A Duke In Need Of A Wife

‘Ah, yes. She presented the Earl of Tadcaster with an heir during the summer months, did she not? It escaped my mind. And this year, you were too ill to endure the rigours of a Season...’

‘I most certainly was not!’

He crooked one of his eyebrows at her. She pondered the fact that they could crook. They were remarkably mobile, considering that in their resting state they relaxed back into a completely straight line. Not that relaxed was really the correct word to apply to brows which managed to look so aggressive even when they were perfectly still. Or when he was staring at her, pointedly.

She sighed. ‘I can see you are going to carry on badgering me until I tell you the truth which is...well, over the winter months, I did fall ill.’ Or perhaps it was more truthful to say she’d made herself ill. So stupidly.

It had started with hearing Jack and his friend discussing her in such derogatory terms, while she’d been crouching, hidden, underneath the jetty on which they’d been standing.

‘Sorry, I’ll have to spend a bit of time dancing attendance on the heiress,’ Jack had apologised to his friend, ‘since my family expect me to marry her. But don’t worry, it won’t take much time out of the vacation. I’ll only have to toss her the bone of a few moments of idle chat, a smile and a compliment or two and she’ll be content to chew on it for days on end, like the mongrel bitch she is.’

‘Don’t sound as if you like her much, old man,’ the friend had said, sounding almost as shocked as she’d felt.

‘Like her?’ Jack had sounded offended. ‘She’s as dull as ditch water and about as attractive.’

She wasn’t sure how she’d managed to stumble home after hearing that. And she’d shut herself in her room unable to bear the thought of facing anyone, knowing what she knew. Especially not with eyes red from weeping. After only a few days, during which she’d totally lost her appetite as well, she had started to look so ill they’d finally sent for a doctor, who’d bled her and cupped her until she really was so weak that when one of the housemaids had sneezed while lighting the fire, Sofia had caught the infection which had developed into a fully fledged inflammation of the lungs.

‘Coming to the seaside was supposed to have a tonic effect upon me,’ she said wistfully, recalling her Uncle Barty’s last visit to Nettleton Manor.

‘Not surprised you are fading away,’ he’d said, shaking his head. ‘Stuck out here with no company but such as that dolt my sister married and his infernal relatives. What you want is to get some sea air and go to some assemblies where you can dance with a few men in scarlet coats, eh, what? Stroll along the promenade and flirt with a beau or two.’

That had sounded good. Sea bathing. And having some beaux. That would show Jack that there were men who found her interesting. Pretty even. That would prove she was not pining away. Not that he had the slightest idea his attitude was at the root of her illness. She hadn’t told anybody what she’d overheard. It would have been too humiliating. And anyway, what would have been the point?

She suspected that Uncle Barty had only made the suggestion to cause trouble. He never left Nettleton Manor until he’d practically come to blows with Uncle Ned about something—the way he was managing Sofia’s fortune, or his treatment of Aunt Agnes, both were frequent grist to his mill. Usually she did her best to stay out of the quarrels which erupted on the slightest pretext. Especially if they concerned her. But during that last visit, she’d seen that he was the one person who could give her the answers to all the questions she’d been reluctant to ask Aunt Agnes for fear of offending her.

‘Is it a lot, the money that will come to me when I marry?’ she’d asked him, linking her arm through his as they’d strolled down to the rose garden.

‘Good Lord, yes. You’ll be rich enough to buy an...that is, yes—yes, it is.’

She’d begun to suspect as much, upon hearing how keen it had made Jack to marry her, in spite of what he thought of her. She’d never truly felt like an heiress before that day under the jetty in spite of hearing the word bandied about. In fact, she’d felt far more like a charity case, considering the way her cousins passed down their gowns from the previous Season to her each year when they went to buy new ones.

‘And what will happen to it if I don’t marry,’ she’d wondered aloud, ‘or if I die?’

‘You ain’t going to die, my girl, so stop thinking along those lines.’

‘But if I did?’

‘Well, in such a case, it would all go back to your mother’s family, where it came from,’ he’d said. Just like that. His honesty had stunned her, for everyone else had said, in the days when she’d still tried to talk about her parents, that it was better to let sleeping dogs lie.

‘You...you know how to contact them, then?’

‘Of course I do,’ he’d said with a puzzled frown. ‘Why should you think anything else?’

‘But I thought that all contact was lost when...when Mama married Papa.’

‘Ah. Well, it was given out that was the case. On account of them being Catholic and your father refusing to allow you to be brought up in that religion. They had to appear to cut their daughter out of their lives. And you, as the offspring.’

‘Mama was a Catholic?’

‘What did you think she was?’

‘Well, I don’t know. I was so little when she died. Papa could not bear to talk of her and Aunt and Uncle won’t have her name mentioned. So I thought...well, the only thing I did hear was that she was some sort of...trader.’ The only words used to describe her mother’s origins had actually been of such a derogatory variety that Sofia had been half-afraid to find out any more.

‘No, no, very good sort of people, the Perestrellos. They do own vineyards and their wine graces the tables of the wealthy all over the world. But they come from aristocratic stock. The mismatch was one of religion, not class. Unless you consider her race, which some do, the fools.’

Fools like Jack. Who’d always appeared to be sympathetic to her for being of what he called mixed heritage.

‘And if I never marry,’ she’d persisted, determined to get the full facts. ‘What then?’

‘Not marry? Pretty little thing like you?’ He’d pinched her chin. ‘Course you’ll marry. Fellers’ll be queuing up to court you.’

‘No, but seriously, Uncle Barty, I really want to know. Will I ever be able to have it? Just for myself? To do with as I please?’

‘Well, if you reach the age of thirty without getting hitched, then, yes.’

Thirty? She was going to have to wait another eight years before the law considered her fit to take charge of her own money?

‘Can’t imagine why nobody has explained it all to you,’ Uncle Barty had said with a frown. ‘Nor why you couldn’t have just asked your Uncle Ned...no, actually,’ he’d said, making a motion with his hand as though swatting away a pesky fly, ‘I can see exactly why you couldn’t talk to that dolt. But I shall talk to him, never fear. I mean to tell him how shocked I am by your appearance. Inform him that he clearly hasn’t been taking proper care of you. That I very much fear you will fade away altogether if they don’t take steps to stop this decline.’ He’d chuckled with glee at the prospect of gaining another rod with which to beat his brother-in-law.

But this time, she hadn’t crept up to her room to hide until the worst had blown over. Instead she’d gone back inside with Uncle Barty and said, albeit rather timidly, that she rather liked the sound of spending some time at the seaside, if nobody would mind too much. And since it had been the first thing she’d shown any interest in since well before Christmas, Uncle Ned had grudgingly conceded that for once Uncle Barty might have the right of it.

And so here she was, bowling along the seafront, in a curricle driven by a duke, no less, with the wind whipping her curls from her bonnet.

Hah! That would show Jack when he found out, which he was bound to do because Uncle Ned or Aunt Agnes were sure to inform him.

Her lips curved into a smile.

She could hardly wait.

Chapter Four

Oliver watched a little smile curve her lips and wondered what had put it there. For the first time in his life, he found himself striving to think of some topic that would keep a woman’s mind focused exclusively on what he had to say and not on whatever stray thought might pop into her head next.

‘I separated you from your relatives so that we may speak freely about Mrs Pagett,’ he bit out. It had the effect he’d hoped for since she turned inquisitive brown eyes up at him.

‘Oh, yes. Of course. How does she do? But before we get on to that, there is something I need to say first. I am sorry for speaking to you the way I did.’

‘What way was that?’

‘Well, when I first saw you. I ordered you about. You did look very offended, when I look back on it. I don’t suppose many people speak to you that way, do they? Only, the thing is, you see, I thought you were a waiter. You dressed the way the man who served at our table was dressed.’

‘That night, I was acting as a waiter.’

‘Acting? Whatever for?’

‘It was decided...that is, the committee who organised the event to celebrate the Peace with France felt that, um, it would be a good idea for men such as myself to wait on the lower orders.’

‘You mean,’ she asked, wide-eyed, ‘that all the waiters were dukes?’

‘No. I mean, all the waiters hailed from the better families about these parts.’

‘That is very radical.’

‘You disapprove? You think men of my rank should always stand on their dignity?’ His father would certainly never have demeaned himself by waiting at table. It was one of the factors that had made the experience so very satisfying, showing the world that he was nothing like the man who’d sired him.

‘Disapprove? Oh, no. I was just a bit surprised, that is all. Was it...a sort of...oh, I forgot, I’m not supposed to pepper you with questions, am I?’

Normally, he would agree. But Miss Underwood looked so contrite and the way she’d stopped before actually asking her question had piqued his interest.

‘Asking me one question is hardly peppering me with them, is it? What did you wish to know?’

‘Oh.’ She darted him a look of relief. ‘Well, I just wondered if the act had some sort of religious significance. You know, like...when Jesus washed the disciples’ feet.’

He winced. ‘Nothing so noble,’ he confessed. ‘The decision was taken for purely practical purposes. You see, what with the amount of ale supplied, there were fears from some quarters that there might be...unruliness. That it might all end in disaster.’

‘Well, it did.’

‘Yes, and I have a feeling that the ale, or some other spirituous liquor, may have played a part in it. There can be no other reason for the fireworks to have all gone up at once like that.’

‘Unless someone did it deliberately.’

That was the second time someone had raised suspicions about the causes of the explosion. ‘Why would anyone wish to do anything of the sort?’ He wondered if he’d been right to so quickly dismiss the rumours that had reached Perceval’s ears about a shadowy figure loitering behind the scaffolding not long before the fireworks display had started. He shook his head. ‘The town council put on an event for the benefit of the townspeople, paid for by the local landowners.’

‘We had to pay for our tickets.’

‘You are not locals. Those holidaying in the area were allowed to attend, if they would subscribe. That seemed fair.’

‘I suppose it was,’ she conceded. ‘Mrs Pagett still got hurt, though. And, oh, yes, you were going to tell me how she does.’

‘I fear her road to recovery may be a long one. Although this one,’ he said in disbelief, ‘is not.’

He clearly hadn’t been paying enough attention to the route along which he’d been driving because they were at the end of Marine View already. And he hadn’t said the half of what he’d meant to say to her.

‘Do you attend the assembly,’ he asked her as he brought the curricle to a halt at the foot of her front steps, ‘at the Marlborough Hotel this evening?’

‘Oh, no, the very idea!’ Sofia indicated the bruising on her face with a wry smile. ‘I could not possibly go about looking like this.’

‘Your view, or your aunt’s? No, you need not bother to reply. I believe you would be bold enough to attempt anything, without giving a rap what anyone else were to say of you.’

* * *

Sofia’s heart skipped a beat. Once upon a time, her papa had praised her for being full of pluck. But her aunt had done her best to suppress that side of her. She’d warned Sofia that, because of her background, she needed to be much more careful in her behaviour than most young ladies. And, determined to please her, she’d done her utmost to stop behaving like a ‘hoyden’—she’d curbed her language and followed all the rules, no matter how strange she’d found them.

She’d ended up so repressed that nowadays, in company, she didn’t really speak unless she was spoken to, but was more likely to sit quietly in a corner doing embroidery. The only time she allowed her deepest, truest self to emerge was when she was out walking Snowball, deep in the woods, where nobody else was about.

She’d become the sort of girl who cared so much what people thought of her and might say about her that they all found her as dull as ditch water.

But this man did not believe so. He’d seen something in her that nobody else had seen for years. And in doing so, he had reminded her of who she’d once been. Before she’d started trying so desperately to please the only people who’d been willing to take her in.

She turned to observe his expression. He looked annoyed. But then those eyebrows made him look slightly annoyed all the time. And why should she wish to know whether his observation was meant as a reproof or a compliment, anyway?

And yet, somehow, it did matter.

Perhaps because if there was one person who liked the real her, then she might find the courage to be herself, instead of the pattern card of virtue her aunt had tried to make her into. The version of herself that nobody much liked, least of all herself.

‘In that case,’ he bit out crisply, ‘I shall have to take you out for a drive again tomorrow.’

‘What? I mean, why? I mean, I’m sure that is very kind of you—’

He shook his head. ‘I am not kind, Miss Underwood. I will take you for another drive because I have not had the time today to say all I wished to say to you,’ he said irritably. ‘And because it would be impossible to have any meaningful conversation in the confines of that house.’ He glared up at the drawing-room window, through which Sofia could make out the outline of her aunt through the net curtains.

Well, in that she could agree with him. She had never had a single conversation within her aunt’s hearing that had been truly meaningful. Or in which she had dared to express her own opinions. At least, not after the first month or so of living with her, by which time she’d discovered that her manners had more in common with the sort of women who followed the drum than a Proper Young Lady.

The groom had now reached the horses’ heads, so the Duke climbed down and came round to help Sofia down. Since it was far too high for her little dog to jump down, she handed Snowball to the Duke. He received the bundle of fluff with astonishment, before bending to deposit her on the pavement with a faint grimace of distaste, though he’d wiped it from his countenance before straightening up to extend his arm to Sofia.

‘I cannot think what you can possibly have to say to me,’ she said, glancing nervously at the drawing-room window. She’d enjoyed her outing, but she was already bound to get a dreadful scold for going off with this man alone. How much worse would it be if Aunt Agnes discovered he meant to repeat the offence again the next day?

‘Mrs Pagett, if nothing else,’ he replied, following her line of sight. ‘There was not enough time to discuss...’ His brows drew into a heavy scowl. ‘Next time I call for you, do try to stick to the topic at hand rather than digressing so much.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ If he was so annoyed with her, why was he bothering to waste any more of his precious time with her? And why hadn’t he kept the conversation going in the direction he’d wanted, come to that? She’d felt as if he’d been positively encouraging her to ask questions. But then, what did she know about what dukes considered good conversation? What any single man thought, come to that. She’d only really mixed with people carefully selected by her aunt and uncle. And the only single man they’d thrown in her way had been Jack, Uncle Ned’s nephew.

The Duke of Theakstone escorted Sofia to her front door, but did not come in. For a moment, she resented the way he’d abandoned her entirely to the mercy of Aunt Agnes.

Although, she reflected as she took off her coat, even if he had come in it would only have postponed the confrontation, not spared her from it altogether. She had flouted her aunt’s wishes and escaped her strict scrutiny. There was nothing anyone, not even a duke, could do to prevent her aunt from lecturing her.

But she was not going to take it lying down like a...a doormat. She would do better to spike Aunt Agnes’s guns.

So she entered the drawing room in what she hoped looked like an apologetic manner.

‘I do hope you are not angry with me, Aunt Agnes,’ she said while her aunt was still drawing breath. ‘But the Duke of Theakstone is such a forceful man that when he told me to go and put on my coat, it felt like a direct order. And I didn’t know how to disobey him.’

Her aunt regarded her through narrowed eyes for a moment or two before appearing to accept Sofia’s explanation. But then, why wouldn’t she? Sofia had worked so hard to conform to her aunt’s exacting standards that for the last couple of years she’d behaved like a veritable milksop.

Until the day she’d heard Jack mocking her behaviour and she’d begun to wonder why she’d bothered. She could never be anything but the product of a slightly shocking marriage between an Englishman and a foreigner. A Catholic, to boot. And why should she try to shoehorn her personality into the mould her aunt and uncle deemed ‘proper’, when they were so intent on pushing her in Jack’s direction so that he could benefit from the money she would inherit?

Especially since it was the only reason he would consider her as a wife.

‘I will have to marry someone, some day,’ he’d said. ‘So why not her? She may be boring, but at least she’s biddable. In fact,’ he’d boasted, ‘she rather idolises me. I will only have to drop the handkerchief, you know, and she will go into raptures. And then all that lovely money of hers will be mine to spend as I wish. Once she’s breeding, I can leave her in the country and have some real fun.’ They’d both laughed, then, in a way that had turned her stomach.

Drop the handkerchief, indeed! He’d have to do more than drop a handkerchief. In fact, he could weave and embroider and hem a dozen handkerchiefs and it would make no difference. She was most categorically not going to marry Jack. Not now she knew what he really thought of her. Not now she knew he was the kind of man who’d marry a woman for her money, so he could go out and enjoy himself with other women. Because that was what that dirty laughter had been about. She’d spent the first ten years of her life with a father who was a serving soldier and he had most decidedly not lived like a monk once her mama had died. On the contrary, Sofia had lost count of the number of ladies who’d lived with them, ostensibly as nursemaids to her, but who always, always, shared her papa’s bed. Nobody, he’d told her, could replace her mama. She need never fear that he would ever call another woman his wife. But they needed somebody, didn’t they, to take care of them?

Take care of them? Hah! The moment she’d heard her papa was dead, Maria, his latest lady friend, had promptly ransacked their billet for anything of value before leaving to secure another ‘protector’.

Which was yet another reason, she sighed as she went to take her place on her usual chair, that she’d taken such pains to become whatever her aunt and uncle wanted her to become. She’d been so grateful they’d taken her in and told her she must consider Nettleton Manor her home, that she would have cut off all her hair and dyed her face blue if they’d so much as hinted it would guarantee her safety.

‘Did His Grace say something to upset you?’ asked Aunt Agnes with a slight frown.

‘Upset me? The Duke? No.’ On the contrary, he’d reminded her of who she really was. Or at least, who she had once been...and could become again if only she could summon the courage to stand up for herself a bit more.

‘Well, you look a trifle out of sorts.’

Which was the effect that thinking about Jack always had on her, these days.

‘What did you discuss, Sofia?’

‘Oh, Snowball, at first,’ said Sofia, bending to stroke her faithful dog’s ears. ‘And the state of my health and why I hadn’t had a court presentation,’ she said, darting a swift glance up at her aunt from under her eyelashes, to see what effect that statement might have.

‘Those are all rather personal questions. No wonder you are upset.’

‘Yes, but then dukes probably think they can say what they like, to whomever they wish.’ He’d certainly had no compunction about giving Aunt Agnes a set-down.

A smile tugged at her lips as she recalled the moment. Oh, but it had felt so good to have someone rush to her defence. Even if it had been totally unnecessary.

‘Why are you smiling like that?’

‘Oh, well, because he said he would be calling to take me out driving again tomorrow,’ she said as meekly as she could.

‘Without consulting me?’

Sofia shrugged. ‘He’s a duke. I don’t suppose he is in the habit of consulting anyone about anything before doing exactly as he wishes.’

‘And he wishes to take you out in his curricle again,’ said Aunt Agnes with amazement. As if there was no accounting for taste.

Rather than explain that he’d practically reprimanded her for obliging him to waste yet another afternoon on her, Sofia shrugged again.

And smiled.

Chapter Five

Oliver clenched his teeth, went down the steps, across the pavement and climbed back into the driver’s seat.

Dammit, the girl had done it again. Diverted him from his original plan. He’d known exactly what he’d wanted to say while tooling her round the lanes and along the seafront this afternoon. It shouldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. But somehow the time had slipped through his fingers like water and before he knew it he was drawing up outside her lodgings having barely touched on any of the items on his agenda. An agenda which he’d drawn up, he reflected as he flicked the whip to set his horses in motion, as a means of passing the time profitably during an outing he’d never meant to take in the first place.

He reached the end of Theakstone Crescent and turned left to take the road up the hill away from the bay, eyeing the neat rows of lodging houses with mixed feelings. Normally he felt a good deal of family pride at the visible proof of the way his grandfather had transformed the fortunes of the people living in what had merely been a mean little fishing village by developing Burslem Bay into a seaside resort. But today, there was also an undercurrent of disquiet. If his grandfather hadn’t wanted more for his guests to do at his nearby hunting box, when there was nothing left on the moors to shoot, Oliver might never have met Miss Underwood. She didn’t mix in the same social circles, even if her grandfather was an earl.

Which was probably why she had no idea how to behave, when presented to a duke. No other female would have handed him a dog, as though he was a mere footman. Or prattled on about the first thing that came into her head as though he was just anybody.