Least Likely To Marry A Duke

Chapter Four

‘That was the Duke? Do you mean he is staying?’ Lucy was the first to gather her wits. She lifted her hands from the keyboard where she had been quietly improvising. ‘Mama said that she had heard that he had come to settle his stepmother at the Dower House and would be going back to Oulton Castle.’

‘No. Lady Bromhill is certainly living at the Dower House but the Duke has moved into Stane Hall with his six half-brothers and -sisters and, I believe, intends to stay, at least for the mourning period.’

‘Oh.’ Melissa’s face fell. ‘I had forgotten that the family is in mourning. I had been imagining balls and parties... Mama will be devastated when she finds he will be here, but not socialising. I cannot understand how his presence is going to be of any help to us.’

‘But do you not see? Every mother of a daughter of marriageable age will look twice at any other candidate for her hand because, until the Duke does become available, there is always the faint hope that she might be the one to catch his eye. And it will be almost a year before he is out of mourning and can begin openly courting. The man is such a stickler for proper form that nothing is going to make him choose a bride before then, even if he falls passionately in love.’ And the thought of the Duke of Aylsham doing anything passionately sent a shiver down her spine, even as her mind told her that he would never demonstrate an unbecoming show of enthusiasm, even when making love.

‘But that is marvellous. All we have to do is go home and tell our parents the good news—and then obediently fall in with every plan they come up with for encountering the Duke or his family,’ Jane said with a gurgle of laughter. ‘We will throw ourselves into it—and it is certain to provoke our mothers into a positive orgy of shopping.’

‘That’s—Aargh!’ At Melissa’s scream Lucy dropped her music scores, Jane stabbed her brush into the white paint and Prue sat bolt upright, sending her draperies sliding to the floor.

‘What is it?’ Verity demanded, then gave a started gasp of her own as a large, very hairy, black spider scuttled across the boards and vanished under a bookcase. ‘Goodness, that gave me a fright. I do hate the ones with the knobbly knees. Are you all right, Melissa? I know you do not like the things.’

‘Ghastly creatures,’ Melissa said with a shudder. ‘Do you think it has gone?’

Only as far as the back of the bookcase, Verity thought.

‘I am sure it will not come back with us here now. And I will have a word with the maids about cleaning more—’

The door on to the outer staircase that circled the tower banged open, thudded against the wall and sent a vase toppling from the nearest bookshelf. Melissa darted forward and caught it, collided with the man who burst through the opening and sat down with a thump on the edge of the chaise.

For a second everyone froze. Like Grandmother’s Footsteps, Verity thought wildly before she realised that the intruder was the Duke and that he was staring at Prue’s completely exposed bosom, which was, as Prue herself sometimes lamented, her most outstanding feature.

Everyone moved at once. The Duke spun round to face the bookcases, Prue ran for the door to the internal staircase and Verity, Melissa, Jane and Lucy came together to stand shoulder to shoulder, a wall of indignant femininity between their friend and this man.

As the door closed behind Prue, Melissa pushed the vase into Lucy’s hands. ‘I will take her clothes down.’ She scooped them up and left.

‘I apologise,’ the Duke said, his back still turned to them, his voice stiff with suppressed emotion.

Outrage, Verity guessed. He would not like being put in the wrong like this. Or being made to look ridiculous. A gentleman bursting into a room of young ladies to save them from danger was heroic. To rescue them from a spider, farcical.

‘I realised that I had left my cane behind and I was searching for it in the garden when I heard a scream. I thought a lady was being assaulted in some way.’ He removed his hat.

‘Only by a very large spider,’ Verity said drily. ‘But, naturally, we appreciate your, er, gallant defence.’ She moved Jane’s easel to face the wall. ‘You may turn around again, Your Grace.’

‘Ladies.’ His bow was a masterpiece.

Verity was not sure how it was possible to bow sarcastically, but she was certain that was what this was. It was just too perfectly judged to be anything else. ‘May I present Miss Lambert and Miss Newnham.’

They curtsied and he bowed again as Melissa came back. She rolled her eyes at Verity, then turned and swept into a graceful obeisance.

‘And Miss Taverner. Ladies, this is the Duke of Aylsham.’

And don’t you dare ask who Prue is, she thought.

But of course he did not. ‘My apologies for interrupting you, ladies. Good day to you.’ He resumed his hat, left by the door through which he had entered and closed it, very gently, behind him.

‘Hell’s bells,’ Melissa said faintly. ‘What a very beautiful, very frightening man.’

‘How is Prue?’

‘Resigning herself to imminent ruin. I told her a duke would be too much a gentleman to ever refer to the matter.’

‘He has gone.’ Prue came in, dressed, but pale-faced. ‘I saw him from your bedchamber window, Verity. Will someone help me with my hair?’ She held out her hand, shaking so much that half the pins she was holding fell to the floor.

‘I will.’ Lucy pressed her down into a chair and began to put up the brown curls. ‘He will not say anything, we are sure—far too much the gentleman.’

‘And it would lower him in his own estimation to gossip,’ Verity added, patting her friend’s shoulder in an attempt at consolation. ‘He is an absolute pattern book of proper behaviour. You will be quite safe, Prue, don’t worry.’

‘But I will be sure to meet him,’ she wailed. ‘And he will recognise me and I will just sink through the floor, I know I will. Even if he says nothing, Mama will guess something is amiss if I blush scarlet whenever I see him.’

‘I doubt he was looking at your face,’ Melissa said, with a significant glance at Prue’s bosom which was positively heaving with emotion. ‘You must just brazen it out, Prue. Tell your mama that you are knocked all of a heap by his rank and looks and your overwhelming urge to be worthy of him. Besides, he is in mourning, so you are unlikely to encounter him often.’

‘I suppose so.’ Prue began to look slightly less ill.

The clock struck four. There was a faint shriek from Lucy, who began to bundle up her sheet music while the others tidied their work away into the cupboard.

‘Leave it, hurry down,’ Verity urged. ‘Prue, blow your nose. And take some tracts with you, everyone.’ A pile of tub-thumping religious tracts had been sent to her father by a well-meaning curate. Papa, having scanned one, pronounced it badly written, inaccurate and guaranteed to make heathens of the most devout churchgoer. Verity had saved them as props for her ‘reading group,’ who went off downstairs, bonnets and gloves in place, each clutching a leaflet. ‘And the book for next week is Pilgrim’s Progress,’ she called after them.

‘But we all read that ages ago,’ Melissa stopped at the head of the stairs to protest.

‘Exactly. Which means we don’t need to talk about it again, but you know all about it if your parents ask what we have been studying.’

She found she was feeling a trifle shaky so she sat down to set a few more stitches in her tapestry. She hadn’t finally committed herself to the design of the fallen angel himself—perhaps she could incorporate a few of the Duke’s features. Verity began to unpick the black of the angel’s eyes. Blue would be more arresting... He was, after all, as handsome as the Devil, if probably rather less cheerful, he had fallen to earth at her feet and he had the power to torment them all now.

* * *

Even before the move to Stane Hall Will had learned it was no use offering a place in the carriage to his stepmother on Sundays. Claudia always announced her intention of worshipping the deity—or deities, she was not prepared to commit herself—by communing with nature, which seemed to him to be an excellent excuse for prolonged country rambles accompanied by a picnic basket.

Her children had discovered, to their dismay, that now that they lived with him, a church service, sedate reading and educational pastimes replaced Sundays spent careering around the woods and streams. They had learned not to mope too visibly when Will put his foot down over an issue, but even so, it was a sulky and cramped carriage party that set out for morning service the second Sunday after their visit to the Old Palace and the first when they had attended church.

‘Basil, if you have so much to say for yourself you may undertake the reading of the second lesson in my stead,’ Will threatened. It was enough to silence his brother, who had been grumbling about having to take young Benjamin on his knees. ‘And, yes, we will take two carriages when the weather is bad or Miss Preston and Mr Catford prefer not to walk. But it makes more work for the staff on a day of rest when we should be as considerate as possible.’

At least they all trooped down the path to the church door in an orderly manner. The Verger was waiting to escort them to the Stane Hall pew, right at the front of the chancel. He ushered them in with a merciful lack of bowing and scraping. Will guessed this was because in his opinion the parishioners rated a duke rather lower than their resident Bishop. The high panelled walls of the Hall’s pew cut off their view of the one on the other side of the aisle, in the prime position right under the pulpit, but the Bishop’s coat of arms was on the door. It had a complex design on the shield, crowned with a mitre and with crossed croziers behind.

All he could see of the occupants was the top of a bald pate edged with greying brown hair, a dark head that must be the Chaplain and the crown of a brown-straw bonnet with a flash of ochre ribbon. Miss Wingate had accompanied her father. At least her rebellion did not extend to churchgoing.

Will brought his gaze back to the interior of his own large pew. The tutor and governess were already there and, under their supervision, the youngsters were at least sitting quietly as they found their places in the prayer books. He sent up a brief prayer of his own for a short and well-delivered sermon and told himself that he was not remotely interested in the presence or otherwise of unbecomingly outspoken bluestockings. He could only offer thanks to whichever merciful spirit looked after well-meaning dukes for the fact that it was not Miss Wingate who had been posing nude when he burst into that tower of outrageous females. With the exception of the one who had fled, there had not been a blush between them, which was shocking.

His prayers were answered with an intelligent sermon, although as it was on the theme of ‘The Stranger in Our Midst’ he could almost feel the collective gaze of the congregation boring into his back. The Verger came and opened the Bishop’s pew door first, which was telling. Dukes outranked bishops, but not, it seemed in Great Staning.

When he reached the door—the Verger bowed them solemnly out of their pew next—Will saw why the Bishop had precedence. He was seated in a carved chair by the side of the Vicar, who was waiting to speak to his parishioners as they filed out. Mr Hoskins was at his elbow and Miss Wingate stood a little apart, talking to a lady he guessed was Mrs Trent, the Vicar’s wife.

‘My lord. Mr Hoskins. Mr Trent.’ It was the first time the family had attended church in this parish, although the Vicar had called the week they arrived. ‘An admirable sermon, Vicar, I congratulate you. May I introduce my family?’ He gestured his siblings forward and tried not to be surprised when they lined up obediently and performed neat bows and curtsies. Their teachers were clearly doing an excellent job, which reminded him to introduce them, too.

‘But we are holding up the rest of the congregation.’ He led his small flock over to bid good morning to Mrs Trent, who was still talking to Miss Wingate. ‘Ma’am. Miss Wingate.’ Mrs Trent beamed and replied and promptly began to make a fuss of the children.

Miss Wingate favoured him with a slight bow. He assumed her frosty manner was due to embarrassment which was surprising; he had not thought she had sufficient sensibility to feel any. ‘Your Grace. Good day. Mrs Trent, I will make certain the gardeners send down those flowers in plenty of time for next Sunday.’ Then she was gone with a whisk of deep green skirts, leaving the tantalising scent of wisteria blossom behind her.

Mrs Trent straightened from speaking to Benjamin and Will saw her eyes widen as she looked beyond him. He half-turned to find that, far from filing out of the church after they had shaken the Vicar’s hand, the congregation was still milling about inside. Or, rather, that part of it composed of matrons with daughters in attendance was. He recognised Miss Lambert, Miss Newnham and Miss Taverner from the tower and he rather suspected, from the fact that she was the only person not looking in his direction, that the unnamed naked model was the young woman in the blue bonnet half-hidden behind a pillar.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs Trent murmured. ‘I am afraid you must expect a certain amount of interest from the parishioners, Your Grace.’

‘So I see. As we are in mourning I will not be entertaining on any scale, nor attending balls or parties,’ Will said. ‘I hope I may rely on you to depress any hopes that the Manor will be hosting any social events, as would normally be the case.’

‘Of course. I am sure there will be ample opportunities for you to meet anyone of consequence in the area without any fear of...er...’

‘Raising expectations?’ he asked with a smile that felt somewhat twisted. It had not occurred to him that he would be hunted, which was foolish of him. In truth, it was how he felt at that moment, with a flock of young ladies in what looked like their finest day dresses and best bonnets all focused on him. He was hardly likely to find a duchess in a sleepy Dorset parish, but that would not depress the hopes of the parents of marriageable daughters, he knew. Unmarried dukes under the age of sixty were gold dust on the Marriage Mart. In a way Miss Wingate’s hostility was a refreshing relief.

‘While my father lived I was at a remove from the succession,’ he confided, low-voiced. ‘The title appears to have excited rather more interest than I have been used to.’

Mrs Trent produced an unexpectedly wicked smile. ‘My advice is not to run, Your Grace—that only excites them to chase. Think of kittens and a ball of wool. Now, if you will excuse me, I will see what I can do to rescue my poor husband from the throng.’

‘I suspect I can help matters simply by leaving. Good day, ma’am. Come along, everyone.’ He shepherded his small flock out, with the tutor and governess bringing up the rear to catch the stragglers. Will bowed to left and right, exchanged greetings and kept on walking, trying not to imagine himself as a ball of wool. Somehow this was not quite how he had imagined life as a duke would be. There was considerably less of ermine-trimmed robes and speeches in the House of Lords and rather more worrying about drainage ditches and the lack of application to their Classics lessons on behalf of his small brothers.

And dukes really should not stride down church paths as though they had a pack of petticoat-clad hounds on their tail. Will could not help but think gloomily that his grandfather would have managed things better, but he could not bring himself to administer icy snubs as the old man would have done. Nor did it help his temper to observe Miss Wingate at the lych gate speaking to what, he assumed, must be the driver of the Bishop’s carriage.

She gave him a cool nod, waved cheerfully to the rest of his party as they passed and then directed a look brim-full of mischief and amusement at the path behind him. Clearly, he was being followed by the flotilla of hopeful matrons, their daughters around them like so many frigates, their husbands in tow.

Must stop mixing metaphors. Kittens, hounds and now battleships...

Will did not make the mistake of looking over his shoulder. When they reached his carriage he saw they were boxed in by the Bishop’s coach behind and a cluster of gigs, barouches and dog carts in front.

As the footman swung open the door Will saw the reflection of the pursuers behind him in the window glass. ‘Basil, sit up with the coachman. Miss Preston, Mr Catford, please take seats in the carriage, should you wish. I intend to walk.’

He strode off without a backwards glance, ignoring Basil’s crow of triumph at being allowed up on the box. There was a stile ahead and a field of cattle on the other side of the fence. No lady was going to pursue him through that, not in her best churchgoing shoes. A strategic retreat, that was what this was. A gentleman could, with propriety, take a dignified country walk on a Sunday morning after church, he told himself. And he would take care to instruct the coachman to have the carriage free and clear to drive off immediately on the next occasion they attended St Mathew’s.

The herd scattered away as he walked diagonally across the pasture and Will tried to bring the map of the parish to mind and to work out whose field this was. His or the Bishop’s? Or perhaps it was part of the Vicar’s glebe lands. No, those lay to the south. There was a gate on the far side and he went through, closing it firmly on the cows who were following him with the usual curiosity of their kind. Beyond, a track meandered away and then cut left through a copse of trees, the green shade and faint damp smell soothing after his earlier irritation. He was heading in the right direction, he thought, glancing up at the sun filtering through the branches, although he could not recall this patch of woodland.

Will emerged after ten minutes, not on to another field as he expected, but into a wide clearing with a pond in the centre. A tree had fallen parallel to the edge and he sat down on it, taking in the clumps of rushes, the lily pads, the dart and hover of dragonflies. It was a lovely spot, crying out for a small summer house for picnics. If it was his he would see about having one built. Nothing intrusive, not some Classical temple, just a simple shelter, he thought, leaning back on the stump of the tree that formed a convenient support.

It was warm now, or perhaps he was overheated after his impulsive escape from the churchyard.

Ridiculous, running from a pack of women. You should learn how to depress pretention with a cool stare, Will told himself.

He closed his eyes against the sun dazzle on the water.

And that smile on Miss Wingate’s face as she watched... She found it amusing, the wicked creature... She has a dimple when she smiles... I wonder whether she ever models for her friend. She...

* * *

It was very wrong to find amusement in the Duke’s discomfiture, Verity told herself as the carriage finally extricated itself from the tangle of vehicles at the church gate. Her father’s hands moved, catching her attention, and she focused on what he was saying.

‘What are you smiling about, my dear?’ he signed slowly. ‘Something has amused you?’

‘Nothing in particular, Papa.’ And that is a fib, on a Sunday, too. ‘Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Would you like to take luncheon in the garden?’

‘I think so, yes. I will have a short rest first.’

‘And I will take a walk.’ Essentially she wanted to get away from the Old Palace so she could laugh in private over the hunting of the Duke. At least she could acquit him of being rude to anyone. An aristocrat of high rank could turn and wither the pretensions of the local gentry with just a few well-chosen words, or even a look, and it was to his credit that he had not yielded to the temptation to hit back. And not by a flicker of an eyelash had he revealed that he had met her friends before or had identified poor Prue.

* * *

Really, the Duke of Aylsham might be a very pleasant gentleman if he was not so starched-up and conscious of his position, she concluded ten minutes later as she made her way out of the gardens and into the water meadows.

He was certainly a very fine specimen of manhood to look at, which was not a thought she should be entertaining on a Sunday.

You see, William Calthorpe, you are leading me astray. Fibs and warm thoughts on the Sabbath indeed!

She would call him William in her head, she decided. Too much dwelling on his title would make him assume an importance in her mind he did not deserve. But it was a long time since she had felt the slightest flicker of interest when she looked at a man and the feeling was not, to her surprise, unpleasant.

The ground under her feet gave a warning squelch, a reminder of last week’s rain, but the woodland walk would be dry underfoot and there was the hope that she might spot the peregrine falcon that she had strictly forbidden the keepers to shoot.

Her favourite log was a good spot to sit and the sunlight would be on the clearing at this time of day. If she stayed quite still for a few moments she could see what came down to the pond to drink and Verity walked quietly into the glade to avoid frightening any wild creature.

There. A movement behind the trees, a roe deer coming to the water. With her eyes on the animal Verity edged sideways towards her usual perch. She could just see the tree trunk out of the corner of her eye. Almost there, almost. Still watching the shy deer emerging from the fringe of bushes, she sat down, very, very slowly.

‘Hmff?’ The surface under her was not wood, it was fabric with a warm body inside it. The body sat up, precipitating her on to the turf. The deer fled back into the woods and Verity looked up into the furious face of His Grace the Duke of Aylsham. William. She almost said it out loud. He had been lying along the trunk and must, she supposed, have been asleep.

‘What the devil?’ He had himself under control in a breath, swung his feet down and stood up. ‘I apologise for my language, Miss Wingate. But what—’

‘What the devil was I doing?’ she enquired as she took his hand and allowed herself to be hauled up. It was not very ladylike. She should not care, but it was galling to keep meeting him when she was sprawled on the ground. ‘I did not see you. I had my eyes on a deer that was coming down to drink and I was edging towards the tree trunk to sit down.’ Verity brushed the dried leaves and moss off her skirt and wondered what had possessed her to go for a walk in her Sunday best.

He was fuming, she guessed, although the only outward evidence was a slight flaring of his nostrils and the tightening of his lips. She added a mental rebuke to herself for allowing her gaze to linger on his finely sculpted nose and the sensual curve of his lower lip. It was a very bad mistake to equate good looks with a pleasant character and William Calthorpe appeared to combine outward perfection with a starchy, judgemental interior.

‘I trust I did not hurt you?’ She was not quite certain exactly where on that long body she had sat. She had already been the cause of an injury to his posterior. It hadn’t been his legs this time, he did not appear to be winded, so it was probably not his stomach, which left...