A Duke by Default: Dangerous Dukes Vol 3

by Wendy Soliman

  A Duke by Default

  Wendy Soliman

  A Duke by Default

  Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2020

  This version revised May 2020

  This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of

  The Author – Wendy Soliman

  This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction fines and/or imprisonment. The e-Book cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this e-Book can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the author.

  Chapter One

  Not a flicker of emotion crossed Marcus Rothwell’s face as he laid claim to yet another winning hand.

  ‘By all that’s holy, Marc, you have the very luck of the devil!’ Giles Merrow threw down his cards with a snort of disgust. ‘I thought I had you there.’

  All eyes turned towards Marc, seeking to gauge his reaction to such a big win brought about by daring or, some might argue, reckless play. He showed nothing, simply because winning or losing meant so little to him. Perhaps that was why he seldom lost. He had heard it said that Marcus Rothwell seldom revealed an agreeable visage, but most people lacked the courage to speculate upon whether or not he actually possessed one—at least within Marc’s hearing. A formidable Corinthian with a reputation for ruthlessness, no one wished to make an enemy of His Grace, the new and influential Duke of Broadstairs. Referring to his taciturn disposition, even in jest, was not for the fainthearted.

  ‘Luck had little to do with it, Giles.’ Marc rose from the table and scooped up a handful of banknotes, interspersed with a healthy smattering of vowels. ‘Fortune has a tendency to favour the brave. Gentlemen, I bid you adieu.’

  ‘I say, Broadstairs, won’t you give us an opportunity to recoup our losses?’ one gentleman asked.

  ‘Yes indeed,’ added another. ‘It seems only reasonable.’

  ‘My apologies. I have another engagement.’

  Giles collected his own more modest winnings and followed his friend from the room. They accepted their coats from the porter at Brooks Club, donned their hats and stepped through the door another porter opened for them.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Giles asked, striding along at Marc’s side.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I am for Lady Charington’s ball.’

  ‘Good God!’ Giles stopped dead in his tracks. ‘Whatever for?’

  Marc shrugged. ‘To dance, of course.’

  ‘Since you are no longer in full mourning for your uncle, I suppose there is no reason why you shouldn’t dance.’ Giles still appeared perplexed. ‘But why the devil would you want to?’

  ‘Because the Duke of Broadstairs is in need of a wife, or so my aunt would have it.’

  ‘Ye gods, I wouldn’t be you, Marc. Not for all your fortune.’ Giles shook his head. ‘But if you are seriously contemplating matrimony, wouldn’t you do better to postpone your selection for a few months? The season is almost at an end and all this year’s chits worth looking at, or who have dowries that are up to scratch, must already be spoken for.’

  Marc remained perfectly unruffled at the prospect of picking over the season’s wallflowers. ‘I have no use for a handsome wife,’ he replied indifferently. ‘Such a creature would most likely spend all her time preening herself, waste my money on fripperies, and require pretty words to keep her faithful. I have no need to add to my fortune through matrimony, either. All I require is a lady of good breeding and refined manners. Preferably, one not given to giggling or fits of the vapours, and one in possession of a modicum of common sense—if such a creature exists, which I grant you is asking a lot.’

  Giles rolled his eyes. ‘And they claim romance is dead.’

  Marc responded with an indifferent shrug. ‘Romance is overrated.’

  ‘If you say so.’ Giles grinned. ‘Tell me more about the paragon you intend to wed.’

  ‘My choice will be based on the likelihood of the lady in question having character and fortitude enough to bear my children without creating an almighty fuss over the matter.’ Marc flexed a brow. ‘You know more about these matters than I. Presumably there are still one or two hardy specimens of that ilk not spoken for?’

  ‘I dare say, but does not Her Grace favour Miss Gibbons as your consort?’

  ‘Which is precisely why I don’t intend to spare that particular lady the time of day.’ Marc scowled at the thought of his aunt and her interfering ways.

  ‘Perhaps an older lady might better suit your purpose, then? One who has been out for several seasons but who has not taken.’

  ‘Now that’s not such a bad idea. Thank you, Giles.’ Marc thought about it for a moment, seeing merit in the suggestion. ‘If she thinks she has been left on the shelf, she will likely be more receptive to my proposition, saving me the tedium of an overlong courtship.’

  Giles laughed. ‘As though any lady would reject your advances, even if you are the most unsociable devil on God’s earth. Not only are you a duke, but you’re also wealthy beyond most people’s imagination, and for some reason that escapes me I’ve also heard you described as the catch of the season. You will be hounded by the matchmaking mamas the moment you set foot in a ballroom and show the world you are no longer in mourning.’

  ‘Possibly, but I am still taken with the idea of courting a lady who’s been overlooked by others. There’s a certain poetic justice to the scheme, given my own circumstances.’

  ‘Yes,’ Giles replied quietly. ‘I suppose there is.’

  Their conversation had taken them to the door of Lady Charington’s residence. Their hostess appeared surprised, flustered, and then exceedingly gratified by Marc’s unexpected appearance. She would be able to boast all over the ton that the new duke had chosen her gathering to show his face to society for the first time. Marc strolled into the ballroom, eyeing London’s elite at play with brooding disinterest. One glance at them reinforced his determination to get the tiresome business of selecting a wife over with as soon as possible so he could bury himself in the country and fill his time with more worthwhile pursuits.

  It didn’t take two minutes for Marc to realise he had grossly underestimated the interest his presence would create. His reputation as a cold-hearted cynic was insufficient to deter the matrons, who espied his arrival with calculated interest and barely suppressed glee. Giles had been right about that, just as he was right about so many things. Marc’s languor—make that boredom—at the entire process only seemed to add to his appeal, and he was soon swamped with people eager to make his acquaintance.

  ‘If it’s a wife you hanker for,’ Giles suggested in an undertone, ‘should you not make an effort to appear more congenial?’

  Marc’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his hairline. ‘Good heavens, whatever for?’

  ‘Your Grace.’ The most determined of the matrons accosted him, dropping into a curtsey that seemed strangely coquettish.

  ‘Your servant, Lady Miller,’ Marc responded with cool civility.

  ‘May I remember my niece, Miss Fraser, to you?’

  A delicate creature with a determined set to her features cu
rtsied and blushed before him. Recalling his friend’s advice, Marc made an effort to appear affable as he raised the insipid Miss Fraser from her curtsey, and requested her hand for the next dance.

  By the end of the evening, Marc was in a dire frame of mind. He had danced with all the most likely looking candidates—with the notable exception of Miss Gibbons, who appeared affronted by his slight. His aunt would inevitably learn of his inattention to her protégé and demand an explanation. The inconsequential fact that she was still in mourning and could not appear in public wouldn’t preclude her from already having learned of Marc’s attendance at Lady Charington’s assembly. She would be in possession of the names of all his dance partners before dawn broke over the capital.

  Glowering at the prospect, Marc returned his thoughts to those partners—none of whom had displayed the slightest sign of spontaneity while in his company. Surely that was all to the good. He required a compliant wife, one not given to fits of independence. But which one would suit him best? The conundrum wasn’t helped by the fact he had already almost forgotten their names. None had engaged more than a tenth of his attention, much less his feelings. That did not signify since Marc only intended to marry in order to sire an heir to the Broadstairs dynasty; a duty that even he could not overlook.

  ‘Well,’ said Giles cheerfully, gliding up to Marc’s side as they left Lady Charington’s establishment. ‘Which one is it to be?’

  Marc curled his upper lip. ‘I haven’t the slightest notion.’

  Giles shook his head. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I think I shall return to Endersby shortly and host a house party.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘Do you consider me totally lacking in the social graces, Giles?’ Marc raised a brow in a forbidding manner that would have reduced anyone else to immediate silence.

  ‘Yes, actually.’ Giles’s grin was broad and infectious—or would have been if Marc was the type to smile at will. ‘You usually avoid such events like the plague.’

  ‘True, but then I have never been in search of a wife before.’

  ‘Whom do you intend to invite?’

  ‘You, of course, if you can bear it. And, I suppose, the four chits I danced with this evening.’ Marc stifled a yawn. ‘If I see them over a period of time, against the setting of my own home, perhaps one of them will attract my interest.’

  Giles laughed aloud. ‘I’d be glad to come. Wouldn’t miss it for the world, in fact. Who will you ask to act as your hostess?’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Hadn’t thought of that, had you? Not the dowager duchess, surely?’ Giles was referring to Marc’s recently widowed aunt, the death of whose husband had caused Marc’s succession to the dukedom.

  ‘Alas, no. She’s still in mourning. But perhaps my other aunt, Lady Calder, might be willing to oblige me.’

  The atmosphere was taut with expectancy as Harriet Aston totted up the endless column of figures for the third time.

  ‘Have you discovered the discrepancy yet?’ James asked with an anxious frown.

  ‘Shush, James!’ Charlotte peeped at her exquisite profile in a nearby mirror and carefully patted a stray curl back into place. ‘I am sure Harri will resolve the matter more quickly without interruptions from us.’

  ‘Interruptions don’t signify, since I am quite unable to balance the books.’ Harriet cast her quill aside with a defeated air. ‘No matter how often I add up the figures, the answer doesn’t change. I am afraid we are exceeding our income and must practise further economies.’

  ‘Oh Harri dear, surely not?’ Mrs. Aston flapped a hand in vague dismissal of her daughter’s claim. ‘We’ve been so very careful since your papa died. Not one luxury has passed the threshold, and I am sure we couldn’t have been more frugal.’

  Harriet sighed. As always, her mother had her head in the clouds. ‘Five dozen wax candles, Mama,’ she chided gently. ‘Did we not agree that wax is ruinously expensive and tallow will serve our needs just as well?’

  ‘But, Harri, tallow smokes quite shockingly and causes poor Thomas to wheeze until he can scarce draw breath. You know how he suffers with his weak chest.’

  Harriet’s nine-year-old brother offered up a timely cough, his wan expression accompanied by a disproportionately mischievous grin. Harriet shook a finger at him but had the good sense not to pursue the subject of the candles, knowing it was a lost cause. Instead, she looked with ill-disguised horror at the next account on her father’s desk.

  ‘Five yards of spider-gauze—’

  ‘Ten would have better suited Charlotte’s requirements, but I was mindful of your instructions to economise.’ Mrs. Aston beamed as though she had achieved something remarkable.

  Harriet’s despair rendered her temporarily speechless.

  ‘Ye Gods!’ she exclaimed when she saw the next account. ‘Flemish lace, Charlotte? Would not something less expensive have served?’

  ‘You are being very mean-spirited!’ cried Charlotte indignantly. ‘If you had your way I would disgrace the family by going to town dressed in nothing better than nankeen.’

  ‘Of course you must look your best, Charlotte, but you must realise that—’

  ‘Besides,’ Charlotte added, openly admiring her countenance again as she fiddled with her golden curls. ‘All your scoldings about extravagance are a waste of breath. I am sure to make a splendid match when I’m seen about town, thus saving us all from the workhouse.’ She swirled around, her beautiful face animated. ‘But in order to snare a rich husband I must give every appearance of being comfortably situated.’

  ‘Indeed you must, my love,’ Mrs. Aston smiled at her favourite daughter.

  ‘We all fervently hope your plan will succeed.’ Harriet, losing patience, sounded more acerbic than she had intended. ‘But in the meantime, we must eat and contrive to keep the business operating if we wish to retain a roof over our heads. We must also find a way to send the boys to school before they run completely wild. Did you really need to order four new bonnets, Charlotte?’ Harriet looked with dread at the outrageous total at the foot of the milliner’s account.

  ‘You are most unkind, Harri!’ Charlotte stamped her foot. ‘It’s very exhausting, being expected to save the family single-handedly. The least you could do is be supportive.’

  ‘Pray do not frown, darling,’ Mrs. Aston cajoled. ‘It will leave a permanent crease on your lovely brow.’

  ‘She’s just jealous, Mama,’ said the beauty of the family, her scowl giving way to an angelic expression. ‘She has no notion how tiresome it becomes, being constantly admired for one’s appearance.’

  ‘Of course you must have the things you need, Charlotte.’ Harriet was so accustomed to her sister’s barbs that they scarcely registered with her anymore. Besides, Charlotte was truly exquisite. Unlike Harriet, she was fashionably petite and her temperament, when she chose to display it, was as sweet as her countenance. But she had also been spoiled, admired and indulged for her entire life, which had turned her into a vain, single-minded young woman who was determined to have her own way in everything.

  Harriet briefly considered her own appearance, so at odds with Charlotte’s as to make strangers wonder at their being related at all. She was a full head taller than her sibling, with a cloud of unruly black curls and features which, if not directly compared to her sister’s, might be described as finely etched. Her face was dominated by a pair of sparkling green eyes that lent it true character, distracting the observer’s attention from a mouth that was a little too wide, a nose that was fractionally too long, and the unfashionable dusting of freckles that adorned it. Busy keeping the family’s collective heads above water since the death of her father, Harriet seldom dwelt upon the inconsequential matter of her appearance.

  ‘I merely meant to show that there are economies which can easily be made without undue sacrifices. When you remove to town next season, and place yourself in Lady Calder’s care, Charlotte, I feel sure she will be able to advise you about
re-trimming bonnets into the latest style without resorting to the expense of purchasing new ones.’

  ‘Oh, Lady Calder!’ Charlotte cried, her good humour restored. ‘How kind it is of her to offer to have me, Mama.’

  ‘Well, my dear, she is Harri’s godmother, and has always been kind to us all.’

  ‘We still haven’t resolved the matter of the boys’ schooling,’ Harriet reminded them.

  ‘We could carry on taking our lessons with Charlotte,’ Thomas said with alacrity. ‘That wouldn’t cost anything at all.’

  Charlotte couldn’t be expected to ruin her delicate hands by picking apples for cider production, but that didn’t preclude her from helping the boys with their writing and sums. Yet, all too often that task fell upon Harriet’s shoulders too, the tiniest excuse being sufficient for her sister to put off her lessons. Her pupils, in Thomas’s case at least, were scarcely less inventive in finding reasons to procrastinate. Only Harriet’s determination that they should have at least a basic education prevented them from being completely illiterate.

  ‘I should have thought we would have received a message from the duke by now,’ lamented Mrs Aston.

  Harriet bit her lip to prevent herself from saying the duke was dead. Tears sprang to her eyes as she reminded herself that her mother was referring to the new Duke of Broadstairs. She too was becoming increasingly concerned by his silence and couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t answered her notes. Surely, courtesy dictated that he should at least acknowledge their receipt? She had heard he was haughty, so perhaps her concerns were beneath his notice.

  ‘Perhaps he hasn’t yet received your letters?’ James suggested, displaying a maturity that belied his twelve years.

  ‘How could he not have?’ Harriet frowned. ‘I committed them to Mr. Sanderson’s hand myself.’

  ‘Oh pray, don’t mention that odious man’s name in my hearing!’ Charlotte shuddered. ‘How could he suppose I would entertain an offer of marriage from a mere steward? His arrogance defies belief.’