How did she know?
The duchess must’ve seen the question in Theadosia’s expression.
“I mentioned it to Mrs. Brentwood after church one Sunday. She told me it was you who saw to the grave’s care.”
Cutting her mother a swift glance, Theadosia nodded, offering a closed mouth smile and lifting a shoulder.
“It was no bother. Truly.”
She far preferred tending the graves and gardens than the myriad of indoor chores that always needed doing.
“I’d like to thank you by inviting you to tea next Wednesday. Just you and me.” The duchess took a sip of wine, her regard on Victor. “Perhaps you would consider helping me with the final plans for the ball as well? I truly could use an assistant. There are so many details to oversee, and Sutcliffe is quite useless when it comes to these sorts of things. He suggested I ask you.”
He had?
Theadosia didn’t need a mirror to tell her bright color tinted her cheeks. Had she been so obvious that even his mother noticed her frequent glances toward her son?
“I would deem it an honor, ma’am.”
If Papa permitted it.
Theadosia would appeal to Mama. If anyone could make Papa agree, it was her mother.
Mr. Leadford narrowed his eyes, and he stabbed a piece of pheasant quite viciously. “Is the ball to be a celebration of the duke’s upcoming nuptials?”
As sometimes happens during social gatherings, all conversations paused at the same moment and his question rang out loudly.
Silence, awkward and heavy, filled the room.
Her grace turned a frigid stare on him, whilst delivering a polite set down. “The ball is a celebration of my son returning home after an extended absence.”
Swallowing mortification for Victor, Theadosia kicked Mr. Leadford under the table.
Hard.
Twice.
He grunted, harsh lines scoring his face and his eyes accusing her.
“I beg your pardon. Muscle spasms.” She forked a carrot and blinked in exaggerated innocence. “I’ve had them since childhood. Just one of my many embarrassing faults.”
Not entirely an untruth. She’d had a few instances of her leg muscles jerking before her eighth birthday but not one since. As for her faults, until recently when she’d taken up telling tarradiddles, Papa had seen to it she’d make the ideal parson’s wife.
All the more reason to start engaging in further mischief.
Her grace’s mouth trembled, and Theadosia thought perhaps approval sparkled in her pretty eyes.
With a flick of his long fingers, Victor indicated he wanted more wine. Once the glass had been filled, he lifted it and looked ’round the table, almost in a challenge.
His focus returned to her for a fleeting second before he leveled Mr. Leadford a bored stare.
“Truth to tell, if all goes well, I intend to select my duchess at the ball.”
He did?
Without knowing the woman in advance?
Why would he do such a thing? He’d not mentioned anything of the sort to her.
This was real life, not a fanciful fairytale where happily-ever-afters were guaranteed.
She’d no right to feel vexed or deceived, and yet she did.
Was marriage truly so unimportant to him, just a duty he had to fulfill? His response to Mr. Leadford earlier hinted at that very thing, but she’d not have believed Victor so callous and uncaring. Then again, he’d left his mother alone for years.
True, but he’d also wept over his father’s grave.
Did his fear of cancer have anything to do with his cold-hearted decision?
Tears burned behind her lids, and Theadosia sank her gaze to her plate.
How could she attend the ball and stand by silently, watching him select his duchess?
She willed the wetness to cease. By George, she would not cry and give herself away. Later, when she was alone, she could sob into her pillow and berate herself for a nincompoop. But for now, she marshaled her composure and put on a brave face.
Nonetheless, she couldn’t possibly help his mother plan the dance. Now wasn’t the time to cry off, however. A note tomorrow would suffice.
“Tut, Sutcliffe, you jest. I’ve said so often, but it’s true. You have your father’s dry humor.” His mother shook her intricately coiffed head, her earrings swaying with the motion. “The ball is merely to help you become reacquainted with everyone since you’ve been away for so long.”
“We’re to celebrate a union soon as well,” Papa said.
Mouth parted in astonishment for the second time in as many minutes, Theadosia abruptly turned her head in his direction. His speech wasn’t slurred, but his lopsided smile bespoke drunkenness, a trait he railed against from the pulpit on a regular basis.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but instead drained his glass once more. Something in his countenance sent an alarm streaking down her spine.
No. He wouldn’t. Not like this.
Not without telling her first. Not without asking if she was agreeable to the match.
“Brentwood, you are betrothed?” Victor’s mouth curved into a congratulatory grin and he raised his glass to James. “I wish you happy.”
A mixture of concern and bewilderment puckering his usual jovial features, James shook his head.
“No, Sutcliffe, I am not. And to my knowledge, neither are my sisters.”
He gave their father a hard, relentless stare.
A perplexed scowl pulled Victor’s ebony brows together low over the bridge of his nose.
Mama, her posture as stiff as the table their food sat upon, very carefully laid down her fork and narrowed her eyes to mere slits. Sparks fairly flew from her accusing gaze.
“Whatever are you talking about, Oscar? Have you made an arrangement without speaking to me first? When we agreed you’d never do any such thing again?”
“I am her father.” Papa seized his glass once more, blinking in puzzlement when he realized it was empty. He held it up, tipping it back and forth to indicate he wanted it refilled. “It is my right.”
Her parents didn’t squabble in public, and a blush of mortification heated Theadosia from neck to hairline. Jessica’s flushed face revealed she was likewise as discomfited.
Never had Theadosia been so embarrassed.
Never so utterly terrified. Or angry.
A footman dutifully refilled Papa’s glass after receiving the slightest nod from Victor.
“We’ll discuss this at home.” Mama’s tightened mouth revealed her displeasure, but she wouldn’t argue in front of the Sutcliffes. Once they were home, however, she’d ring her husband a proper peal.
He swallowed, and after casting Mr. Leadford a harried glance, wiped his mouth with his serviette. He lifted his glass high.
“Please join me in a toast to celebrate Theadosia’s upcoming betrothal to Mr. Leadford.”
“No! Papa, no. You cannot do this to her. You cannot be so uncaring.”
Theadosia barely heard Jessica’s cries, for the room spun ’round and ’round.
“No . . .”
She struggled to her feet, knocking her glass of wine over in the process.
The crimson spread across the white tablecloth.
Like my lacerated heart.
She couldn’t look at Victor. Couldn’t bear to see the pity or accusation in his glance.
“I . . . I need . . .”
I shall not marry that vile toad. I shan’t. I shan’t.
She touched her forehead, surprised to find the skin cool and clammy. The spinning increased, faster and faster. She stumbled again, banging into the table.
“She’s going to swoon.” The duchess jumped up and wrapped an arm around Theadosia’s shoulder. “Sutcliffe!”
Theadosia couldn’t hear through the whooshing in her ears. Everything became muffled, and everyone moved sluggishly. She tried to find Victor, but her vision had gone black.
“I shan’t marry him.” Hands extended before her, she shook her
head, trying to clear her vision and hearing. “I shan’t. I sha—”
“Thea!” Familiar arms, strong and sturdy, encircled her an instant before oblivion descended.
Torn between anger and frustration, and after having stayed up the entire night, Victor approached the parish’s front gate. Though not quite nine o’clock, too early for a social call, he would wait no longer to approach Reverend Brentwood with a unique proposition.
He intended to ask for Thea’s hand in marriage, and dower Jessica too.
Only a cod’s head would pass up such a generous offer. If that didn’t prove incentive enough, he’d keep enhancing his proposition until Brentwood agreed.
No official betrothal announcement had been made yet, no banns read, so Leadford couldn’t claim breach of promise. Even if he tried, Victor would pay him off. He’d do anything to remove the wretch from Colchester and from Thea’s life.
From her traumatic reaction last evening, she clearly had no notion her father had arranged a match with the curate.
Such anger had engulfed Victor toward the reverend for her public humiliation. What kind of father sprang something of that importance on his daughter during a dinner party? Given the smug satisfaction on Leadford’s face, he’d known in advance and had enjoyed Theadosia’s mortification.
Whilst sitting beside her on the settee last night, Victor hadn’t missed her shudders of repulsion when Leadford pressed near. She couldn’t stand the man.
Under no circumstances could she be forced to marry and bed that maggot.
Glancing around, Victor shifted the crate of oranges and gave the door a sharp rap.
The promised marmalade provided him the perfect excuse to call. Not that he really needed one. His position afforded him many privileges, and in this instance, he didn’t hesitate to take advantage. He should have done so earlier, but out of consideration for Theadosia and her worry about his reception, he’d yielded to her wishes.
A quaint white arched gate covered in untamed white and pink roses stood ajar at the side of the house. Beyond the flagstone footpath visible through the opening, neat vegetable and flowerbeds basked in the morning sunlight. Chickens clucked, and a rooster crowed somewhere beyond the old, weathered, dry stone wall surrounding the grounds.
A flash of pink and green chintz appeared momentarily on a stone bench only partially visible from where he stood.
Thea?
He knocked again, hoping to avoid seeing her until he’d spoken to her father. Victor wanted to tell her himself of the change in plans for her future. Surely, if she must submit to an arranged marriage, she’d be more amendable to wedding a duke instead of Leadford.
After all, she at least knew Victor, and from that stirring kiss they’d shared, she wasn’t unaffected by him. Perhaps sexual attraction wasn’t the best foundation to build a marriage upon, but it was better than him proposing to a stranger or her marrying a lecherous rotter.
Victor had seen Leadford’s kind before. London teemed with that sort of vermin.
A man whose public façade hid an evil side. He hadn’t missed Leadford’s attempted peeks down Thea’s bodice or the cawker’s brushing against her. It had been all Victor could do not to pick the degenerate up by the scruff of his neck and shake him until his nice teeth rattled.
From his turned down mouth, James had noticed too.
Where was he, anyway?
Still abed? Not typical of him. More likely, he’d gone out for a ride as Victor and James had done as young men home from university.
Victor could use an ally in his quest, and given James’s disapproval last night, Victor felt confident his long-time friend would support his suit.
He’d raised his hand to knock for the third time when Miss Jessica opened the door.
“Good morning, Your Grace. To what do we owe this honor?” Her gaze dropped to the oranges. “Oh, that’s right. Thea is to make you marmalade.”
A shadow darkened her pretty features, and lips pressed into a thin ribbon, she looked behind him. “She’s in the garden.”
“How is she?” he asked. “I know she suffered quite a shock last evening.”
He’d been the one to carry Thea to the parlor, and he’d paced behind the settee while smelling salts were fetched. When her lashes fluttered open, it was his eyes she first met, and the despair glinting in those velvety depths bludgeoned him like a mule kick to the gut.
She’d silently pleaded with him, mouthing, “Help me.”
In that instant, he was determined to do whatever was necessary to save her from Leadford.
“She’s . . . adjusting to the news.” After another glance toward the garden, Jessica shut the door. “Shall I fetch her for you?”
“Later. I’d like to speak to the reverend first. Is he home?”
Victor set the oranges down before passing her his hat and gloves.
Expression shuttered, she nodded as she set them on the entry table.
“Please have a seat, and I’ll let Papa know you’re here.”
Rarely had Victor been inside the parsonage, even when he and James had spent a great deal of time together as youths. It remained much the same as he remembered.
Uncustomary nerves caused his palms to sweat and his stomach to clench.
He wouldn’t have believed asking for a woman’s hand would unsettle him this much. Wasn’t that what he’d intended to do anyway? The only difference was, he was doing so before the ball rather than after.
Yes, but Thea wasn’t just any woman, and the outcome of his conversation with Reverend Brentwood mattered far more than it ought to. As much for Victor as Thea.
“Sir? Papa will see you in his study.” Jessica’s countenance revealed nothing. “I’ll let Thea know you are here as well.”
“Thank you.”
Victor followed her down the parish’s time-worn corridor. If memory served, the building was nearly two hundred years old. Everywhere he glanced, evidence of decades of wear met his perusal.
Jessica stopped outside a slightly off kilter open door.
“Papa, the Duke of Sutcliffe.”
Once inside the smallish, rather stuffy room, Victor took it upon himself to close the door.
“Thank you for seeing me without prior notice.”
Mr. Brentwood cut an unreadable look at the closed door before waving his hand to one of two cracked leather chairs angled before his desk. Elbows resting atop the ink-stained surface, the rector cupped one hand over the other.
Was it Victor’s imagination, or was Mr. Brentwood’s calm demeanor meant to conceal the edginess his shifting gaze, taut jaw, and stiff shoulders couldn’t hide?
Through the window behind the reverend, Victor glimpsed Jessica speaking to Thea. Both women turned toward the house, and even from where he sat, Victor could see the dark circles beneath Thea’s red-rimmed eyes.
Shoulders squared, she held her head high, brave and unflinching.
Such admiration welled within his chest, he couldn’t breathe for a moment.
By God, he’d save her from the fate her father planned for her, even if he had to abduct her.
Victor sank onto the chair, and the old leather crackled in protest.
“What can I do for you, Your Grace?” Mr. Brentwood’s voice held the same chill his gaze did.
Might as well get straight to it.
Taking a bracing breath, Victor tore his glance from the vision of loveliness staring at the parsonage.
“I’m here to ask for Miss Theadosia’s hand in marriage. I have a special license and would like the ceremony to take place immediately.”
The rector acted neither surprised nor shocked. Instead he leaned back in his equally worn chair and pursed his lips.
“A special license? With the bride’s name blank? How did you manage that?”
Definite censure there, though he must know a greased palm often made impossible things possible.
Victor scratched his neck as he nodded.
“Yes. I must
wed before the sixteenth of August, and I wasn’t certain how long it would take me to find a bride. In the event there wasn’t enough time to have the banns read, I had a special license prepared, just in case. Now I’d like to use it to join with Miss Brentwood in marriage.”
“Then I regret to tell you that you’ve come in vain.” Mr. Brentwood repeatedly rubbed his fingers across his thumb, definitely not as collected as he would have Victor believe. “I’ve promised her to Mr. Leadford, and my . . . um . . . honor requires I keep my word.”
His honor or something else?
“With all due respect, Mr. Brentwood, I’m offering Theadosia multiple titles, a life of comfort and privilege, and the means to assist her family. I am also prepared to bestow a five-thousand-pound dowry and a house in Bath upon Miss Jessica.”
A noise echoed outside the door, and Victor angled his ear toward the panel.
Was someone listening at the keyhole?
After a moment, the reverend drew his gaze from the door. Not a doubt he’d heard the commotion as well.
“I appreciate your generosity, but Jessica, like Theadosia, will marry a man of the cloth, and therefore, has no need for a large dowry.”
Moisture beaded Mr. Brentwood’s upper lip, and he wouldn’t meet Victor’s eyes as he switched from fidgeting with his fingers to brushing his thumb against the pages of the open Bible he’d must’ve been reading when Victor interrupted.
Was this only about his daughters marrying clergymen?
Then why the uneasiness?
Victor rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and hooked an ankle over his knee.
He would poke the lion and see what he stirred.
“I’ll also pay for a complete upgrade and refurbishing of the parsonage, Church, and grounds.”
Extreme perhaps, but since its inception, the duchy had supported the church. There’d been no major improvements in decades, and in truth, a renovation was past due.
That offer gave the reverend pause.
An enthusiastic sparkle entered his eyes as he swept a swift glance about the fusty office and then the Church, visible through tall, narrow windows. He drew in a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his temple, his expression contemplative.
Only a self-centered cull would deny his family and parishioners what Victor proposed.
Only a Duke Would Dare Page 7
