Least Likely To Marry A Duke

Chapter Two

The breakfast room closely resembled a menagerie after all the cage doors had been opened. Will strode to the head of the table and nodded to Peplow, the butler, who pulled back the heavy carved chair, tilted it, then let it go with a thud.

The sound was enough to attract the attention of the other occupants of the room. Silence fell. Six heads turned in his direction, four footmen kept their gazes firmly fixed on the opposite wall. After the first two days they had learned not to flinch too obviously.

‘Good morning, Althea, Araminta, Alicia. Good morning, Basil, Bertrand, Benjamin. Gentlemen, your sisters are waiting for you to seat them.’ He remained standing while his half-sisters took their places with varying degrees of elegance, then sat, with a nod of permission to the boys which coincided with their own scramble to sit. ‘Basil, it is your turn to say grace, I believe.’

Basil, fourteen and possibly the world’s least devout boy, lurched to his feet again and looked around wildly for inspiration. ‘Er... Thank you, God, for kedgeree for breakfast. Amen.’ He sat down again with a grin of relief.

Will told himself that he should probably be grateful that the thanks had been addressed to the deity and not to Beelzebub and nodded to the butler to begin service. He had rapidly discovered that a breakfast where everyone helped themselves from the buffet was a recipe for chaos.

‘Boys, napkins. Benjamin, pass your sister the butter, she should not have to ask twice. Althea, Araminta, Basil, tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to call on our neighbour, the Bishop of Elmham. Please inform Miss Preston and Mr Catford that you will be absent from your lessons.’

‘A bishop?’ Althea wrinkled her very pretty nose. ‘That sounds dull.’

‘Bishop Wingate has retired due to ill health. He is, however, a notable scholar and, I should not have to point out, it would not matter if he was as dull as ditch water, it would still be our duty to call upon our neighbour as a matter of courtesy. You address a bishop as my lord.’

The rest of the meal was an obstacle course through instructions on etiquette, a lecture on the absolute necessity to do things out of duty which might not give one pleasure, the privileges and responsibilities of rank and the discovery that Basil had a mouse in his pocket.

As the screams and tantrums occasioned by the discovery, capture and banishment of the mouse subsided, Will wondered whether he was doomed to a stomach ulcer by the time he was thirty and mentally prepared himself for the horrors of the daily meeting with the children’s tutor and governess.

It was too much to expect that a few weeks could undo the damage of a childhood where the only rule their doting and deluded parents had imposed was to do exactly as one wished, the moment one thought of it and without any pause for reflection. That way, his stepmother had explained, the natural genius of each child would unfurl tenderly, like the petals of a flower. They would learn what they needed to know as, and when, they felt the necessity.

The only small mercy was that they were not illiterate, he thought, doggedly finishing his ham and eggs. The desire to read completely unsuitable books had driven all of them to master their letters and then, when they wanted to compose their own stories, to learn to write. Mathematics, however, was apparently a closed book to all of them and as for basic etiquette, that was an alien concept he was painfully—for all concerned—imposing on them.

I need a wife, he thought again.

He could teach the boys to be gentlemen, but his sisters needed more than a governess. They had their mother, of course. Lady Bromhill was living in the Dower House, writing another tract on the natural education of children, no doubt, and holding forth at length to anyone who would listen on the iniquity of imposing rules of mourning on women. Her grief was deep and genuine, Will fully acknowledged, but her methods of expressing it were outrageous. He lived in daily anticipation that she would scandalise the neighbourhood by appearing in a crimson gown or emulate the women of Classical societies by rending her clothing and beating her bare bosom while wailing in Ancient Greek.

Will shuddered. It was unfortunate that his siblings would be exposed to another unconventional female tomorrow when they called on the Bishop, because the last thing that they needed was the example of more shocking behaviour. He mentally squared his shoulders; his grandfather had shown him all too clearly that being a duke was no easy undertaking but, somehow, he had not expected that raising a delinquent family would be part of his duties. For the thousandth time he reminded himself that they had recently lost their father, that their lives had been turned upside down as much as his had, that he must temper discipline with kindness.

* * *

Verity surveyed the sunny room at the front of the house with muted satisfaction, given that she was about to act as hostess to the Disapproving Duke. The Chinese drawing room was the smaller of the two reception rooms and, being next to the library, was the most convenient and comfortable for her father. He was seated in a deep leather armchair, discussing the morning’s newspapers with Mr Hoskins, who was reading out articles which Papa would then comment on by sign language.

They had reached the reports from the House of Lords which always prompted vehement gestures when Bosham, their butler, announced, ‘His Grace the Duke of Aylsham, Lady Althea Calthorpe, Lady Araminta Calthorpe, Lord Basil Calthorpe, my lord.’

Verity did a rapid assessment of the ages of the juvenile party and sent Bosham a meaningful look. He nodded and departed, hopefully to warn the kitchen that more than Oolong tea and dainty cakes would be needed.

‘Miss Wingate, Your Grace,’ Mr Hoskins said, taking on himself the introductions that her father could not make.

The Duke blinked, stared and then had himself under control almost before she realised how surprised he was at her appearance. Verity produced a smile and saw a gleam of something very like approval in those blue eyes.

I am just the same woman as the one who shocked you yesterday, she thought crossly. I am wearing a suitably modest and pretty afternoon gown, my hair is just where it should be and I have powdered away the evidence of a touch of sun on my nose. So now you approve of me, do you? But I do not crave your good opinion, Your Grace.

He shook hands with her, went across to her father and waited a barely perceptible moment to be sure a handshake was going to be returned before offering his hand.

Mr Hoskins bowed. ‘My lord welcomes you to the Old Palace, Your Grace. I am Christopher Hoskins, chaplain and secretary to the Bishop.’

The Duke was not too top-lofty to shake hands with Mr Hoskins as well, which pleased Verity. He turned to beckon forward the youngsters. ‘Bishop, Miss Wingate, Reverend Hoskins, may I introduce my brother and sisters? The three younger ones have remained at home.’

They were a handsome family, Verity thought, but their manner was strangely stilted, as though they were performing by rote, not going through a familiar and routine courtesy. Were they afraid of their brother? She had an unpleasant suspicion that perhaps they were. He probably would not even have to administer corporal punishment to cow them—one look from those bleak blue eyes was enough for a sensitive child, she was sure.

The Duke took a seat by her father and Verity gathered the younger Calthorpes to her on two sofas set at right angles around the tea table. ‘They will bring in refreshments shortly,’ she said, smiling in the face of their poorly concealed examination of herself and the room. ‘Now, do tell me about yourselves. You have other brothers and sisters, I believe?’

The oldest, Althea, she recalled, said, ‘Oh, yes, there are six of us. I am sixteen, Araminta and Basil here are twins and they are fourteen, then Alicia is thirteen, Bertrand is ten and Benjamin is nine.’

‘And you live with your brother and your mama? I would like to meet her, but I am sure she does not feel like visits just at the moment. I was so grieved to hear about your poor father and, of course, your grandfather.’

‘We didn’t know the old Duke. He and Mama and Papa did not get on,’ Basil confided. ‘We live with William now and Mama lives in the Dower House because William is our guardian and he says we are little savages and need civilising and Mama considers civilisation stunts natural creativity. We miss Papa and Mama is sad. But Will doesn’t care, he just makes us learn the stupidest things, like arithmetic and Latin. And we have to behave. All the time,’ he added darkly.

‘We have to learn deportment and sewing and the use of the globes,’ Araminta added. ‘The girls, that is. The boys don’t have to sew or balance books on their heads.’

That did not sound too tyrannical—a typical aristocratic education, in fact. ‘Arithmetic is very useful,’ Verity offered. ‘It will help you manage your allowances, for example, and make sure you are not cheated in shops.’

That appeared to strike home with the girls, but Basil seemed unconvinced. ‘There is lots of money. Too much to worry about. And Mama and Papa never made us do anything we didn’t want to. Mama says mourning is an outdated convention intended to oppress women and that we should be sad about Papa just how we want and not go about draped in black. She would like you to visit, I’m sure.’ He grimaced. ‘I think mourning is meant to oppress boys as well. Papa wouldn’t want us not to enjoy ourselves. It doesn’t mean we don’t miss him, because we do.’

‘It is only right and natural that you miss our father.’ The deep voice behind her made Verity jump. ‘But society has its conventions which are part of what makes us civilised. And you want to be civilised, do you not?’

‘Yes, William,’ three voices chorused. The three faces looked unconvinced.

He is turning them into little puppets, Verity thought, studying the young people’s expressions. ‘Would you like to go out into the gardens?’

They jumped to their feet, earning a hiss of displeasure from behind her. Verity stood, too, and turned to face the Duke. He towered over her. Too close, too large and too sure of himself.

‘Such a lovely afternoon, don’t you think, Your Grace?’

‘Delightful,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘And I would very much enjoy seeing the gardens.’

I did not mean you, too. Stay in here and be pompous. But she could hardly say that.

‘This way.’ She led them to the glazed doors opening on to the terrace and, of course, he got there first to open them for her. His cologne was a subdued hint of Spanish leather. Very masculine and restrained. How appropriate.

‘Thank you so much.’

The Old Palace had once been a fifteenth-century fortified house with four wings which made a square around a large inner courtyard. As the country became less unsettled under Henry VII, the Bishop at the time had demolished one wing, opening the courtyard out to the south and leaving a U-shaped building. Under Henry VIII, the scars of the demolition were disguised by two fanciful towers at each end of the U and finally, under James I, a garden was created where the courtyard had been.

Now, in the sunny May weather, the early roses were coming into flower, bees buzzed in what would soon be billows of lavender and rosemary and water trickled from the central fountain.

‘This is delightful. The colours are most harmonious.’

Finally, she thought. Something you approve of.

‘Yes, is it not charming? It is generally regarded as a most romantic garden.’

‘Romantic.’ He sounded as though he had never heard the word before. ‘I was thinking that it was well planned.’

Verity shot him an exasperated look, stumbled on the top step and was caught around the waist and set firmly on her feet again before she could blink. The Duke removed his hands, leaving the impression of size, warmth and strength.

‘Thank you.’ It was most disconcerting, that easy physicality with that very restrained behaviour. Disturbing, somehow...

The youngsters had vanished down one of the pathways. The Duke turned from frowning over that as Mr Hoskins helped her father to his seat just outside the doors.

‘My lord would be delighted if you would care to explore the garden, Your Grace,’ Mr Hoskins said.

Her father was regarding her with a particularly bland expression that aroused Verity’s suspicions. What are you up to, Papa?

Then she saw his gaze was flickering from her to the Duke and back and understood.

Oh, no, Papa. We have had the conversation about matchmaking before—and the fact that this one is a duke makes absolutely no difference whatsoever.

But he was a guest and common courtesy must be observed at all costs. ‘Do allow me to show you the fountain, Your Grace. It was created to a design of my late mother’s, although she never saw it completed.’

He offered his arm as was proper and she placed her fingertips on it as they began to stroll along the central path. Was it simply the fact that he was a duke that created this strange aura of power that he carried with him? Or was it just that he was a tall, broad-shouldered man approaching his prime? Or perhaps it was simply this ridiculous awareness she had of him, a potent combination of physical attraction and dislike.

Her friend Melissa Taverner would doubtless say it was because Verity was suppressing her natural animal instincts and she should indulge in some flirtation, or even kissing, in order to give them free rein. But then Melissa would probably find the Duke’s stepmother a sister spirit, with equally advanced notions about ‘natural’ behaviour. Verity did not want to revert to nature. She had given in to those instincts once before—and discovered them seriously flawed—and now she simply wanted to have control over every aspect of her own life.

As they approached the central pool she chatted brightly about plants and garden design without receiving any response beyond polite murmurs. Then the Duke said, abruptly, ‘Did you lose your mother recently, Miss Wingate?’

‘When I was ten. It was a short illness of a few months. She was gone almost before anyone realised how serious it was.’ There was something about the quality of his silence that prompted her to add, ‘You were young when you lost your own mother, I believe?’

‘I was nine. Eighteen years ago. I hardly knew her.’ Perhaps he thought that sounded harsh because he added, ‘Do you recall your mother clearly?’

‘I remember her face—but that is easy, her portrait hangs in the dining room. I can recall her voice—it was gentle and sweet. I do not think I ever heard her raise it. Her hands were soft.’ Verity caught herself before her voice wobbled. ‘She was very pious and a very...traditional wife, I think.’

Not very intelligent, I suspect. No intellectual to match Papa. But a good woman. One who was loved. One who created a happy home.

‘Are you pious and traditional, Miss Wingate?’

Startled, she glanced up, and caught a flicker of something unexpected in the heavy blue gaze. Amusement? Warmth? Sarcasm, probably. ‘Pious? I hope I am a faithful churchwoman, but I lay no claim to piety. You know already that I am not traditional, Your Grace. But as I am not married, who knows whether I would be such a wife as my mother was.’

They had reached the fountain and she moved away from him to sit on the stone rim of the pool. She trailed her hand in the cool water and waited until the fish rose, as they always did, to nibble hopefully at her fingers. In the distance the laughter and calls from the young people told her that they had found the maze and over that happy sound drifted the first rippling bars of a piano sonata.

‘Who is the pianist? They are very skilled.’ The Duke propped his cane against the stone and stood beside her, too much on his dignity, she supposed, to perch on the fountain rim and risk the spray. He looked up and his gaze sharpened on the eastern tower.

‘She is a friend of mine. There is no pianoforte in her house and so she uses mine to practise.’ The others would be up there, too, in the Demoiselles’ Tower as Mr Hoskins, with one of his unexpected flights of fancy, called her private turret. Lucy playing; Melissa, fingers inky, working on her latest novel; Prue with her nose in a Greek grammar; and Jane painting the view, or her friends at work. The door at the top of the decorative external stairway that encircled the tower was firmly closed, thank goodness.

‘That is very generous of you. Your friend makes good use of the opportunity.’ He paused so long that Verity looked up to see him frowning in the direction of the catcalls and laughter. ‘Excuse me if I am jumping to conclusions, but if the fact that she does not own her own pianoforte means that her financial circumstances are a trifle restricted, might she be interested in teaching my sisters?’

There was no pianoforte in Lucy’s home because her parents, who could perfectly well have afforded one in every room, considered music, other than church music, to be decadent and probably sinful. Most things were sinful, according to Mr and Mrs Lambert, especially anything that gave pleasure. Verity sometimes wondered how Lucy and her four brothers were ever conceived. Miserably, probably. She had learned to play at school, from which she had been removed when her parents discovered that three of the pupils were the illegitimate daughters of an earl. When they realised that Lucy had been practising on the old piano in the church vestry she had bruises on the palms of her hands for days and now they had no idea she was still playing.

‘I am afraid not. It is not lack of funds, it is her mama’s sensitivity to any loud noise that prevents Lucy from playing at home.’ Loud sounds including laughter. ‘It is a good pianoforte, but I am an indifferent player, so I am delighted that she puts it to such good use.’

‘No doubt you are proficient at other musical instruments. The harp, perhaps? Or you sing, I have no doubt.’ The question seemed automatic, as though he took it for granted that she was merely being coy.

‘No, I play no musical instruments, Your Grace, and my singing is of the kind better heard at a distance.’

Like bagpipes—ideally with several intervening glens.