising Uncle Ned, it had never crossed his mind to invite her to go to him instead. Because, basically, he didn’t want her. Had never wanted her. But especially not now, when he was so keen to fill his nursery. She flushed as she recalled the times she’d caught him pinching his rosy-cheeked wife on the bottom.
No, she couldn’t go to live with Uncle Barty. She would just be swapping one awkward situation for another.
She’d briefly toyed with the idea of seeking out her mother’s family, but they weren’t likely to welcome her with open arms, either. Especially since they were all Catholic and she’d been raised Church of England. They’d want to convert her, she expected. And she’d no wish to waste any more of her life trying to turn herself into somebody her family would approve of. If she wasn’t good enough just as she was, then...then...
She sighed again and buried her face in Snowball’s side. Even when she came of age, Uncle Barty and Uncle Ned would still try to oversee her business affairs.
Which meant they would oppose every single thing she ever wanted to do with her inheritance, no doubt.
‘Do you know,’ she informed Snowball, ‘I’m beginning to think I would be better off if I didn’t have any money. At least then people would accept it if I went off to seek employment as a governess, or a companion, or something like that. At least then I might acquire some self-respect.’
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