A footman poured wine for him as he settled himself into his chair more comfortably, trying to watch Lady Alicia while also making conversation with her father on his other side.
Soup was served while Swinton asked him direct questions about his politics, what committees he served on in Parliament, where his loyalties lay amid the parties. Feeling as though he were being interrogated, David ate his tasty soup while answering the questions honestly.
It was not until after the fish course had been cleared, and roast venison with plum sauce was being served, that Lord Swinton sat back in his chair with his first genuine smile for David. “I understand you have quite a high regard for my daughter, Lady Alicia.”
David tensed, excitement coursing through his blood, and he forced himself to not look at her other than a fast glimpse and a smile. “Yes, indeed, Lord Swinton. I have a strong attachment to her, and, with your blessing, I would happily make her my wife.”
He felt Lady Alicia, beside him, tense up, holding her breath as she awaited her father’s decision. David also held his breath, smiling as Lord Swinton glanced between the two of them, hoping Swinton would find in favor of him.
“I do not agree that Lord Montrose should marry our daughter.”
David’s smile dropped instantly, and he jerked his head to stare at the Countess. Lady Alicia made a small choked sound, as though she covered a sob, while Lord Swinton frowned slightly and looked at his wife.
“And what are your objections to Lord Montrose’s suit?” he asked, his voice stern.
“I would prefer she marry the Duke of Bersard,” the Countess replied coldly. “I feel that if you were to withhold your blessing from Lord Montrose, His Grace will see the wisdom that our daughter is more suited for him than the Wellingson chit.”
Not knowing exactly why, but David’s annoyance rose when the Countess referred to Lady Sophia as a “chit”. He did not know why he should defend her, but Lady Sophia had been the perfect example of grace and proper decorum even when she did not know Wesley, and still did not wish to be courted by David.
“I assure you, Countess,” David replied, his tone almost as cold as hers, “His Grace has opted to marry Lady Sophia, and any day now her father will grant his approval, and the banns will be read.”
Lord Swinton’s eyes narrowed at David. “This is true? His Grace plans to wed Lady Sophia, the Duke of Wellingson’s daughter?”
“Indeed, Lord Swinton,” David replied easily. “They are as much in love as Lady Alicia and I are.”
Turning to his wife, Lord Swinton asked, “You also knew of this?”
Under her husband’s tense regard, the Countess nodded. “I have heard the rumors that His Grace and Lady Sophia are quite attached. But that has little bearing on the subject of Lord Montrose marrying Alicia.”
“It has every bearing on Lord Montrose’s request to marry Alicia,” Lord Swinton replied testily.
“I happen to know that Lord Montrose is also courting Lady Sophia,” the Countess went on, her voice icy. “It is quite scandalous to ask for one fine lady’s hand while secretly dancing attendance upon another.”
“Was, Countess,” David replied, his voice also stiff with displeasure as he grew coldly angry at this slight to his honor. “I met with the Duke of Wellingson, and formally requested to cancel the courtship. As there was nothing longstanding, or permanent, about it, he agreed. There is nothing at all scandalous or untoward in my relationship with Lady Sophia, nor am I courting two ladies at the same time. Nor is Lady Sophia courting two gentlemen at the same time. I am offended by your insinuations that either of us have acted inappropriately.”
“I see nothing at all wrong with Lord Montrose halting his courtship to press his suit toward our daughter,” Lord Swinton agreed with a brisk nod toward David. “That is all perfectly acceptable. And to accuse a guest at our table of impropriety is the height of bad manners.”
“I do not wish him to marry our daughter,” the Countess said firmly. “I have information I must share before this decision is made, whether or not I risk offending anyone. I do apologize to Lord Montrose for my suggestion he has behaved improperly, however, the question of Lady Sophia’s involvement must be aired.”
“On what grounds do you have for my rejecting Lord Montrose’s suit?”
The Countess said nothing, but stared coldly at David as though hoping that would intimidate him into departing swiftly with his tail tucked between his legs. David gazed back at her, refusing to back down as he knew he was in the right.
That is not going to happen, Countess. There is no reason to halt my suit, and many reasons why you should be overjoyed to have Lady Alicia marry me.
“Lord Montrose’s suit is valid,” Lord Swinton told his wife, his voice hard, “and he is of high repute as well as station. I will not halt it out of some vague hope that the Duke of Bersard will turn his eyes to our daughter, especially when his eye has been caught already. I know the Duke of Wellingson, and he will find it pleasing indeed to wed Lady Sophia to His Grace.”
“You are making a mistake in permitting this travesty,” the Countess told him without taking her eyes from David.
“I do not agree,” Lord Swinton replied, still testy. “In my opinion, we could not have expected such a high match for her. Indeed, that Lord Montrose loves Alicia and she him sways me even more toward him as a suitable husband.”
Lord Swinton’s voice warmed as he turned back to David. “I happily accept your suit for my daughter’s hand, Lord Montrose. Indeed, I find in you the perfect candidate, and you have my blessing.”
David’s grin bloomed, his cold anger dying at his victory, and he could not halt sharing that expression with Lady Alicia. She smiled back, laughing in delight. “You have made both of us very happy, Lord Swinton,” he replied, wishing he could kiss Lady Alicia. “Thank you.”
“I also thank you, Lord Montrose,” Lord Swinton told him, also with a broad smile. “Of course, we will work out the details at a later date, and the banns will be cried. I do so hope you will stay the night under our roof.”
“Thank you, I would like that.”
The Countess spoke little for the rest of the meal, yet her hard gaze on David said more than any words ever could. Unable to understand where her animosity stemmed from, he chose to ignore her. Even later, in the drawing room over port and pleasant conversation with Lord Swinton, she continued her hard, rude, silence.
What is going on here? David found no answer to that question.
Chapter 22
Wesley was still very much annoyed by his mother’s snub of Sophia for luncheon that day, as well as her refusal to inform him that she had invited the Duke and Duchess of Wellingson. Inwardly fuming, Wesley strode in through the front door of his townhouse.
It was dusk, and the cold drizzle had continued through the late afternoon, dampening his clothes and his spirits. Despite his time spent with Sophia at the bookstore, he felt angry, depressed, and betrayed.
Handing his outer coat, his hat, and walking stick to his butler, he instructed the footmen carrying the books he had purchased to take them to his rooms. Wesley then turned to the butler and asked, “Where is my mother?”
“She is in her rooms, My Lord,” the butler replied. “She has requested to not be disturbed.”
Of course she would request that. By now she must realize that I know what she has done in subbing my beloved bride-to-be.
He did not say that, of course, and went up the stairs to his private chambers to wash and dress for dinner. Phillip, his faithful hound, must have heard his voice, for he bounded across the foyer to leap against Wesley in utter canine joy.
“Phillip, old lad,” Wesley said with a grin, rubbing the dog’s ears. “You certainly know how to cheer me up.”
He still had a few hours before the time came to confront his mother at dinner, and decided he would spend it looking through the books he had bought that afternoon. With Phillip happily racing at his side, he went up the s
tairs to his private chambers.
After selecting the books he planned to keep for himself, Wesley sent his valet to the library with them. Phillip watched his activity for a time, then, deciding it was time for a nap, curled up on his rug in front of the fire. Wesley eyed the dog for a moment, envying him his lack of responsibility and innocence, then lovingly wrapped the others in paper and string, and set the package on a table.
“For when I am invited to pay my respects to the Duke and ask him for Sophia’s hand,” he said to himself with a small smile.
Picking up a volume he had perused the night before, Wesley sat in a chair near the fire and began to read. Within moments, he was lost in the book, and almost read past the time he needed to wash and change for dinner.
Hasty, as he was now late, he readied himself in full dress with the help of his valet, and carefully brushed his hair while gazing at his reflection in the looking glass. By now, Phillip knew what time it was as well, and while he was not allowed into the dining room, he would wait for Wesley outside the door.
Formally garbed, Wesley strode down the stairs with Phillip, thinking about how he planned to broach the subject with his mother.
She cannot possibly have a good explanation for what she did.
Walking into the dining room, he discovered her there ahead of him, seated in her chair with the butler behind her.
“Good evening, Mother,” he said formally, taking his seat.
“Good evening, Wesley,” she replied, her manner cool and not at all affectionate.
While both his parents had instilled in him that there was no place in relationships or business, no matter how personal, for emotion, Wesley found her cold regard more icy than usual. “I hope you are well,” he said, picking up the glass of wine a footman just poured for him.
“I am, thank you.”
She’s waiting for me to ask. Thus, I will not disappoint her.
“How was your luncheon with the Duke and Duchess of Wellingson?” he asked, his voice casual, then he sipped his wine. He watched her carefully over the rim of his glass.
Caroline did not look startled by the question at all. “It was perfectly lovely.”
“And I suppose you have your reasons for not informing me of the invitation?” he continued, still gazing at her.
The soup course arrived, but Wesley ignored it for the time being, and waited for his answer.
“I wished to speak with them without your presence,” she finally answered, and picked up her spoon to begin eating her soup.
“Ah. Indeed. I suppose that is also the reason you snubbed Lady Sophia?” he asked lightly.
“Yes.”
“Now we are getting somewhere,” he said with a chuckle. “Now why do you not tell me what you needed to discuss with the Wellingsons that you could not speak to them about without myself or Lady Sophia present?”
Caroline ate more of her soup without replying. Wesley started to eat his own before it got cold, yet his annoyance and anger rose higher the longer she stayed silent. “Mother?” he finally asked. “I am waiting for your answer.”
“If you must insist upon knowing, Wesley,” she replied, her tone haughty, “I invited them for the sole purpose of asking them to refuse your suit of marriage to that chit.”
His blood grew colder than his soup as at the same time his hot fury rose. Dropping his spoon into his soup with a splash, he leaned toward her. “And by what authority do you presume to meddle in my affairs?”
Caroline sniffed. “Your father, God rest his soul, listened to my advice on all things. You will do the same, Wesley, if you know what is good for you. I am far wiser than you, and you must listen to me when I say you must marry Lady Alicia Keaton.”
“Father may have listened to your advice, Mother,” Wesley said, his tone like ice. “I am not Father. By right of inheritance and primogeniture, I am the Duke of Bersard. Not you. You have no authority to speak for me, nor will I permit you to insert yourself in my negotiations for the hand of Lady Sophia. Have I made myself clear, Mother?”
“Now you are behaving like a silly boy,” she snapped, growing annoyed as she tried to stare him down, intimidate him, which he steadfastly refused to do. “Lady Alicia is far better suited for you.”
“Just exactly how is the third child of an Earl better for me than the only heir to the most powerful Duke in the kingdom?”
“The third child is not an opinionated bluestocking,” Caroline retorted. “If you marry that chit, you, and our family, will become a laughingstock of the entire ton.”
“Refer to Lady Sophia, my future wife, as a chit again, Mother,” Wesley replied slowly, coldly, “and I will cut you off from your pension from Father’s will.”
Caroline gasped, shocked. “You cannot do that.”
“As the Duke of Bersard, I can. Interfere with my plans to wed Lady Sophia, snub Lady Sophia again, go behind my back—again—and I will have you sent to our smallest estate in Yorkshire. With less than five hundred pounds a year to sustain you.”
“You would not dare.”
Wesley calmly ate his soup. “Continue with this absurd behavior, and you will see exactly what I dare. Mother.”
Unsure whether or not this dire threat had any effect on her at all, Wesley ate his meal while watching her closely. Caroline refused to look at him, said nothing more as they continued through the fish, meat, and dessert courses.
In deathly silence, with only the clink of silverware against plates, the rustle of clothing as they ate, and soft tread of the footmen serving them the only sounds, Wesley considered his most dire threat. While it was entirely extreme, he discovered he had no compunction at all with going through with it if his mother continued to interfere.
She, as well as Father, taught me to leave my emotions out of any decision. Thus, I will have no choice, no remorse about it at all, in sending her to the cold tiny cot in Yorkshire should she disobey my wishes.
Her last bite taken, Wesley eyed his mother as she rose from the table and walked away from it toward the doors. He watched as she went, and observed a piece of paper fall from her skirts to land on the floor.
Then she was gone from the dining room.
Wesley gestured toward a footman. “Please bring me what my mother dropped.”
The footman obeyed, and handed him the paper with a bow, then stood back.
It was the torn half of a letter, he noticed, but it still held the broken seal. With dawning shock and rising anger, he recognized Sophia’s seal, and her handwriting. Though he could read only the remains of it, it clearly was an invitation to dinner.
Wanting to voice his rage in a long string of vile words, he held them in. The date was today, and in her sentence he read that the dinner was for this evening.
She opened a letter clearly intended for me, tore it up, and never planned to inform me that Sophia had invited me for dinner that evening.
And when Wesley did not reply to the invitation, nor did he arrive at her father’s house, no doubt Sophia felt hurt and betrayed by his lack of a polite response. “This is an outrage,” he muttered, banging his fist on the table. “She dared do this to me.”
He glared at the closest footman. “Send to the stable immediately. I want my horse saddled.”
Sitting with her parents in the drawing room, her hands around her wineglass, Sophia stared at the fire flickering on the hearth, her heart empty within her.
Wesley ignored me yet again. How could he do this?
“Come now, Sophia,” her mother chided. “I am sure there is a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why His Grace did not reply.”
“The footman said he delivered it straight to the Bersard residence,” Sophia told her, miserable.
“That does not mean much,” her father said, smoking his pipe. “Perhaps he has not yet returned from his business in the city. He cannot reply to an invitation he did not yet receive.”
“But he said he was going to confront his mother over her behavior.”<
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The door to the drawing room opened, and Williams stood at its opening. “His Grace, the Duke of Bersard, has arrived to pay his respects, Your Grace.”
“Show him in, please.”
Her misery abated, Sophia stood up slowly as Wesley stalked in, without his coat and hat, his hair plastered to his head and neck from the dismal and cold rain outside. That meant he had not come in a coach, but had ridden to her house. He wore formal full dress, as though he had arrived for dinner as invited, yet hours too late.
His handsome face, set, angry, startled her more than his very tardy arrival.
“Forgive me, Your Graces, my dear Sophia,” he said, his voice thick. “I know I am appearing in a most unseemly fashion, but I must offer my excuses.”
Addicted to a Rascal Duke: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 19
