The Duke Suggests a Scandal

by Gemma Blackwood

  Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Duelling for a Wife

  Copyright © 2017 by Gemma Blackwood.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  PROLOGUE

  A gentle murmur of conversation resumed behind Harry, Duke of Westbourne, as he slipped outside and left his dinner party behind. He did not go to the library, as he had told his guests, but to the garden, where he made straight for the circle of rosebushes outside the drawing room windows. Cracks of light spilled out through the closed curtains, illuminating Catherine Sharp’s frightened face.

  “Have you passed a pleasant evening?” asked Harry lightly. A small shiver passed over her – whether from cold or from fear he could not tell.

  “Please, let’s not waste time in idle conversation. I have made my choice and I am ready.” She held her hands behind her back and closed her eyes. She looked as pretty as any of the roses – and just as prickly.

  “Cathy, Cathy,” said Harry. “Calm yourself. I am not going to force myself upon you.”

  She opened her eyes, perplexed. “But I am ready and willing. I have agreed to your plan.”

  He stroked a single curl of golden hair back from her face. Catherine almost flinched away at his touch. She was like a little deer in the wood: curious and terrified at the same time. At any moment she might startle and run away.

  “A kiss is not a kiss unless it is wanted,” said Harry. He had seduced women before, but never with this degree of tenderness. Truth be told he was almost as frightened as she. “You must want it, Cathy. I’ll settle for nothing less.”

  In fact he might well have to. At the stroke of midnight, his plan would come to fruition. If her lips were not on his by then, it might all yet come to nothing…

  CHAPTER ONE

  Westbourne Hall, Surrey, 1820

  It is often said that Death comes as a friend to the aged. Much less often is it remarked that Death has appeared as an ally of the young. Yet whenever Harry Marsden, the new Duke of Westbourne, had cause to reflect upon his peculiar personal history, he was forced to conclude that Death had become his most particular friend.

  The latest fatality to bring good fortune upon the young Duke’s head was the tragic and unexpected demise of his distant cousin, the previous Duke. Harry was not fond of his cousin’s company, so the news that Charles had fallen from his horse while taking a ride through the grounds of Westbourne Hall and fatally struck his head on a tree branch was a matter of little import. Except, of course, that it resulted in Harry’s unexpected promotion through the ranks of Society to the position of Duke.

  So it was that, not a week since he had removed his mourning armband and swapped his black cravat for his customary scarlet, Harry had gladly put them on again in memory of his unbeloved and recently departed cousin. He moved immediately to Westbourne Hall, where he found his time was uncomfortably taken up in attending to his elderly and inconsolable aunt.

  Barely a twelvemonth earlier, Harry had put on his mourning gear for only the second time in his remarkably unblemished life. In that instance, the cause was the death of his wife. Now, it may seem that to be a widower of only six-and-twenty is no cause for celebration, but young Harry Marsden had not married for love. Indeed, there had not existed the slightest scrap of affection between Mr and Mrs Marsden of Helmsley Grove. His wife, Juliana, was a plump, shrill and domineering woman some fifteen years his senior. Not a day of his married life went by that Harry did not regret the unfortunate circumstances which drove him to make Juliana an offer of marriage. She was a woman whose ample fortune had not succeeded in persuading a prospective husband to look past her distressing personality until she reached the age of five-and-thirty, and her shrewish reputation was well-founded.

  It had happened in this manner:

  “It is all over,” Harry’s mother, Elsie Marsden, had been heard to wail one morning at the breakfast table. “We are ruined – ruined! And we have no choice but to sell Helmsley Grove. Oh, what will become of us? What are we to do? We shall be left to fend for ourselves on the streets.”

  “Silence, woman!” intoned Harry’s father, Mr Michael Marsden, holding a wet flannel to his aching head. “There’s no use weeping over spilt milk. What’s done is done.”

  “But Michael – all our money, gone! How could you have been so foolish?”

  “It was only a game of cards,” grumbled Michael, striking the top of his breakfast egg so hard with his spoon that the yolk spilled all over the table. “How was I to know I’d keep losing? Any other man would have had a turn in his luck, I’m sure. Blast that Lord Denton! He ought not to have kept tempting me so. It is all his fault, Elsie. I am the victim. You cannot lay blame at my door.”

  Harry sat and said nothing. His father’s gambling habits and propensity to drink had been slowly chipping away at the family fortune since before he could remember. Now it seemed that his inheritance would not even comprise the lovely house at Helmsley Grove, but only debts, debts and still more debts. He had learned from bitter experience that it would do no good at all to argue with his father, much less try to reason with him. Michael Marsden was a slave to his own demons and a tyrant to his wife and children.

  “There’s nothing for it, my boy,” said Michael, peering at his son across the breakfast table through red-rimmed eyes. “You will have to marry. Bring some money into the family. Any wealthy woman will do.”

  “Father, I –” Harry, then a young man of twenty, could not keep the rising note of panic from his voice. Michael was on him in an instant, bushy eyebrows flaring and his voice thundering despite the pain in his head.

  “Mutiny? Treachery? Bah! I have made my pronouncement! You must do your bit for the family, Harry, and find yourself a wife.”

  For the sake of his trembling mother
, Harry bit his tongue. His father’s eyes grew narrow.

  “I’ve an idea of the woman who might solve our problems, Harry. Juliana Morrissey is still unwed, despite that enormous fortune she lugs around with her. I’d lay any money that she’d not turn you down.” He looked Harry over speculatively, the frown that creased his brow clearly indicating he did not rate highly his son’s chances of success.

  “Miss Morrissey?” Harry spluttered. The very thought froze him to his chair with horror. “But she’s –”

  “From a fine family,” Michael continued, muttering to himself. “A fine family, and a large fortune, and still unwed at – how old is that woman?”

  “Michael,” chided Harry’s mother. “Is it couth to discuss a lady in that manner?”

  “I shall write to her father tomorrow,” said Michael, with a tone of chilling finality. Harry started up from his chair. “We’ll sort out the details between ourselves. Harry, there’s no use leaving the matter up to you.”

  “I shall not tie myself to that woman!” cried Harry, striking his fist against the table with surprising force. “Regardless of whether she’ll have me or no – the fact is I do not love her. Father, I cannot love her.”

  Michael glared at his son for a full minute, while Harry stood trembling with rage and fear before him. The old man’s jowls began to tremble. His wine-reddened cheeks shook. Harry was prepared to either run from his disapprobation or stand and fight, depending of course on the already fragile nerves of his mother, but he was not prepared to hear what next emerged from Michael’s spittle-flecked lips.

  Laughter. Old Mr Marsden was laughing at his son. Tears of merriment sprang into his eyes. “Love?” he repeated, as though a finer joke had never been told. “You thought to marry for love? My dear boy – my silly son – love!”

  Harry’s face turned scarlet. An image arose in his mind – the image of a certain young woman who had entranced him from the days of their earliest childhood friendship – and who now seemed to be drifting away from him, carried beyond his reach on the tide of his father’s cruel laughter.

  “Harry, please sit down,” whispered his mother, touching his arm. Harry sat, feeling stunned. “Listen to me, my darling boy. The fact is that we are on the brink of ruin. If you do not catch a wealthy wife within the next two months, we shall be homeless. Think of your brothers, Harry.” She indicated the two younger boys tucking wordlessly into their morning toast, nigh on oblivious to the commotion taking place above their heads. Tears shone in Mrs Marsden’s eyes. “Think of me! If your father can arrange you a match – you must take it, oh, you must!”

  Harry was not naturally a hot-headed sort. His cheerful disposition had carried him through life untroubled by misery or pain. This touch of his mother’s trembling hand brought with it his first notion of responsibility. He felt a great weight settle over his shoulders – one that would not lift again for the next six years.

  “Mother, I will do anything to ensure your safety and happiness.” He squeezed her hand. “Anything.”

  The tears which fell from Mrs Marsden’s eyes now were tears of joy. All her wailing over her husband’s profligacy was quite forgotten.

  “Oh, Michael! What a wonderful idea you’ve had! You must write to Mr Morrissey without delay. I insist upon it. Quickly, my dear, finish your breakfast! We have no time to spare.”

  “Hush, woman! Hush.” Michael Marsden returned the cooling flannel to his forehead. “A delay of an hour… two hours, perhaps… will signify very little to our boy’s future.”

  Harry felt a wave of dread overwhelm him. He pushed his seat back from the table and went out into the garden, wishing for nothing so much as solitude. His mother’s anxious cooing followed behind him, but he took no notice.

  So, he was to marry Juliana Morrissey – the notorious spinster. It was not so much that her figure was unpleasing to the eye. It was not even the shrill, rattling laugh that burst forth from her pinched lips at odd intervals – invariably directed at someone else’s misfortune.

  The pain that tormented our poor hero sprung from quite another source. It was caused by his now-hopeless reflection on the large brown eyes of one Catherine Sharp.

  The Marsdens and the Sharps had been closely acquainted now for many years, but it was not until Miss Sharp’s seventeenth birthday and her subsequent Coming Out that Harry realised that the familiar feelings of friendship between them had been replaced by quite another sensation.

  But what was he to do? The Sharps were not penniless, but they were very far from rich. Thus far his admiration for Catherine had gone completely unspoken. Poor Harry had been biding his time, only to find out too late that all his time had run out.

  He considered for one mad moment that he might write her a letter. In it he could declare the torment of his breaking heart, and bid farewell to his secret sweetheart in a way that would satisfy his soul.

  Harry repaired at once to the study, fetched quill and ink, and began committing all the secrets of his tortured heart to paper. Only once the ink was dry did he realise the folly of his chosen course.

  What good would it do to declare himself to Miss Sharp now? She was lost to him forever.

  Far, far better to allow her to continue as she had always done – in blissful ignorance of his feelings.

  Harry took the letter and thrust it between the pages of Fugitive Pieces, the book of Lord Byron’s poetry from which Harry had so loved hearing Catherine read aloud. The guilty letter lay sandwiched between She Walks in Beauty and To Caroline, adding young Marsden’s words of love denied to those of the famous poet.

  Then he returned to his family, pale but calm, and resumed his breakfast.

  The wedding of Harry Marsden and Miss Juliana Morrissey took place not three weeks later. They were ill-matched to the eye, though of course nobody could remark upon that. Harry was tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered, and altogether everything that was handsome and pleasing in a man, whereas his bride was a short, dumpy, plain woman, whose natural disadvantages were nothing assuaged by the permanent expression of pinched misery upon her face.

  Harry was extremely miserable in his marriage. Despite his best efforts to love his bride, no affection could grow in the barren soil which she offered him. Juliana was the sort of woman who holds herself in high regard and others very low. Her views and opinions she made clear at every conceivable moment, and rarely could Harry find anything to compel his agreement. His wife had a habit of commenting gleefully on every misfortune in others that she happened upon. In short, she was an uncharitable gossip, intent on spreading nothing through the world but news of shame and scandal. It was a pastime which Harry could never approve.

  The lack of intimacy between man and wife meant that the day of Juliana’s untimely death from a bout of fever left Harry once more untrammelled by any family of his own. He mourned his wife, as Society demanded, for a full twelvemonth. He was sorry she had passed on at so young an age. But he could never bring himself to truly regret her loss. Nor had he ever forgiven his father for the profligacy and lack of care which had condemned his eldest son to throw away his only chance at happiness, and enter into a loveless marriage.

  By the time of Juliana’s death, however, Harry’s burning resentment of his father had been eased not only by his naturally charitable disposition, but by the old man’s unexpected death – the original of the three deaths which fell like blessings upon Harry’s head and which eventually deposited him as the rich and well-favoured Duke of Westbourne.

  It might be supposed that the elder Mr Marsden’s lifestyle was not one which invited a long and comfortable old age. Indeed, his love of strong liquor had already taken its toll on the old man’s health. He had become more and more erratic and unpleasant since Harry’s marriage – continually demanding money of his son to fuel the vicious habits which had led the family into despair.

  Yet Michael Marsden was to have a lucky escape from the ravages of gout and swollen liver that too often afflict the o
ver-indulgent. He was found dead as a doornail in his armchair at Fyne’s, one of London’s most disreputable clubs, having suffered an attack on his unsuspectedly weak heart.

  Harry had his own suspicions regarding the cause of his father’s fatal attack, but as the manager of Fyne’s insisted steadily and repeatedly that Mr Marsden’s body was found in an armchair, most certainly not a bed, Harry accepted the explanation with gratitude.

  Thus it was that Death had established itself firmly as Harry Marsden’s most generous benefactor, and had installed him in Westbourne Hall as Duke, eternally beyond the reaches of his tyrannical father or his caustic-tongued wife.

  CHAPTER TWO

  These days the young Duke had very little to complain about. He grew accustomed to his black mourning gloves and he habituated himself to a life of freedom, enjoyment, and behaviour bordering on the rakish. Independence had come late to Harry Marsden and he made every effort throughout his first season as a widower to discover the delights he had missed. Within a few weeks he was established as a notorious flirt, a dastardly hand at cards, and so excessively fond of parties that more often than not he did not take to his bed until the pale fingers of dawn were tracing the horizon.

  “I am half sick of black,” he complained one morning to his mother, as he prepared to attend Lady Hendrington’s garden party. His mother, dressed in the black and white of half mourning for Harry’s departed cousin, listened with an ear more sympathetic than Harry perhaps deserved.

  “My dear, it has been only two weeks. It would not be seemly for you to be seen out of mourning yet. Consider that, although you and Charles were not close, you were his heir and have inherited his property.”

  “Tush!” said Harry. “I barely knew the man. And I feel as though my entire life has been spent wearing black gloves. Not a day goes by without another relative dying. If it were up to me I would do away with mourning altogether. It makes no sense at all, you know, if the unfortunate deceased was not your particular friend.”