The Inconvenient Duchess

Chapter Three

‘But that’s ridiculous.’ It had slipped out. That was not supposed to be the answer, she reminded herself. It was the goal, was it not, to get her away from scandal and well and properly married? And to a duke. How could she object to that?

She’d imagined an elderly earl. A homely squire. A baron lost in drink or in books. Someone with expectations as low as her own. Not a duke, despite what Cici had planned. She’d mentioned that the Duke of Haughleigh had a younger brother. He had seemed the more likely of the two unlikely possibilities.

And now, she was faced with the elder brother. Unhappy. Impatient. More than she bargained for.

‘You find my proposal ridiculous?’ The duke was staring at her in amazement.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. It isn’t ridiculous. Of course not. Just sudden. You surprised me.’

She was starting to babble. She stopped herself before she was tempted to turn him down and request that his brother offer instead.

‘Well? You’ve got over the shock by now, I trust.’

Of course, she thought, swallowing the bitterness. It had been seconds. She should be fully recovered by now. She looked to St John for help. He grinned back at her, open, honest and unhelpful.

The duke was tapping his foot. Did she want to be yoked for life to a man who tapped his foot whenever she was trying to make a major decision?

Cici’s voice came clearly to her again. ‘Want has nothing to do with it. What you want does not signify. You make the best choice possible given the options available. And if there is only one choice...’

‘I am truly ruined?’

‘If you cannot leave this house until morning, which you can’t. And if the vicar’s wife spreads the tale, which she will.

‘I’m sorry,’ he added as an afterthought.

He was sorry. That, she supposed, was something. But was he sorry for her, or for himself? And would she have to spend the rest of her life in atonement for this night?

‘All right.’ Her voice was barely above a whisper. ‘If that is what you want.’

His business-like demeanour evaporated under the strain. ‘That is not what I want,’ he snapped. ‘But it is what must be done. You are here now, no thanks to my late mother for making the muddle and letting me sort it out. And don’t pretend that this wasn’t your goal in coming here. You were dangling after a proposal, and you received one within moments of our meeting. This is a success for you. A coup. Can you not at least pretend to be content? I can but hope that we are a suitable match. And now, if you will excuse me, I must write a letter to the vicar to be delivered as soon as the road is passable, explaining the situation and requesting his presence tomorrow morning. I only hope gold and good intentions will smooth out the details and convince him to waive the banns. We can hold a ceremony in the family chapel, away from prying eyes and with his wife as a witness.’ He turned and stalked towards the door.

‘Excuse me,’ she called after him. ‘What should I do in the meantime?’

‘Go to the devil,’ he barked. ‘Or go to your room. I care not either way.’ The door slammed behind him.

‘But I don’t have a room,’ she said to the closed door.

St John chuckled behind her.

She turned, startled. She’d forgotten his presence in the face of his brother’s personality, which seemed to take up all the available space in the room.

He was still smiling, and she relaxed a little. At least she would have one ally in the house.

‘Don’t mind my brother overmuch. He’s a little out of sorts right now, as any man would be.’

‘And his bark is worse than his bite?’ she added hopefully.

‘Yes. I’m sure it is.’ But there was a hesitance as he said it. And, for a moment, his face went blank as if he’d remembered something. Then he buried the thought and his face returned to its previous sunny expression. ‘Your host may have forgotten, but I think I can find you a room and some supper. Let’s go find the butler, shall we? And see what he’s done with your bags.’

* * *

She’d done it again. Marcus had been sure that six feet of earth separated him from any motherly interventions in his life. He’d thought that a half-promise of co-operation would be sufficient to set her mind at rest and leave him free.

Obviously not. He emptied a drawer of his late mother’s writing desk. Unused stationery, envelopes, stamps. He overturned an inkbottle and swore, mopping at the spreading stain with the linen table runner.

But she’d cast the line, and, at the first opportunity, he’d risen to the bait like a hungry trout. He should have walked out of the room and left the girl to St John. Turned her out into the storm with whatever was left of her honour to fend for herself. Or let her stay in a dry bed and be damned to her reputation.

But how could he? He sank down on to the chair next to the desk and felt it creak under his weight. He was lost as soon as he’d looked into her eyes. When she realised what she had done in coming to his house, there was no triumph there, only resignation. And as he’d railed at her, she’d stood her ground, back straight and chin up, though her eyes couldn’t hide the panic and desperation that she was feeling.

He’d seen that look often enough in the old days. In the mirror, every morning when he shaved. Ten years away had erased it from his own face, only to mark this poor young woman. She certainly had the look of someone who’d run afoul of his accursed family. And if there was anything he could do to ease her misery...

He turned back to the desk. It was not like his mother to burn old letters. If she’d had a plan, there would be some record of it. And he’d seen another letter, the day she suggested this meeting. He snapped his fingers in recognition.

In the inlaid box at her bedside. Thank God for the ineptitude of his mother’s servants. They’d not cleaned the room, other than to change the linens after removing the body. The box still stood beside the bed. He reached in and removed several packs of letters, neatly bound with ribbon.

Correspondence from St John, the egg-sucking rat. Each letter beginning, ‘Dearest Mother...’

Marcus marvelled at his brother’s ability to lie with a straight face and no tremor in the script from the laughter as he’d written those words. But St John had no doubt been asking for money, and that was never a laughing matter to him.

No bundle of letters from himself, he noticed. Not that the curt missives he was prone to send would have been cherished by the dowager.

Letters from the lawyers, arranging estate matters. She’d been well prepared to go when the time had come.

And, on the bottom, a small stack of letters on heavy, cream vellum.

Dearest Andrea,

It has been many years, nearly forty, since last we saw each other at Miss Farthing’s school, and I have thought of you often. I read of your marriage to the late duke, and of the births of your sons. At the time, I’d thought to send congratulations, but you can understand why this would have been unwise. Still, I thought of you, and kept you in my prayers, hoping you received the life you so richly deserved.

I write you now, hoping that you can help an old friend in a time of need. It is not for me that I write, but for the daughter of our mutual friend, Anthony. Miranda’s life has not been an easy one since the death of her mother, and her father’s subsequent troubles. She has no hope of making an appropriate match in the ordinary way.

I am led to believe that both your sons are, at this time, unmarried. Your eldest has not found another wife since the death in childbirth of the duchess some ten years past. I know how important the succession must be to you. And we both know how accidents can occur, especially to active young men, as I’m sure your sons are.

So, perhaps the matchmaking of a pair of old school friends might solve both the problems and see young Miranda and one of your sons settled.

I await your answer in hope,

Cecily Dawson

An odd letter, he thought. Not impossible to call on an old school friend for help, but rather unusual if there had been no word in forty years. He turned to the second in the stack.

Andrea,

I still await your answer concerning the matter of Lady Miranda Grey. I do not wish to come down to Devon and settle this face to face, but will if I must. Please respond.

Awaiting your answer,

Cecily Dawson

He arched an eyebrow. Stranger still. He turned to the third letter.

Andrea,

Thank you for your brief answer of the fourteenth, but I am afraid it will not suffice. If you fear that the girl is unchaste, please understand that she is more innocent in the ways of the bedroom than either of us was at her age. And I wish her to remain so until she can make a match suitable to her station. Whatever happened to her father, young Miranda is not to blame for it. But she is poor as a church mouse and beset with offers of things other than marriage. I want to see her safely away from here before disaster strikes. If not your sons, then perhaps another eligible gentleman in your vicinity. Could you arrange an introduction for her? Shepherd her through your social circle? Any assistance would be greatly appreciated.

Yours in gratitude,

Cecily

He turned to the last letter in the stack.

Andrea,

I am sorry to hear of your failing health, but will not accept it as excuse for your denial of aid. If you are to go to meet our Maker any time soon, ask him if he heard my forty years of pleadings for justice to be done between us. I can forgive the ills you’ve caused me, but you also deserve a portion of blame for the sorry life this child has led. Rescue her now. Set her back up to the station she deserves and I’ll pray for your soul. Turn your back again and I’ll bring the girl to Devon myself to explain the circumstances to your family at the funeral.

Cecily Dawson

He sat back on the bed, staring at the letters in confusion. Blackmail. And, knowing his mother, it was a case of chickens come home to roost. If she had been without guilt, she’d have destroyed the letters and he’d have known nothing about it. What could his mother have done to set her immortal soul in jeopardy? To make her so hated that an old friend would pray for her damnation?

Any number of things, he thought grimly, if this Cecily woman stood between her and a goal. A man, perhaps? His father, he hoped. It would make the comments about the succession fall into place. His mother had been more than conscious of the family honour and its place in history. The need for a legitimate heir.

And the need to keep secret things secret.

He had been, too, at one time, before bitter experience had lifted the scales from his eyes. Some families were so corrupt it was better to let them die without issue. Some honour did not deserve to be protected. Some secrets were better exposed to the light. It relieved them of their power to taint their surroundings and destroy the lives of those around them.

And what fresh shame did this girl have, that his family was responsible for? St John, most likely. Carrying another by-blow, to be shuffled quietly into the family deck.

He frowned. But that couldn’t be right. The letters spoke of old crimes. And when he’d come on the girl and St John together, there had been no sense of conspiracy. She’d seemed a complete stranger to him and to this house. Lost in her surroundings.

She was not a pretty girl, certainly. But he’d not seen her at her best. Her long dark hair was falling from its pins, bedraggled and wet. The gown she’d worn had never been fashionable and being soaked in the storm had made it even more shapeless. It clung to her tall, bony frame the way that the hair stuck to the sharp contours of her face. Everything about her was hard: the lines of her face and body, the set of her mouth, the look in her eyes.

He smiled. A woman after his own heart. Maybe they would do well together, after all.

* * *

She looked around in despair. So this was to be her new home. Not this room, she hoped. It was grand enough for a duchess.

Precisely why she did not belong in it.

She forced that thought out of her mind.

‘This is the life you belong to, not the life you’ve lived so far. The past is an aberration. The future is merely a return to the correct path.’

All right. She had better take Cici’s words to heart. Repeat them as often as necessary until they became the truth.

Of course, if this was the life she was meant to have, then dust and cobwebs were an inherent part of her destiny. She’d hoped, when she finally got to enjoy the comforts of a great house, she would not be expected to clean it first. This room had not been aired in years. It would take a stout ladder to get up to the sconces to scrub off the tarnish and the grime, and to the top of the undusted mantelpiece. Hell and damnation upon the head of the man who thought that high ceilings lent majesty to a room.

She pulled back the dusty curtains on the window to peer into the rain-streaked night. This might be the front of the house, and those lumps below could be the view of a formal garden. No doubt gone to seed like everything else.

Was her new husband poor, that his estate had faded so? Cici had thought not. ‘Rich enough to waste money on whores,’ she’d said. But then, she’d described the dowager as a spider at the centre of a great web. Miranda hadn’t expected to come and find the web empty.

Cici would have been overjoyed, she was sure. The weak part of the plan had always been the co-operation of the son. The dowager could be forced, but how would she gain the co-operation of the son without revealing all? Cici had hoped that one or the other of the two men was so hopelessly under the thumb of his mother as to agree without question when a suitable woman was put before him. But she’d had her doubts. If the sons were in their mother’s control, they’d have been married already.

To stumble into complete ruin was more good fortune than she could hope for.

She smothered her rising guilt. The duke had been right. She’d achieved her purpose and should derive some pleasure from it. She was about to become the lady to a very great, and very dirty, estate. She was about to marry a duke, the prize of every young girl of the ton. And have his heir.

She sat down on the edge of the bed. That was the crux of the problem. To have the heirs, she would have to become much more familiar with the Duke of Haughleigh than she would like. She was going to have to climb in the bed of that intimidating man and...

Lie very still and think of something else, she supposed. Cici had assured her that there were many types of men. And that the side they showed in the drawing room was not what she might see in the bedroom. She hoped not, or he’d spend the night interrogating her and tapping his foot when things did not go as fast as he’d hoped. She imagined him, standing over her on breakfast of their second wedded day, demanding to know why she wasn’t increasing.