It would seem he had.
“The amendment has been made, dear daughter,” Leydon said.
“Excellent.” Lady Elysande’s mellifluous voice drew Hudson’s eye back to her. She plucked at her drab gown, and for the first time, Hudson noted a few errant stains on her skirts. “You must forgive my appearance, Your Grace. If I had known you were a guest at Talleyrand Park, I should have presented myself more formally.”
Who did she think he was? Had she no notion she was speaking to a man who had often returned to his bachelor abode completely unaware that blood besmirched his coat and sleeves? Likely not, or the lovely lady would run fleeing in the opposite direction instead of contemplating something so civil as an amendment to the marriage contract.
He wondered what her requested change could be.
“Your presentation is as formal as I require,” he said in what he hoped was a bland tone.
In truth, he liked the plainness of the gown, liked the stains marring it for proof she was not always as immaculate as she had appeared that day in the gardens. He had not realized the depths of her beauty on their last meeting. Seeing her thus, bereft of artifice, affected him far more than the last occasion upon which their paths had crossed.
She was watching him, that dark-brown stare brimming with intelligence. He could not shake the notion she was judging him. Or, least, making the attempt. He wondered what she must think.
“I am pleased you do not take offense to my lack of polish, Your Grace,” she said, her voice agreeable, her tone well-modulated.
She spoke as if they were in a formal drawing room. He supposed she must have been raised to play the role of duchess.
“Please,” he said, gesturing to the empty chair at his side, “since this dialogue concerns you, it is only reasonable that you should attend.”
Leydon made a noncommittal sound. “It is rather…unusual, Wycombe. I am not certain Lady Elysande will wish to remain.”
Hudson could not be certain if the earl was referring to the amendment in question or to his request that his future bride accompany them as the particulars of the marriage contract were revealed. Not that it mattered. He may be a duke, but he was still the same man who did not give a damn for society and all its bloody rules.
He turned back to Lady Elysande. “What would you prefer to do, my lady?”
For a moment, her implacable façade fled, and he thought he spied a hint of worry in her countenance as her eyes flitted to her father and then returned to Hudson. “I suppose I ought to stay.”
“Excellent,” he said, although privately, he was wondering why the devil he’d chosen to prolong this torture.
Fairness, of course.
A lady ought to be present if the details of her future were being discussed. Hudson was not an unjust man. Society’s protocols could go hang. For all the roughness and ugliness he had witnessed, he still believed in honor. Honor was why he was here, after all, engaging in this unending interview, intent upon marrying a lady he did not know. Whilst Hudson Stone did not owe anything to the people whose lives he now was responsible for, the Duke of Wycombe did, and Hudson was now, unfortunately, he.
“Father?” Lady Elysande asked, clearly seeking her father’s approval.
Leydon was frowning, but he nodded. “If His Grace wishes you to be present, I suppose there can be nothing untoward about it.”
His Grace.
Wycombe.
By any name, Hudson’s reaction remained the same. The title did not belong to him. It should have been his cousin’s burden to bear. And yet, here he was, about to negotiate that man’s bride as if the proceedings were as natural as breathing.
Lady Elysande nodded, and as she slipped past him to settle herself in the empty chair, the scent of lamp oil reached him rather than sweet perfume. It was odd indeed. What the hell had she been about before she had come rushing to her father’s study? The detective in him, which had yet to realize he was now burdened with a new life role, was instantly on edge.
Curious, that.
Lady Elysande was not all she seemed to be. He was not certain if he ought to be intrigued or concerned about this new discovery.
Elysande sat, back as stiff as a ramrod, in the chair beside New Wycombe. She was cognizant of her stained skirts and the strong odor of lamp oil she was currently emitting thanks to the unfortunate spill in her father’s workshop. Her hem had soaked up a good portion of the mess before she had been able to properly clean the oil from the floor. That was what happened when one’s workshop was relegated to the stables and there was insufficient light, thanks to the dynamo being reserved for powering prototypes. She had elbowed the lamp—thankfully, one of several which were unlit at the time—whilst working on the design for Father’s influence machine.
Elysande could only hope she could find a more suitable space for a workshop of her own when she married the duke. After Father had inadvertently set the library aflame when he had been attempting to perfect his burglar alarm, Mama had insisted upon him conducting all matters pertaining to his inventions outside the manor house. Dozens of books had been lost. To say nothing of the curtains, the Axminster, and Mama’s prized writing desk. While restored to its former glory, there remained an underlying scent of smoke in that chamber to this day, and Mama never failed to comment upon it. At least it had not been as dangerous as the occasion when the boiler for his steam-powered pram had exploded…
Belatedly, Elysande forced herself to listen to Father droning on about the particulars of the marriage contract. Everything was as she had expected. Strange to think she had not bothered to involve herself in the process with Old Wycombe. Naturally, he had not invited her, and she had been pleased to occupy herself with things that truly interested her.
At her side, New Wycombe was tapping his thigh with his fingers in a steady drum, almost as if he found the minutiae of their nuptials tedious. She did not know why she should find irritation in the knowledge, for she felt the same. However, she could not deny the duke’s lack of emotion concerned her. They were to be wed. Ought he not to feel something? Something more than ennui?
She told herself it did not matter. It was not as if she wanted to marry him. Nor did she harbor any more tender feelings for this duke than she did for the last. Her aim remained the same—happiness for her sister and herself. Izzy could marry Mr. Penhurst. Elysande could devote her time to her own work rather than toying with Father’s. New Wycombe could return to London and brood there as he liked. All outcomes ideal.
“I agree,” Wycombe said, turning to her. “Lady Elysande?”
Either he truly wished for her to be part of this process, or he did not know how extraordinary it was for a lady to be included in such a meeting, or he was attempting to test her in some way. She could not be certain which. There was something very unsettling about his gray-blue stare as it burned into hers now.
But she would not look away. Nor would she admit she had not been listening to a word Father had said.
Instead, she smiled with what she hoped was the vapid serenity she had seen in most debutantes during her comeout days. “I agree as well.”
Father nodded and continued on. “Lady Elysande will receive her annual stipend, to be dispensed as she wishes. She also requests no progeny.”
Elysande stiffened at the mention of the amendment. It was a request she had not made of Old Wycombe, but one she ought to have done. New Wycombe—one hoped—would be more amenable to the terms than his predecessor would have been. He seemed to hold the title in little regard. One could only hope.
“No progeny,” the duke repeated.
Father’s face was flushed, an indication he was embarrassed by her request. He had not been pleased with her idea, and he had made himself clear on the matter. However, he had been reluctantly willing to alter the contract to suit her.
“That is correct,” her father said.
“Is there a reason for this request? Is Lady Elysande in ill health?” Wycombe addressed
her father, but even as he did so, he slanted a searching glance in her direction.
“I am in fine health,” she forced herself to say. “However, I do not desire children.”
That was not entirely true. It was not that she did not want children of her own so much as that she did not possess the single-minded desire most marriage-minded females seemed to harbor. Izzy dreamed of children with her Arthur and longed for the day when she could become a mother. Elysande, however, was different. She had aspirations. Plans. Children were not a part of that. Perhaps one day. But not today. Not for the foreseeable future, and she needed to be certain her husband would not make demands of her.
“Never?” Wycombe asked her.
Elysande’s palms went damp, and the scent of lamp oil seemed stronger than ever. One errant spark, and she would be in flames like the library. “Never is a finite word, Your Grace. However, I would like the reassurance that I will not be pressured into producing an heir and a spare immediately.”
“No,” he said.
One word. Simple and succinct. And yet, she was not certain what it meant. What he meant.
She blinked. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace?”
“No, I do not agree to this stipulation,” he elaborated.
The weight of dread filled her belly. If he denied her this wish, she would proceed with the marriage anyway. But she could not afford to allow him to know that.
“Why not?” she returned calmly.
“This is a most irregular conversation,” Father interrupted, his voice weak as it was whenever he found himself in an untenable position.
Father had never been one to enjoy society or the company of others beyond his intimate coterie of family and close friends. Conflict vexed him mightily, as did any subject he found disconcerting.
“I hardly think the subject irregular,” Wycombe countered smoothly. “Such dialogue must be the stuff of marriage contracts, surely.”
“The lady is not customarily present for the discussion,” Father elaborated, wincing. “Moreover, I do not suppose… That is to say, Lady Elysande’s request is rather unusual.”
Unusual. Yes, she supposed it was that. But hearing her father concede as much aloud was dismaying. Most definitely, the admission would not aid her cause.
“Perhaps this is a matter best deliberated between myself and Lady Elysande,” Wycombe offered.
His tone was calm, as if they were discussing something of no greater import than the malfunctioning fountain at Brinton Manor. Was he truly as emotionless as he appeared?
“Excellent,” Father said, relief coloring his voice. “Lady Elysande, why do you not seek some air on the portico? The two of you may consider the amendment further and reach a compromise.”
Elysande longed to shout at her father. Why was he not aiding her in this interminable business? All she wanted was to settle the question of her nuptials so she could return to her work and Izzy could finally be wed to Mr. Penhurst. Now she was going to have to suffer another unwanted interview with New Wycombe.
“But…why can we not simply decide now?” she ventured, wishing Father would be more of an ally than a foe in this instance.
Was it not terrible enough she had to marry in the first place? Could he not ameliorate the sting by managing the marriage contract without her involvement? But then, she supposed this was all the fault of the duke at her side. For he was the one who had invited her to remain. And she had been foolish enough to accept his offer.
Father remained unmoved by her plea, however. He had been stern with her about the amendment and clear on his position. In marriage, providing an heir will be your duty. Do not expect Wycombe to agree to this provision. No man would.
He shook his head at her, a silent reprimand. “Go now, daughter. Lady Leydon will be in her salon at this time, with an excellent view of the southern façade.”
Likely, Mama would be too busy sketching or reading a book to take note of what Elysande and New Wycombe were about. But Elysande kept that to herself and rose from her chair, seeing no alternative but to accede to her father’s directive. The duke did the same, and with little fanfare, the two of them left her father’s study. In silence, she led her would-be betrothed down the corridor, which led like a vein to the entrance hall.
“Rather a great lot of marble,” Wycombe said as they traversed the massive chamber.
Elysande was not certain if he was speaking to her or to himself. Talleyrand Park was an immense structure built in the Palladian style in the early eighteenth century. Having spent so much time within its walls, she often found herself inured to its grandeur. But she saw it now through the eyes of the man at her side. His country seat could hardly compare in size and magnificence. But then, she supposed that for a man who had not been born to be a duke’s heir, even the dilapidated, shabby home he currently inhabited must be a marvel.
“It is alabaster,” she corrected, for the two were commonly confused. “From Derbyshire.”
“Rather a great lot of alabaster,” he drawled.
She cast a searching glance in his direction as they passed from the entrance hall into the grand salon. His expression remained serious, tinged with that same brooding air he possessed. She could not discern if it was a natural state or the result of the burdens which had fallen upon his shoulders.
“Yes,” she said, guiding him through the large salon with its startlingly vibrant red caffoy wall hangings. “The architect patterned it after a Roman basilica.”
“I fancy the architect of Brinton Manor patterned it after a crumbling heap of rock.” His low voice was laced with wry amusement.
It was pleasantly deep. No denying the effect it had on her, though quite against her will. It sent an unexpected trill of…well, she refused to contemplate precisely what it was, bolting straight through her. What was this? First, she had found him handsome, and now she admired the way he spoke?
“Are you attempting to distract me with humor?” she asked, feeling prickly and forgetting all about her decision to remain sweet and biddable in an effort to persuade him to agree to her every demand.
“I am guilty of trying to lighten the moment. The conversation awaiting us seems as if it could be rather unpleasant.”
She led them through the double doors at the opposite end of the salon, where the portico awaited. The day outside was bright and warm, in direct opposition to the way she felt inside. This marriage business was dreadfully taxing. The sooner it was settled, the better.
“Here we are,” she announced unnecessarily, as it was quite plain they had arrived at their destination. The massive balcony overlooked the south lawn, Mama’s prized rose gardens, and a large pond with a billowing fountain emerging from its center.
“No malfunctioning fountains here, I see,” he observed, hands clasped behind his back as he strolled forward.
She wished she did not take note of the breadth of his shoulders and the manner in which his trousers clung to his long legs. But she was guilty of both.
Elysande tore her gaze from him and stared at the fountain instead. “The Brinton Manor fountain will be restored soon. You merely need to agree to the terms of the marriage contract.”
The less-than-subtle nudge was all he required.
He turned back to her, his blue-gray eyes assessing. “There is one term I cannot agree to, however.”
Her hope his opposition would lessen over the course of their walk here dissipated. “Why not?”
“I may wish for children.”
His answer surprised her in its brevity and candor.
She clasped her hands at her waist, needing something to do with her hands. “The question could be revisited at a later date.”
“A later date of your choosing?”
“Yes.” She frowned at him. Why was he making this so dratted difficult?
“When might that be, Lady Elysande? Six weeks from now? Six months from now? Six years from now? Never?” He moved toward her slowly, blocking her view of the foun
tain altogether so that he was all she could see. “I do not dabble in possibilities and vagaries. I prefer facts.”
He had a commanding presence. Even if he were not in the way of the falling water, she instinctively knew she would not be able to wrest her gaze from him. The fountain was not nearly as intriguing as this enigmatic replacement duke.
“I do not know, Your Grace,” she said honestly. “I had hoped for some time. We are scarcely acquainted, after all.”
“This is the new amendment, is it not?” he asked directly.
So directly, his stare burning into hers, that she could neither look away nor prevaricate. “It is, yes.”
He sauntered closer still, slowly, as if he had an endless allotment of time with which to pursue her. Until she could not help but to feel the need to take a step away. Just one step to her left. He was an overwhelming man, and she was suddenly reminded he had been a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard. He was accustomed to conducting interviews, to questioning others he suspected of crimes. And now, he was employing all his tactics upon her.
She did not like being the focus of his attention.
He stopped, his stare unwavering. “You were willing to provide the previous Duke of Wycombe with children, were you not?”
“I was,” she began in a rush, needing to explain, “however, I regretted the omission from the moment I entered into the contract. I have a chance now to rectify the past.”
“Is it because I am common?” he asked abruptly, his jaw hard, his tone turning harsh.
How petty he must think her. Or worse, arrogant. She must disabuse him of the notion, particularly if they were indeed to wed.
“You are not common, Your Grace. You are a duke, descended from the blood of dukes.”
“But I have not lived the life of a duke, Lady Elysande,” he countered. “We both know I am nothing like the former Wycombe. Hell, I am still in shock that I am the current Wycombe. If it is my past which troubles you, then you may wish to settle upon another suitor. I cannot change who I am.”
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 3
