What choice had he?
Let Jeffery inherit the duchy too? What good would that do? They shared a grandfather and their paternal grand uncle had died from cancer.
“I may not produce any offspring, you know.”
“La, Victor Nathanial Horatio, don’t say such a wicked thing! The Sutcliffe’s have never forfeited in that department.” She swatted his arm, and as she rose from the settee, she chuckled. “You must admit hosting a ball and inviting all the eligible women in the area so you might find a duchess is similar to the fairytale, Cendrillon, is it not?”
Victor also stood. He draped his arm around her shoulders and kissed the crown of her head.
“Except I’m no prince, and there won’t be a magical happily-ever-after.”
“Don’t be too sure. I knew the moment I saw Sutcliffe I’d marry him, and he swore he fell in love with me during our first dance.” Lost in her long-ago memory, a sad, fragile smile tipped her mouth. After a moment, she collected herself and patted his shoulder. “If you’ve anyone else you’d like to invite to the house party and ball besides the friends you already wrote to ask if they might visit, you can tell me their names later.”
Yes, as well as the middling-aged banker Jerome DuBoise and the widower Major Rupert Marston. One gentleman or the other might possibly be the solution to Mother’s loneliness.
“It’s times like this I do wish I had a secretary. Primrose is going to help me, aren’t you sweetums?” She bent and scooped the tabby into her arms. “Now you run along, dear. Get some fresh air. I have to speak with Cook about next week’s menu, and I have a guest list to compile.”
She did indeed know Victor well. Understood this talk of weddings and brides and balls exacted a toll he couldn’t keep hidden.
“Thank you, Mother. I think I’ll go for a walk before my ride. There’s another dragon I need to face.”
This one a massive, angry, fire-breathing demon he must conquer before it destroyed him.
If he was going to marry and stay at Ridgewood Court for any length of time, he must face the image tormenting him. After giving her another hug and scratching Primrose behind her scruffy ears, he strode to the door.
“Oh, Victor. We need to set a date for the ball. There’s a full moon in three weeks. Is that too soon?” Mother had followed him to the doorway. “That way you have time left if you don’t find your bride before then or on that night.”
Her forced cheerfulness didn’t fool him. She didn’t approve, but because she loved him, she’d support his rash decision.
“Three weeks is fine.” Feeling decidedly wicked, he winked. “In fact, why don’t you put Duke seeks Duchess on the invitation. No better yet, A dance will decide the Duke of Sutcliffe’s duchess.”
“You inherited your father’s droll sense of humor, darling, but I think you may be onto something. Let me ponder on it.” She waved her hand at him, indicating he should proceed her out the door. “Now shoo.”
One lodestone’s weight lifted from his shoulders, Victor left the house after asking Grover, the butler, to send word to the stables to have Acheron saddled.
Mother would indeed see that every eligible miss in all of Essex was invited to the ball. All he had to do was pick one to be his duchess. But how to determine the right one? Or rather, not the worst one?
What did he really want in a wife?
Biddable and bashful, or boisterous and bold?
A vixen or an angel?
Why couldn’t she be a bit of both?
Thea’s impish smile flashed to mind.
He’d tasted that sweet mouth yesterday. Sampled enough to make him want more. Crave more than settling for a marriage of convenience. A marriage of necessity.
But time was against him, and he’d been selfish long enough, and no force on God’s Earth would prevent him from marrying in order for Mother to remain at Ridgewood.
Somehow, he didn’t think Theadosia Brentwood was the type of woman to marry for station or convenience, more was the pity. He sighed. Else he’d end his search for a duchess before it began. It didn’t matter that she was a commoner. He couldn’t care less that she’d never left Colchester in her entire life and knew nothing of haut ton customs.
Or that the minx had lied most adeptly yesterday.
He’d seen the apology in her soft gaze, had noticed her silently pleading for him not to betray her.
Surely, if he offered for her, she’d be content to remain here, near her family, and yet enjoy the privileges a duchess warranted while he returned to London. She didn’t seem the demanding sort. But neither was she a timid, agreeable dowd. Not by a long .
Even though he’d been in his cups, she’d piqued more than his interest. Theadosia Brentwood wasn’t the type of woman a man left behind and forgot about while he caroused in London.
He hadn’t missed Mr. Brentwood’s hawkish regard either. The man was no simpleton, and Victor would vow the reverend guessed something more had transpired between Thea and him, but had chosen to keep quiet about the matter.
The fact that Thea had volunteered a sizable purse to pay for the chamber organ and new choir robes probably had a lot to do with the rector’s silence. She’d looked so contrite after telling her tarradiddle. Victor would never humiliate her by disputing her claim; she’d made it to protect them both.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d anticipated anything as much as seeing Thea again. Friday next couldn’t arrive soon enough for him. Then, hopefully Pennington, Bainbridge, Westfall, and Sheffield—four of his closest cohorts—would attend the house party and ball. Dandridge and his bride too.
Almost like old times when the chaps had come up from university.
Almost . . .
He forced his feet to take the meandering path that led past the stables toward the dovecote. A trio of giant willows graced the meadow near the lake, their wispy branches rustling softly. No trace remained of the tree Victor had cut down and burned.
As nature does, she’d reclaimed the charred ground. Now lush grass covered the area, the verdant carpet scattered with the pinks and yellows of ragged robin, buttercups, red campion blossoms, and birds-foot trefoil.
The tightness in his chest lessened with each step until he stood where the willow had once towered. Closing his eyes, he filled his lungs to capacity then blew out a long breath of air. For the first time in over three years, he understood why his father had taken his life.
He’d wanted to be in charge of his own destiny, not at the whim of a ruthless disease.
Now Victor could let go of his pain and confusion. His anger too.
“I forgive you, Father,” he murmured softly. “I cannot judge or blame you any longer. I never should’ve.”
For if he faced the same circumstances, might he not do the same?
No. He wouldn’t.
He’d choose to fight death until his last breath.
Peace engulfed Victor, and an even greater weight fell away, this time from his soul.
A turtledove cooed nearby. It probably sat on a nest in one of the willows.
He opened his eyes and smiled, for the first time truly glad to be home.
Through the ash copse beyond the field, a flash of color caught his attention. A group of women ambled along the lane leading to Colchester, and one wore a familiar straw bonnet bedecked with blue roses.
Thea.
In a trice, he dashed to the stables and mounted Acheron. Like an infatuated buck, he galloped the gelding around the lake to intercept the ladies where the woods paralleled the track before a sharp bend in the road.
As he emerged from the shadow of the trees, the women stopped chatting and glanced upward.
Reaching to doff his hat, he realized he’d been so consumed with thoughts of his father, he’d forgotten it. His gloves too. He bent slightly at the waist instead.
“Good afternoon, ladies.”
He intended the greeting for them all, but his attention centered on the tallest woman dress
ed in a fetching cream and cerulean gown. The colors made her lips appear rosier and her eyes more chocolaty brown today. They also complemented her strawberry-blonde locks to perfection.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace.” Surely Thea’s smile was a trifle more exuberant and warm than politesse required. “I trust you enjoyed your walk home yester eve?”
Minx. She was taunting him.
“It was most . . . sobering.”
Her eyes widened the merest bit, and he swore her mouth twitched at his jest.
Whisky wasn’t addling his senses today, and he looked his fill.
She was even more impossibly exquisite. The sun filtering through the leaves overhead revealed a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks that he’d missed yesterday.
Too adorably perfect.
Absolutely the wrong sort of female to be his duchess. He’d not be able to leave a woman like her behind, only to visit her a couple of times a year. So why did he not go on his way?
“I’m sure you remember my friends and my sister.” Thea saved him chagrin by rattling off their names in case he didn’t. She lifted a gloved hand and indicated each young woman in turn. “Miss Jessica Brentwood, Miss Nicolette Twistleton, and Miss Ophelia and Miss Gabriella Breckensole.”
As one, the other ladies dipped into graceful curtsies.
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, ladies.”
He vaguely remembered the Breckensoles and Miss Twistleton, and Jessica Brentwood, naturally. She greatly resembled her sister, though her hair was blonder and her eyes bluish-green instead of rich, warm cocoa he could drown in.
Perhaps one of these very women might be his duchess in a few short weeks. He already had a strong inclination as to which one he favored. But she wasn’t the wisest choice if he intended to stick to his well thought out scheme to find the perfect duchess: amendable, compliant, undemanding, polite, and easy to get on with.
Boring.
Blast him for a fool, but Mother was right.
Thea approached Acheron, a look of wonder upon her face. “Oh, he’s beautiful. His coat has a silvery glint. I’ve never seen the color before.”
Acheron flared his nostrils, taking in her scent. Then the shameless beast nudged her chest.
She patted his neck and giggled, a musical gurgle that wasn’t the least grating or squeaky, as feminine laughter often was.
“Aren’t you the lovely one?” Thea edged to Acheron’s other side. Her tone confidential, and low enough that only he could hear, she said, “Thank you for not exposing me yesterday. Please forgive my lies. I assure you, it’s not a normal habit.”
He bent to pat the horse’s neck and whispered from the side of his mouth, “Anything for a damsel in distress.”
Her eyes widened in pleased wonderment.
On impulse, he touched her cheek and whispered, “Permit me to call upon you tomorrow.”
A shadow flitted across her radiant features, and she shook her head, casting an anxious glance in the direction of her sister and friends. “No. That’s impossible. Papa doesn’t permit me callers. It’s too soon after your arrival home, in any event.”
No callers? Did the reverend intend to make his daughters spinsters? Was this because of the elder sister dashing off with an unbefitting fellow?
Victor wasn’t giving up that easily. Theadosia Brentwood intrigued him as no woman ever had.
“Then walk with me. Meet me at the east end of Fielding’s orchard, by Bower Pool at ten o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“All right.” A pleased smile slanted her mouth, and her cheeks pinkened becomingly as she dropped her gaze, her focus once more on his horse.
Only with supreme effort did he subdue the ridiculous smile that threatened to split his face.
The other women remained unnaturally quiet. Any time his sisters had been in their friends’ company, the chatting and tittering seldom ceased, and certainly never for more than a second or two.
Drawing his attention away from Thea petting and cooing to his horse whilst cramming down a wave of jealousy that the animal was permitted what he was not, Victor raised his head.
The foursome stared at him.
Their regard, curious and speculative, perhaps even sympathy-tinged, gave him pause.
Thea had told them about his upcoming nuptials.
She’d must’ve also told them he didn’t have a bride yet.
He could see it in their inquisitive gazes.
Except Jessica Brentwood. Her expression didn’t reveal her thoughts. He’d be bound the Brentwood misses had become adept at hiding their feelings with a father as severe as the reverend.
The news that the Duke of Sutcliffe sought a bride by August would spread faster than a fire in dried hay. Maybe inviting all the available females of a marriageable age to a ball wasn’t the wisest decision.
Blast, of course it wasn’t, but he didn’t have much choice now, did he?
He’d dilly-dallied too long to go about courting, wooing, and paying his addresses, and with time running short, this strategy was the best he could think of.
A derisive snort almost escaped him.
Only a duke would dare this idiocy.
He considered Thea’s bent head again.
Why look any further?
Wheels rattling and hooves clopping alerted him to a conveyance’s approach.
He felt Thea’s gaze on his face as surely as if she ran her long fingers over his features. He met her pretty sable-lashed eyes, and in their depths, he spied pity too.
That was too much.
Pity most certainly was not what he wanted from Theadosia Brentwood. Feeling very much the callow youth, he tipped his head.
“I look forward to dinner next Friday, Misses Brentwood. Ladies it was a pleasure to see you again.”
He’d held his tongue about the house-party and ball. They’d learn about it soon enough in any event. Given Mother’s efficiency, invitations would be posted by Monday. At least she had something to look forward to, something to occupy her time.
Forcing himself to ride on and not look back to see if she watched his retreat took rugged self-control. He’d be unwise to show partiality to anyone yet. Particularly given the good reverend’s reputation for propriety.
What would Mr. Brentwood do if he knew Thea had agreed to walk with Victor unchaperoned?
Tar and feather him? Lock him in irons? Excommunicate him?
As he veered Acheron toward Ridgewood’s drive, he looked over his shoulder, unable to resist one last glimpse of Thea.
Instead, he encountered the reverend’s formidable glower.
Four days later, Theadosia cast a casual but hurried glance behind her as she turned down the path leading to Bower Pool.
Good. No one was in sight, and she relaxed a trifle.
It had taken some doing to manage an hour’s absence each day, but her parents encouraged benevolent visits and assumed she was about charitable tasks. Taking her basket along aided in the pretext. There was always an ill parishioner to take soup to, a lonely elderly widow to share a cup with, or errands to run in Colchester.
Jessica had lifted her fair brows the past couple of days, but said nothing.
Theadosia might have to take her sister into her confidence but was reluctant to do so since Jessica would also suffer Papa’s anger if he found out about her clandestine meetings.
Theadosia gave a small, wry shake of her head.
Look what she’d been reduced to.
Sneaking about to meet a man, much the same way Althea had.
Theadosia willingly risked Papa’s wrath, for every minute with Victor became a cherished memory. Their friendship, her greatest treasure. To hope for more wasn’t wise, and so she didn’t allow herself that luxury. She took every moment she was gifted and refused to look too far into the future, because looming on the horizon was the knowledge he’d come home to wed.
Just as he had the two previous days they’d met, Victor waited for her, tossing roc
ks into the calm pool while lounging against a stone as tall as he.
She stopped to observe him for a few moments, tracing every plane of his handsome face, simply soaking in his masculine beauty. She could look at him forever. The high slash of his cheekbones, the noble length of his nose, his granite jaw, and his jet-black hair glistening in the morning sun.
He seemed eager to meet her each day too.
Could the illustrious Duke of Sutcliffe truly esteem a humble parson’s daughter?
Did he enjoy their friendship as much as she?
Joy bubbled in her chest, and a soft happy noise escaped her.
A mama duck quacked a warning, and her brood of eight peeping ducklings followed her into deeper waters.
Victor turned as Theadosia approached, a ready, welcoming smile tipping his strong mouth. However, it was his seductive hooded eyes that never failed to make her stomach quiver, her blood quicken in her veins, and her breath to throttle up her throat.
My, but he was a splendid specimen of manhood.
Some woman was going to be very lucky.
If she hadn’t already been half in love with him before he’d returned, she’d had fallen completely sugar bowl over bum for him now. It probably would only lead to heartache, but each time he asked her to meet him again, she’d agreed.
Though they dared spend but an hour together each day, they talked about most everything. Parting became more difficult each time she had to say farewell.
After church last Sunday, he’d lingered outside; she was certain he did so in order to speak with her, but Papa had sent her and Jessica directly home, in Mr. Leadford’s company, no less.
The annoying man had blathered nonstop about his previous position, his hope to have his own parish soon, and then—the queerest thing, truly—said he’d intended to wed shortly.
He’d wasted no time in that regard.
Scarcely in Colchester a week and he had designs on some young woman?
Which poor maid had he chosen for that dubious honor?
Or mayhap he was enamored with a woman he’d left behind. Did the poor dear know of his roving eye? Despite his genial smiles and pleasant countenance, something about Mr. Leadford reminded Theadosia of a serpent.
Only a Duke Would Dare Page 4
