Only, the last Duke of Wycombe had possessed the effrontery to die before her problem could be solved, quite disrupting the entire process.
“What did you think of the new duke, Ellie?” Mama asked as the carriage rocked and swayed and bounced over the dreadful road.
An excellent question, and one to be expected from a doting mother nevertheless hoping to see her eldest daughter obtain a coronet.
She pinned a smile to her lips, mostly for Isolde’s sake. “I think he shall make an ideal husband.”
“That is what you said about the last Duke of Wycombe,” Isolde pointed out tartly, a frown marring her otherwise faultless loveliness.
So she had. And the former Wycombe had been as ideal a prospect as the current, albeit in different ways. The last duke had been a dunderhead. The current duke was icy and somber and aloof. Neither had been romantic. Isolde would have been horrified.
But Elysande did not need to be courted and wooed. Her mind was perhaps too much like Papa’s: methodical, devoted to rational thinking and calm reasoning. Of course, Papa had fallen wildly in love with Mama, but Elysande had no doubt she was incapable of similar vulnerability. That was what rendered a union between herself and the Duke of Wycombe—any Duke of Wycombe—so perfect.
She would be conveniently located near to her family, yet beyond Papa’s well-intentioned shadows, Isolde could finally marry Mr. Penhurst, and the duke would carry on with life as he saw fit, leaving Elysande quite happily alone to work on her projects and spend time where she was happiest—in the country. She was not a London lady, and nor would she ever be.
Elysande shrugged. “One Duke of Wycombe is just as well as another.”
“You do realize the two are not interchangeable, do you not, darling?” Mama fretted.
“Of course I do, but you also know that I was not in love with the last duke,” Elysande reminded gently.
Indeed, the last duke, while kind, had been distressingly obtuse and possessed a penchant for gambling which had led her to ask for specific provisions in the marriage contract offering her protection. They had been clear in their expectations—she required him to leave her alone, and he required her dowry, but a more-than-generous stipend would continue to be hers, unfettered. She was nothing if not practical.
Mama made a sound of disapproval. “And you know how I feel about binding yourself to a man whom you do not love.”
Elysande leaned across the carriage to pat her mother’s gloved hand in reassurance. “I have examined all the possibilities. The outcome of marrying the duke is the same. I am not the sort of lady who yearns for romantic love. My independence is of far greater import.”
As is Isolde’s ability to marry as she wishes, she added silently.
“How can you be certain the new duke will allow your independence?” her sister asked next. “You had an understanding with the old one, but you cannot assume the current Wycombe will be pleased to observe the same rules.”
She thought over her stilted interview. “He seems the sort who would be amenable, but I suppose we shall know for certain when he calls upon Papa.”
Mama’s spine went stiff. “When he calls upon your father? Do you mean to suggest the duke asked you to marry him on your walk in the gardens?”
“Not in those words. However, yes. I do believe he did.”
His intention had been undeniable. Cold and gruff and calculated and utterly devoid of emotion.
Precisely what Elysande wanted in a husband. Men who recited poetry and wore their hearts on their coat sleeves were not of interest to her. In truth, no man was.
New Wycombe was far more compelling than Old Wycombe, despite the forbidding cast to his expression and the stern set of his shoulders. There was something intriguing about him, some sort of magnetism he exuded which could not be denied. Fortunately, as long as her requirements were met, she would be seeing relatively little of him after they married. He would not distract her from her course.
“Ellie, please,” Isolde said, shock lacing her voice. “I beg you, do not sacrifice yourself on my behalf.”
“You always were prone to melodrama, Izzy.” Elysande patted her sister’s hand next. “I am hardly a lamb going to slaughter. I am a woman preparing to marry the man of her choosing.”
“But that is the problem,” Isolde countered. “You have not taken the time to leave Papa’s workshop to meet any eligible gentlemen. Why would you choose the first who asked for your hand?”
Because eligible gentlemen did not interest her, and they never had. New Wycombe’s proposal was dashed convenient. But she would not admit that aloud to Mama and Izzy. Their fanciful natures would rebel at the notion and cause her further argument.
She raised a brow at her sister. “To be precise, the new Wycombe is the second gentleman who has asked for my hand.”
Old Wycombe would have been the first. But never mind that dubious distinction. Elysande was not destined for romantic love the way Mama and Papa had been. Nor the way Isolde and Mr. Penhurst were.
“When we told you that you must marry, your father and I were only concerning ourselves with your best interests,” Mama interrupted, frowning as she only did on rare occasions.
Such as when Tristan had poured water into her inkwell.
Or when one of the twins had secreted a frog in her wardrobe.
“And so I am looking after my best interests as well,” she pointed out to her mother. “If I must wed, then I shall choose the gentleman.”
“The new Duke of Wycombe is cold,” Mama worried.
“He was a Chief Inspector in Scotland Yard,” Isolde added. “He is said to be a harsh man. He solved murder cases, Ellie. Only think of it.”
Yes, he was, and yes, he had. Did Mama and Izzy not think she would have done her research? The new Duke of Wycombe did not appear to be feeble-minded in any way, which was a pity. Old Wycombe had been the sort who was easily outwitted.
“He meets my criteria.” Elysande folded her hands in her lap, the matter settled as far as she was concerned.
Mama shook her head. “I knew it was a mistake bringing you here. I told your father, and he was adamant that you must have your own choice in all matters.”
Yes, except for whether or not she married at all. The fact was a bitter splinter in her relationship with her father, one which remained painful whenever it was poked or prodded. She could not seem to remove it, regardless of how many attempts or how deeply she dug the metaphorical needle.
“You have both decreed that I marry,” she reminded Mama. “I have made my choice of husband.”
One could only hope New Wycombe would not perish before the wedding as Old Wycombe had done.
“But that is the problem, Ellie.” Izzy crossed her arms over her bodice in a stubborn gesture. “You have not made sufficient effort in choosing. You have simply accepted every Duke of Wycombe who has asked for your hand.”
True, but Elysande failed to see the problem with that.
“The new Wycombe has yet to ask for my hand,” she could not resist clarifying.
“You said he wishes to speak to your father, however,” Mama pointed out. “The outcome of such a conversation is clear.”
“As long as he agrees to my conditions.” Elysande nodded. “The outcome is what I wish.”
Or rather, the outcome would be what she was forced to accept.
Because while Mama and Papa were quite unlike most London society, and they had allowed Elysande and her siblings to come of age with a complete disregard for propriety, they still expected all their children to marry. It was a curious nod to the rigid constructs of their world that Elysande would never completely understand. And because they did not want the marriage of one sibling to unjustly affect the others, their rule was that the eldest must marry first. Which meant that Elysande must find a husband. Isolde could marry her Mr. Penhurst next. And after, their twin sisters Criseyde and Corliss could marry whomever suited them.
Their brother Viscount Roys
ton, being the only son, did not have to suffer the hierarchy in his marital choices. And thus far, he had shown no sign of wanting to marry anyone. Yes, Tristan was something of a rake and a scoundrel, and were he not such a devoted brother, Elysande may have been tempted to box his ears over his scandals.
Still, his escape from the marital noose was something of a course of contention between Elysande and her brother.
“Izzy is quite right. Your conditions were accepted by the former Wycombe,” mother was pointing out now, “but there is no certainty the present duke shall also agree.”
“If he does not agree, then I will not marry him,” she said with more bravado than she felt.
In truth, the notion that the duke might reject her conditions was an unwelcome source of vexation. If she had to begin the nonsensical process of finding a suitor on her own, she would lose precious time away from her work. Time she could not afford to forfeit, not when she was so near to making her electrical frying pan function properly.
“I do not think you should marry him at all,” Izzy grumbled. “He cannot even carry a proper conversation over tea.”
“He did seem…reticent,” Mama said weakly.
“He seemed like a man unaccustomed to being a duke,” Elysande countered. “He seemed like the sort of man who will not expect me to host lavish affairs for him and order new wall coverings and make certain everyone is seated according to the proper precedence at the dinner table.”
In a word, perfect.
That was what New Wycombe was. A man who was clearly out of his element in the country, wearing the mantle of duke. A man who was likely eager to return to London and leave his estate in the capable hands of his steward. A man who would not demand an heir and a spare or force her to London to twirl about at balls and host teas.
He may have been more intelligent than Old Wycombe—she did not think she was wrong about the gleam of intelligence in his stony stare—but he was perhaps an even better candidate. A man who was amenable to leaving her to do as she wished in the country was the ideal husband indeed.
Oh, yes. The new Duke of Wycombe was, without a doubt, the husband she needed.
Chapter 2
Chief Inspector Hudson Stone had hunted down murderers and thieves. He had ensnared criminals with carefully laid plans. He had interrogated monsters masquerading as men. He had nearly lost his life when a criminal had sunk his blade between his ribs. The scar remained, the skin puckered and shiny, a sign of how close he had come to his own end. On more than one occasion, he had stared into the depths of the devil’s own stare.
But he had never, not once, sat before the father of the woman he intended to marry, a marriage contract before him. The last occasion upon which he had contacted Leydon had been a mere courtesy: a letter. A shot fired before the beginning of this war, as it were.
You are no longer Chief Inspector Stone, whispered an insidious voice.
A voice which had taunted him with increasing fervor as each day passed that he moldered in Buckinghamshire.
“You are certain you wish to discuss the marriage contract now, Wycombe?” the Earl of Leydon asked, interrupting the stilted silence which had fallen.
Wycombe. He still expected to turn and find a stranger behind him, one more deserving of the title. A man who would be pleased to have been made to bear all these bloody responsibilities. There was no one but him in the cavernous chamber, however. He knew to quell the impulse.
“Is there a better time?” he asked the earl.
Possibly, Hudson was breaking another unspoken rule by approaching Lady Elysande’s father with the contract. It would not be the first misstep he had made since reluctantly becoming duke. Nor, he knew, would it be the last. Although he had befriended members of the aristocracy in the past, some through chance and some through his work, he could not claim to understand their myriad edicts.
Nor would he ever.
“Brandy?” Lady Elysande’s father asked instead of answering the question Hudson had posed.
Grimly, Hudson wondered which of them Lord Leydon supposed was more in need of fortification.
He inclined his head. “None for me, thank you.”
Hudson preferred to maintain his wits about him when in enemy territory. In this instance, enemy territory was little different than an East End back alley. The end result was a figurative stabbing rather than a physical one. He had no doubt it would hurt every bit as much.
“Of course.” Leydon’s fingers drummed upon the polished surface of his desk. “Will you stay for dinner?”
Who possessed an appetite in circumstances such as these?
“I had not thought upon it, my lord,” he answered honestly.
Indeed, after poring over the marriage contract with Saunders, who had pled ignorance on such matters and urged him to hire a solicitor, Hudson had come immediately to Talleyrand Park himself. There were no funds for a bloody solicitor, and he reckoned his powers of observation would do sufficiently enough.
The travel had been uncomfortable, not just because Hudson was unaccustomed to riding, but because the horseflesh remaining in the stables at Brinton Manor was scarcely up to the task. The stout old mare he had chosen had spent a great deal of the trip stopping to browse clumps of grass and ignoring his desperate attempts to get her to plod on. As a result, he had arrived dusty, sweating, and irritated, two hours later than his original intention.
“Lady Leydon would be most displeased if she were denied the opportunity to host you,” the earl said politely.
It was a dubious claim.
A polite lie, probably. The quality did a lot of that, he had discovered since unexpectedly and reluctantly joining their ranks. Dissembling was their currency.
He was aware his call had been unannounced. Hudson had settled his mare in the stables himself. The butler had been aggrieved and had taken a discreet sniff that suggested perhaps Hudson smelled of dung. A clandestine perusal of his footwear as he awaited Lord Leydon in the immense entry hall of Talleyrand Park had suggested clean soles.
And thank Christ for that.
He had enough to worry about without horse shit on his bloody boots.
“I have come to discuss the marriage contract,” he reminded Lady Elysande’s father politely.
Dinner could go to the devil as far as he was concerned. The sooner this despicable business was over, the better.
Leydon plucked a pocket watch from his waistcoat and consulted it. “There is time aplenty to discuss the contract, Wycombe. Perhaps even after dinner, over port and cigars.”
The earl shifted in his seat, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
The investigator Hudson had once been—the detective that still lived and breathed, simmering beneath the surface of his every interaction—made itself known. Hudson studied the lord opposite him. He was not dressed elegantly, but wearing country tweed. His hair was tousled, as if he had run a hand through it. And was that…a smudge of dirt on his cheek? This interview grew more puzzling by the moment. Perhaps in his nervousness to see the matter at hand settled, Hudson had overlooked some troubling facts.
“I would prefer to discuss the contract now, my lord,” he countered.
Indeed, he did not think he could relax until this damned betrothal was finalized.
Before the earl could respond, the door to his study flew open in an abrupt burst of sound that had Hudson jolting to attention and pivoting in his uncomfortable seat to find the source of the commotion.
A flurry of simple gray skirts and a diminutive, feminine figure crossed the threshold. “Papa! I believe I have finally come upon a solution for the binding screws for the…oh! Forgive me. I had not realized you had a visitor.”
The intruder stopped on the Axminster, pale hands fisting in her skirts.
Lady Elysande, he realized.
But not the lady who had joined him in the gardens. The difference between the poised, ethereal beauty he had first met and the flushed woman dressed in simple fare, her ha
ir scraped into a plain chignon, was as disparate as the mountains and the sea.
Both were glorious. And yet neither was like the other.
Belatedly, he became aware of a rustling behind him—Lord Leydon rising to his feet. Hudson stood as well.
“Ellie dearest,” the earl said, his voice tinged with undeniable fondness.
Well, damn. If only Hudson’s own sire had ever spoken to him with a modicum of the same. He had been more likely to deliver a stinging cuff to the side of his head.
“Forgive me the intrusion.” She dipped into a curtsy.
“Nonsense.” Leydon’s tone was warm. “You know that you are always welcome, dear daughter. Knocking would not hurt one whit, however.”
A flush stained her pale countenance at the earl’s gentle reprimand. And God help him, Hudson found the pinkness to her cheeks damned alluring. An unwelcome stirring of desire began within him.
He tamped it down with great force and determination.
Marriage would not change him.
He did not want this woman.
He did not want this dukedom.
His return to London could not happen with enough haste.
“Perhaps you would care to join us for the discussion, my lady,” he found himself saying despite these reminders.
The urge to keep her here was strange. He ought to wish for her to go. To spend as little time in her company as possible. To see this awkward interview to its end and arrange for the wedding.
“What are you discussing, Your Grace?” she asked.
“The marriage contract,” Lord Leydon answered.
Her thin, dark brows drew together in a frown. “Have you seen to the amendment, Father?”
Amendment?
Hell.
Had he been offered the same marriage contract as his predecessor? Hudson cast a glance in his host’s direction to find the earl avoiding his gaze as he fingered the corners of the document stacked before him on the desk.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 2
