The Reverend coughed finally. “Let me get this straight your grace. You wish to wed one of my daughters and make her a duchess?”
Nicholas sighed inwardly. “Yes, that’s precisely my wish. I will leave the choosing to you."
“Choosing?” Was the bloody man being deliberately obtuse or was he usually this dull-witted? It certainly didn’t bode well for the intelligence of any offspring that might issue from his stock. But then intelligence had never been considered a prize in the ton.
“As to which one it is to be.” Nicholas flipped over the paper he had been working on and pushed it across the desk. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for a pious, biddable wife.” One that was likely to do her duty and not ask for anything more from him.
Reverend Shackleford let out a strangled sound as he eyed the contract the Duke had prepared, and all of a sudden Nicholas was more concerned the man might be having an apoplexy. Just as he was about to rise and ring for help, the Reverend finally coughed and spoke.
“Certainly, your grace. I would be happy, and of course honoured, to give one of my daughters into your keeping for this happy union.”
“Good,” Nicholas stated, pressing his pen against the contract. “Sign and we will then discuss the particulars.”
The Reverend wrote his signature on the contract with a trembling hand before pushing it back to Nicholas. “When would you like to post the banns?”
“No banns,” Nicholas said as he scrawled his name under the Reverend’s. “No wedding day. I wish to be wed by the end of the week.”
“The week?”
Nicholas arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”
The man was wiping his forehead again. “No, of course not your grace. It will be as you wish. I will preside over the ceremony myself.”
Reverend Shackleford paused to savour this prodigious moment. “My eldest. You will have my eldest.”
It mattered not to Nicholas. “Bring her at the end of the week and she will become my Duchess. I trust she is of childbearing age?”
“She’s twenty-five,” the Reverend replied hesitantly, belatedly wondering if Grace’s age might bring this miracle turn of events to ruin at the last moment. Wincing slightly, he hurried on. “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth your grace, but most assuredly right at the peak of her childbearing years. And to top it all, she’s a good dutiful girl and will make you an admirable wife. Of that I am sure.”
“Fine,” Nicholas sighed. He did not want a simpering miss straight out of the school room. “Huntley will see you out. I will send you word of the day and hour I wish you to conduct the ceremony."
“I will wait eagerly upon your instructions your grace. And may I say how truly honoured I am that we are about to become family.”
The Duke eyed him coldly and Reverend Shackleford hurriedly took his leave, only just resisting the urge to skip out of the room.
∞∞∞
After the Reverend left the study, Nicholas’ valet ambled in, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat. “So, this is where yer spending yer days now.”
Nicholas leaned against the chair, feeling weary. “A valet does not come seeking his master.”
The Scot quirked a grin as he settled into the chair the vicar had just vacated. “Good thing I’m not a normal valet then laddie.”
Despite his need to make his unorthodox valet understand the correct airs and graces of English society, Nicholas returned Malcolm’s grin with one of his own. The Scot had been his steward for a good number of years. As Nicholas had risen in the ranks and been appointed from ship to ship, Malcolm had accompanied him and probably knew more about him than any other living person.
During their last campaign, which culminated at the victorious Battle of Trafalgar, Malcolm had saved Nicholas’ life, but in doing so had taken a vicious bayonet wound to the leg. It was while they were both convalescing in Gibraltar that word finally reached them of the Duke of Blackmore’s death, catapulting Nicholas into a role he was neither prepared for nor ever really wanted.
In some ways, the news had been fortuitous, although Nicholas would have died rather than admit it. Having been so grievously wounded in the battle, he’d been forced to give up his commission and simply had nowhere else to go.
Malcolm, ever his loyal steward, elected to return to England with his erstwhile captain, earning him Nicholas’ undying gratitude. The Scot might not know the difference between a barrel knot and waterfall cravat tie, but he understood what his captain had gone through since reaching manhood, and because of that, Nicholas would never see him homeless.
“That’s yer brother?”
Nicholas followed Malcolm’s gaze to the large portrait above the fireplace. Two solemn boys stared down at them, their father’s hunting hounds flanking them. “That’s him.”
“Ye really did look alike.”
Nicholas’s lips rose in a small smile as he thought about the times he and Peter had tricked others regarding their identities. It had proven very resourceful with their tutors and though they often saw the end of their father’s belt for it, they continued to do so even throughout their youth.
There were times, after he’d left England, especially when he was at sea, that Nicholas could have sworn he saw his brother or felt his presence on a stormy night.
After all, it had been on a stormy night he’d lost Peter, and for the life of him, he still could not understand why they’d thought it would be a good idea to race their horses in the rain. Nicholas would never forget his brother’s cry as the horse had slipped on the wet road, how he’d snapped his neck on impact, forever silenced.
The Duke had blamed Nicholas for pulling his brother into the foolheartedly escapade that had ended his life. Peter had always been the Duke’s favourite and the true heir of Blackmore. As the second son, albeit by minutes, he was merely an interloper.
“Leave me be,” Nicholas growled, turning back to his papers, determinedly pushing the hurt back down into the locked box he kept it in. “I have work to do.”
“Looks like it,” Malcolm remarked unruffled by his master’s bad mood.
Nicholas waited until his old friend had left the room before wiping a hand over his face. The past had no place here. He had no choice but to press forward, to look toward a future which no longer included the rolling of a deck beneath his feet.
Starting with the wife he would have by the end of the week.
Chapter Four
By the time Reverend Shackleford reached the vicarage, some of his early euphoria had evaporated, replaced by apprehension at the thought of the conversation he would have to conduct with Grace. Especially the question of whether or not his eldest daughter’s virtue remained intact.
The more he thought about it, the more Augustus Shackleford was afraid that what ailed Grace was simply a fall from that state.
If some rake had thought to ruin his daughter, the Reverend feared he would not be accountable for his actions. No matter how fortuitous the Duke of Blackmore’s offer had been, he nevertheless dared not risk trying to pass used goods onto him.
Should Grace prove to have been less than virtuous, he would be forced to choose another of his daughters to take her place in the Duke’s bed. And if Grace had a reputation for unruliness, it was nothing compared to her younger siblings.
The Reverend sighed, hovering at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether to simply question Grace himself or to involve Mrs. Shackleford whose diplomacy skills were actually worse than his own. Not to mention her complete lack of discretion.
Nevertheless, this kind of delicate questioning required a woman’s touch the Reverend decided. Beggars could not be choosers and as a man of the cloth, his wife was the only female he was on any kind of intimate terms with. Therefore, she would have to suffice.
“Fustian nonsense.” Agnes Shackleford’s response to her husband’s concerns was unusually loud, given the fact that most of the time she affected an air of fragility, speaking in breathless whispers. “G
race is no more a fallen woman than I am.” The Reverend truly had no ready response to either statement so for once he elected to remain silent.
“If you were to accuse her of spending too much time with her nose in a book, or climbing a deuced tree, then that would be more to the point Augustus. No, our biggest problem should the Duke of Blackmore go through with his hairbrained plan to make her a duchess will be how much she is likely to embarrass us in polite society. And I am not concerned it might be due to any pre-marital indulgence in the sins of the flesh.”
The Reverend winced as his wife’s voice rose an octave, showing a side to her he’d hitherto not suspected. The effort was clearly too much and she collapsed dramatically back against her cushions before continuing.
“Should she drag our name through the mud, then surely dear Anthony will never be able to mix with the fashionable elite.” She finished the end of the sentence in a tremulous whisper, dabbing her eyes with a lace kerchief as she did so.
“To be fair Agnes, the boy is only five.”
“The ton have long memories,” his wife responded with a sniff.
The Reverend sighed irritably. The whole thing was becoming devilishly complicated and his head was beginning to ache. “So what are you suggesting?” he asked with a frown. “After all Agnes, this is a golden opportunity we cannot expect to see the like of again.
“Do you propose I choose Temperance in Grace’s stead or perhaps Hope?”
“Definitely not.” Agnes Shackleford shuddered.
“Then, that’s settled. Grace it will have to be. As long as you are of the mind that she’s not surrendered her maidenhead to some devious scoundrel, I’m content she will understand her duty and make his grace a pious and biddable wife.” The Reverend felt as if a lead weight had been removed from his shoulders. “I’ll call for her to attend us right this minute to deliver the happy news."
Agnes Shackleford’s only response was a long-suffering sigh. Plumping her cushions, she lay back and closed her eyes. “Could you ask her to bring my salts while she’s about it.”
∞∞∞
“He’s what?” Grace jumped to her feet, her expression a mixture of horror and disbelief.
“I said his grace has done you the very great honour of asking for your hand in marriage.” The Reverend stifled his irritation and repeated his statement slowly in the mistaken belief that his eldest daughter had misunderstood the first time.
“Why on earth has he done that? He doesn’t even like me.”
“What has liking got to do with it?” the Reverend asked, genuinely nonplussed. “As long as you do your duty and provide the Duke with an heir, I’ll wager you’ll not have to see the man from one month to the next.”
Grace stared at her father’s baffled face and suddenly felt the need to laugh bubbling up inside her. It was all so ridiculous. The Duke of Blackmore could have any highborn lady he wanted, but for some reason had set his sights on a woman of low birth - one he clearly disliked, after only five minutes of conversation. Why on earth would he do such a thing?
She became aware that her father was speaking again, this time in the earnest voice he usually reserved for parishioners who remained unconvinced that a lifetime of poverty on earth would secure them a better hereafter and were subsequently refusing to contribute to the collection box.
“You have no cause to worry Grace. It’s my belief that when he gets to see you, he’ll be more than content.”
Grace opened her mouth to ask what in the world he was talking about when it suddenly struck her. The Duke of Blackmore had no idea who she was.
Oh God, that was even worse. How the devil was he going to react when he saw her face for the first time as they made their vows? He may not even complete the ceremony. Grace couldn’t decide which would be worse – if he cried off, or if he actually went through with it.
“You know quite well father that we don’t mix in the same social circles,” she countered desperately. “I’ll be a laughingstock.”
The Reverend couldn’t help observing that his daughter was now wringing her hands, and alarmed, he looked over at his wife who actually appeared to be asleep. Grace’s response had been the last thing he’d expected.
“Agnes?”
His wife’s only answer was a gentle snore. Hastily the Reverend pulled out his pocket watch, checking the time before tucking it back into his waistcoat. “Now there will be none of that,” he finally said gruffly. “You are my eldest and far past marrying age. The Duke has agreed a more than generous offer and you will wed him.” He finished on a suitably decisive note which he hoped would put any ideas of rebellion out of her head once and for all.
Grace’s thoughts conjured up the man who’d haunted her every waking moment since their meeting, his cold piercing eyes and deep frown sending shivers down her spine. What would it be like to be married to such a man? He would most likely lock her in her room and throw away the key
“I cannot,” Grace said, once more, her voice this time trembling in a most un Grace like fashion. “I cannot father. Do not force me.”
The Reverend was at a loss. Not for one second had he imagined Grace would be against the match. Faith, it was far, far better than the chit could have hoped for. And to top it all, the Duke was hardly in his dotage, but a man in his prime and handsome to boot. A war hero no less.
“Grace,” he said finally in exasperation, “What exactly is it you wish me to do? Do you wish me to refuse the man who has our livelihoods in his hands? We would likely end up in the workhouse. Is that what you want for your sisters?”
Grace stared wordlessly at him, stricken. The Reverend knew he’d struck a chord and shamelessly pressed his advantage. “Should you refuse to wed him, I will be forced to choose another of your sisters to take your place,” he stated matter of factly. “The decision is yours.”
With that, he climbed laboriously out of his chair and pompously exited the parlour in the manner of a man accustomed to having his commands obeyed by his offspring. At the door, he paused and turned back. Grace hadn’t moved. “I will expect your decision before dinner,” he said, ensuring his tone was firm and brooking no argument. “The wedding will take place the day after tomorrow.”
Grace frowned and opened her mouth to speak, at which point the Reverend decided that stateliness be damned and beat a hasty retreat.
∞∞∞
“The day after tomorrow!” Oh Grace, how can father expect you to get married so quickly?”
“I thought the Duke was dead.”
“He’s so old!”
“Is this the new Duke?”
“I didn’t know there was a new one.”
Temperance and the eldest twins, Faith and Hope, were the three sisters closest to Grace in age. They had been hurriedly dispatched to attend their sister by the Reverend in another obvious attempt to force his eldest daughter’s hand. So far, it seemed to be working. There was no way Grace could in good conscience allow any of her sisters to be sacrificed in her place. Nevertheless, their horrified faces weren’t exactly helping matters.
Grace fell back on the narrow bed; her body still numb with shock. She was going to be a wife in two days.
To the Duke of Blackmore. The man she’d rudely informed not two days ago that she had no intention of ever taking a husband and would never belong to anybody.
Looking about the room, Grace briefly contemplating gathering a few things and climbing out of the window to escape the fate that her father had bestowed upon her. She could smuggle a few notes from the drawer in his study and beg a ride out of the village.
But where would she go? She had no extended family to reach out to and everyone she knew lived in this village. And she simply couldn’t leave any of her sisters to endure the same fate.
Her shoulders slumped in defeat. She had no recourse but to marry the Duke.
Temperance reached out and patted her sister’s knee. “I know how you must be feeling dearest, but surely it could be worse.
He could have promised you to Percy!” She frowned at a sudden horrified thought. “Surely father wouldn’t consider any of us for Percy…”
“Faith,” Grace muttered, “it’s certain poor old Percy would have an apoplexy at the thought of being saddled with any of us.”
She refrained from commenting that their father was going to find it difficult to provide all eight of them with suitable matches – or any one of them for that matter, so it wasn’t entirely a bag of moonshine to imagine their father might be desperate enough to consider his curate.
The only reason the Duke of Blackmore considered her suitable was because he’d only recently returned home and didn’t know of her. Or her sisters…
“And you will move into that grand house,” Temperance continued, determinedly avoiding the thought of Percy as a possible husband, “with your own servants and beautiful gowns. Oh, and the parties. You can throw wonderful parties.”
Grace looked at her sisters. “I don’t think the Duke will be holding any parties. He doesn’t appear to be in the least frivolous or prone to enjoying himself. I will be wed to a man who has spent all his adult years up to now away at sea. I know very little about him, but if he’s willing to take a local vicar’s daughter, it’s clear he has no time for high society.”
“Well, at least he’s not as old as Methuselah like Percy, so I’m sure you'll get to know a lot more about him,” Faith replied, her eyes now sparkling with mischief. “Quite quickly in fact.”
Grace’s cheeks burned as she thought about actually sharing a bed with a man. With eight females residing in the same household, there had obviously been no lack of discussion about the opposite sex, but she would be facing her new husband without her sisters around.
She’d have to face the cold, intimidating man entirely alone.
∞∞∞
There were no last-minute reprieves and two days hence, the morning of Grace’s wedding day dawned. Resigned now to her fate, Grace rose in the pre-dawn light and pulled out her best day dress. It was clearly not fitting for a soon to be duchess, but it was the best she owned.
Grace (The Shackleford Sisters Book 1) Page 3
