“Miss Wilson,” he said flatly, “I have come here this morning to humbly ask for your hand in marriage.”
“I beg your pardon?” Was this really happening?
He repeated himself. “I would be most pleased, most pleased indeed, if you would do me the honor of becoming my wife.” When she stared at him blankly, he cleared his throat.
That was it? No caveat? Not even a little bit of flattery to precede the question? Good God, did these Brits know nothing?
Sophia moved fully into the room and stood before the earl, only a few feet away. He looked a little taken aback, suddenly nervous and flustered.
Gently, she said, “I thank you, Lord Manderlin, for the flattering offer. It is very tempting, but I am afraid I must regrettably decline.” She was about to give him a polite reason why—to explain that she wasn’t ready to accept any offer of marriage quite yet; she’d only just arrived in England—but he stopped her with a bow.
“Thank you for receiving me this morning, Miss Wilson. You have been most kind.” With that, he was out the door.
Utterly dumbfounded, Sophia stood in the middle of the room.
Her mother walked in, looking frantic. “What did you tell him?”
“I told him no, of course.”
“It happened so fast,” her mother replied. “What did he say?”
Florence came dashing into the room to hear what was said as well. Sophia repeated his request—it took all of two seconds—and the three of them sank onto chairs.
“I tried to tell him that it would be a mistake,” her mother said. “Truly, I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t hear it. He came here to propose to you, and he was not going to leave until he did just that!”
Sophia’s heart sank. “That was the most unromantic proposal I’ve ever heard of. He must know the size of my dowry.”
Her mother and Florence were quiet. The maid brought in a large tray with a silver teapot, cups and a plate of scones.
“All that aside,” Florence said, “Lord Manderlin is exceptionally well connected. His mother was close to the queen in her younger days, and it’s a very old earldom.” She sighed and poured a cup of tea. “But that is neither here nor there. At least you have the Earl of Whitby to fall back on. A much handsomer man. And I daresay, if the flowers are any indication—a more romantic one. Don’t you agree, Beatrice?”
Sophia, feeling a little uncomfortable at the reminder of Lord Whitby’s advances, accepted the teacup that Florence held out to her.
“Let us not forget the duke,” her mother said. “I haven’t given up on him yet. Perhaps he simply needs a few more opportunities to socialize with Sophia. Then he’ll be sending roses, too.”
Florence was suspiciously quiet. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up about the duke.” She sipped her tea.
“What do you mean, Florence?” Sophia asked. “What do you know about him?”
The countess shrugged. “Nothing important. I simply don’t believe he’s the marrying kind, and there’s no point squandering our efforts when they could be better applied elsewhere, in areas with more potential, so to speak.”
“What makes you think that?” Beatrice asked. “He spent time alone with Sophia at the assembly the other night, and he danced with her at the ball. He seemed the perfect gentleman, and very attentive to her.”
Florence began to speak in hushed tones. “Yes, but he has been known to do that sort of thing from time to time, with some of the more attractive ladies in the Marlborough House Set. The married ones.”
Beatrice gasped and covered her mouth with her hand.
Florence lowered her voice further and glanced over her shoulder at the door. “This is scandalous to speak of, but he’s broken a few hearts, I assure you.” Florence sipped her tea again. “He’s quite a Casanova. Without compassion, they say. He’s only interested in one thing and nothing beyond it. He’s said to have a black heart.”
Sophia began to feel a little nauseous.
“But who’s to say he hasn’t decided it’s time to take a wife?” Beatrice argued. “He’s a duke after all, with a responsibility to carry on his line. Surely he must be thinking of that.”
“His line. That’s another thing. From what I’ve heard, the black heart runs in the family. His father drank himself to death, and the duke before him—after a number of impossibly horrible scandals that some say involved his wife’s death—took his own life. He shot himself in the head.”
“Good gracious,” Beatrice said, horrified.
“Yes, I know, it’s shocking, isn’t it?”
Beatrice scrambled to grasp at straws. “But maybe the duke hasn’t met a woman who has struck his fancy.” She smiled at Sophia, who remained silent only because she didn’t think she could move.
Florence poured herself more tea. “I still wouldn’t get my hopes up, Beatrice. Even his mother, the duchess, is afraid to push potential brides on him.”
“Afraid?” Sophia said, speaking up at last.
“Well, yes. You must have noticed that the duke can sometimes be—how shall I say it?—intimidating. From what I understand, he and his mother are barely on speaking terms. He quite despises her, and she does her best to stay out of his way. This is all drawing room gossip, mind you.”
Sophia sat in silence, staring. The duke despised his mother? But he had spoken of his sisters with such genuine affection, as if they were a close-knit family.
“I’m sure he has his reasons,” Sophia said uneasily. “We should not presume to judge him without knowing all the facts, nor should we believe everything we hear.” She wasn’t sure why she was defending him, when all her instincts were telling her that the rumors could very well be true.
“You’re right, my dear,” Florence replied. “Of course, we should never judge a man’s motivations. Who knows what secrets live in that vast country castle of his? I would wager quite a few.” She reached for a biscuit and lightened her tone. “Oh, heavens, listen to me, spreading foolish gossip. It’s probably all a bunch of silly stories anyway. Would you believe that I once heard his castle is haunted? That at night, you can hear the ghosts howling? Imagine that!”
Beatrice laughed uncomfortably, while Sophia heard nothing but the roar of her blood like a beast in her ears. It was all she could do to sit in her chair, sipping her tea and thinking about everything Florence had said, and wait uneasily for the duke’s arrival.
Chapter 5
It was a very good day for a walk in the park, James thought to himself as the Wentworth coach—polished shiny black, with liveried footmen and postilions—arrived with distinguished, clattering grandeur at Hyde Park, shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon. The horses whinnied and tossed their heads, while onlookers gaped in fascination at James, who stepped elegantly out of the coach, then turned to hold out his gloved hand to the Americans.
“Lovely day, Your Grace,” the stout, little Mrs. Wilson said to him, striving to sound British as she stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Ah, madam.” He kissed her gloved hand. “It is all the more lovely by virtue of your delightful company this afternoon.”
The small woman blushed at the flattery. He helped the countess down, then Mrs. Wilson’s lovely daughter stepped out. People on the walking paths fell silent for a moment, then the whispering resumed.
The coach moved on, and James walked leisurely beside Miss Wilson. Today, she wore a cheerful, blue-and-white-striped walking dress with delicate chiffon ruffles. She carried a parasol and reticule, and upon her head, a straw hat had been pinned to her coiffure at a daring, forward angle. But she seemed more nervous than usual.
They strolled down the park path, along the water and past numerous small gatherings of ladies and gentlemen. He and Sophia conversed about books and the current opera that was playing at the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. Miss Wilson was polite and ci
vil to him, but not nearly as bright as she had been the other evening. There was something aloof in her demeanor.
“When we spoke in the gallery at the Berkley assembly,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that their chaperones were a fair distance behind them, “I may have been presumptuous when I invited you to go walking today.”
They strolled into the cool shade of some towering oaks and Miss Wilson lowered her parasol. “Not at all, Your Grace.”
“I must admit to feeling a little set back,” he continued, “when I heard that you were out walking with Lord Whitby yesterday. And that Lord Manderlin had paid you a call this morning.”
She gazed up at him with a frown of displeasure.
“The English grapevine,” he explained. “It flourishes.”
For a moment, Miss Wilson strolled on without speaking, so he was forced to charge forward, to be frank and direct. “I understand that Lord Manderlin offered you a proposal of marriage. May I ask, Miss Wilson, what was your reply?”
At long last, she glanced up at him. To his immense relief, there was a glimmer of playfulness in her eyes. “What do you think it was?”
He let out a heavy sigh, a release of tension. “If I am forced to guess, I would speculate that you refused. But very gently.”
She looked down at the ground as she walked. “You are correct. And I tried to be gentle, truly I did, but I don’t think it mattered to him. I wouldn’t speak of it if I felt there were any hurt feelings involved, but heavens above, Your Grace, I believe he saw me as a piece of commercial stock to be purchased.”
James laughed, and was relieved to fall into more relaxed conversation. “He’s not a bad fellow. He just lacks social finesse.”
“A lack of finesse I could live with,” she replied. “But not a lack of passion or desire. I believe a man and a woman ought to marry for love. I’m afraid I cannot be moved on that point, even though my darling mother does her best to try.”
Marry for love?
James was surprised and bewildered. Miss Wilson had traveled from New York to London as a title-seeking heiress, waving her money about town to attract the highest-ranking bidder.
“But how do you define love, Miss Wilson?” he asked. “Is it a mad passion you require? Or sensible companionship?”
“Both. I want both.”
He considered her reply. “Then I must conclude that you are quite ambitious.”
He was fully prepared to humor her. Whatever it took.
“I always thought it was my mother who was the ambitious one,” she said.
“Ah, but you are reaching for something far more difficult to attain than social position. I believe you are the most ambitious woman I have ever met.”
She raised a delicate, arched brow. “You think love is difficult to attain, Your Grace?”
James stopped again on the promenade, stalling while he searched his mind for an answer. “What I mean to say is that true love is rare, and it cannot be forced. ‘Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.’”
“Shakespeare. That’s very romantic.”
He then recalled something else he had read by Plato—that love was a grave mental disease. Naturally, James refrained from quoting that one.
“So, you have refused Lord Manderlin,” he said. “But what about Whitby? He hasn’t paid you any important morning calls, has he? I try to keep abreast of these things, but—”
“I assure you, Your Grace. Whitby and I are merely acquaintances. He did send me flowers, though,” she added, gazing mischievously up at the canopy of leafy branches above them.
She was taunting him! He couldn’t help but play along.
“What kind of flowers? How many? Do tell. I must know.”
Miss Wilson laughed. “Red roses, and I would estimate there were about two dozen of them.”
James drew his hand to his chest and staggered sideways, as if he had been shot. “Two dozen, you say?”
She laughed again and grabbed hold of his arm to pull him back onto the path. “You charm me, Your Grace, when you’re not...puzzling me.”
“Puzzling you?”
She glanced uneasily over her shoulder at their chaperones, then her eyes narrowed at him. “I may be a foreigner, but I do stumble upon your flourishing English grapevine every so often, so there’s no point dancing around that fact. From what I have heard, you have a scandalous reputation. People say you are dangerous to a woman like me. It is said, among other things, that you are a casanova.”
James shook his head as if to clear it. She was certainly blunt. It was one of those American traits he couldn’t help but admire. “I see.” Palming the handle of his walking stick, he walked on, saying nothing for a few seconds. “You told me once that you have a mind of your own, that you don’t believe every bit of idle chatter that comes your way.”
“Which is exactly why I am asking you about this myself.”
James inhaled deeply. She was indubitably logical. “May I hazard a guess as to where you heard this gossip? It wasn’t the countess, was it?”
Miss Wilson raised her parasol again. “It was.”
“And she tried to warn you off me, no doubt.”
After a pause, she said, “The countess is a very good friend of my mother’s. I won’t permit you to insult her, Your Grace, if that’s what you intend to do.”
He raised his hands in surrender. “I have no intentions of insulting anyone. It’s just that the countess and I.... Well…we met under rather awkward circumstances.”
“What kind of circumstances?”
He squinted in the other direction. “We met at a ball, I danced with her, and I believe she wanted to become my duchess. At least, that’s what the gossips said.”
Miss Wilson dropped her parasol to her side. “Florence? And you?”
“Yes, though nothing came of it, I assure you. I merely danced with her a few times, sensed what she was after, then avoided society for a time until someone else proposed, which was sure to happen. Lord Lansdowne was a good match for her.”
Miss Wilson shook her head. “She said nothing to me about that.”
“Of course she wouldn’t. She is happily married to the earl now.” He looked directly into the heiress’s eyes and spoke with conviction. “I am not a casanova. I give you my word.”
I am many things, but not that.
James had learned a long time ago how to identify women who wanted what he wanted—brief, superficial affairs. He never played games with the hearts of innocent, vulnerable women. Which was why, until now, he’d always avoided debutantes.
They walked on in silence, then Miss Wilson began to recount another bit of drawing room gossip. Obviously, he had been discussed in some detail.
“She also told me that your father and grandfather each took their own lives. I’m so sorry to bring it up. It must be a very painful thing for you to speak about, but I wish to know if everything they say about you is just gossip and fiction. I have a feeling that it is. I don’t believe that you are a danger to me.”
Oh, God. He hated this.
“Since we have already been frank and open with each other, Miss Wilson, I will be honest with you today. It is partly true,” he said in a low voice, forcing the words across his lips. “My grandfather, yes, but that was a long time ago, and I never knew the man. My father, on the other hand, lived a life of debauchery which eventually led to his demise. Whether it was intentional or not, I’ll never know. I’m not proud of the way he lived, you can be sure of that. I’ve done everything in my power to avoid becoming like him, and so far, I have succeeded. So please….” He couldn’t quite finish.
Miss Wilson regarded him intently. “I’ve always believed,” she said, “that a man should be judged for himself, not according to his past, or his class, or what others think or say. Rest assured, Your Grace, I will
form my own opinion about you, based on our acquaintance. As I said before, I possess a mind of my own.”
He gazed at her with surprise and felt an unfamiliar contentment simply from being with her. A part of him wanted to do anything to have her—to claim her as his own—while another part of him felt compelled to warn her away. To explain to her that the truth in his heart was far worse than all the rumors, for the rumors were mere stories.
Then he reminded himself that he shouldn’t be concerned about those things. Miss Wilson had come all the way to London to “purchase” a title, and he was in possession of a very good one and in need of what she offered in exchange. This was intended to be a business arrangement. She knew it. He also knew it. He should not forget that.
Yet, his attraction to her was mounting at a shockingly brisk pace.
“Is that all you wish to know?” he asked, steeling himself for more personal questions. Questions he was not accustomed to answering. Most people didn’t dare.
Miss Wilson looked away, toward the water. “Well, there was one other thing, and this is perhaps the most shocking and frightening question of all. I’m not even sure I should mention it.”
All his muscles stiffened.
Miss Wilson gave him a naughty little smirk. “I’m afraid there is a rumor circulating that your castle is haunted, and that the ghosts howl all through the night. Please, Your Grace, tell me this is not true.”
He laughed out loud.
She continued to question him, sounding completely serious. “Because my parents convinced me when I was seven years old that ghosts weren’t real…but to find out that yes, indeed, they are alive and well in Yorkshire.... Well, I don’t think I could live with that thought.”
James smiled down at her. “I assure you, Miss Wilson, your parents were quite right. I’ve never heard a ghost howl at my home, though the cook sometimes sobs over his fallen cream cakes late in the evenings.”
They laughed softly together.
“My word,” James said as they walked on, “I cannot say that I’ve heard that particular bit of gossip before.”
To Marry the Duke (American Heiress Trilogy Book 1) Page 6
