Benjamin Andover was good for her. Peter had always enjoyed Andover’s company, and even in old age, Andover was a more vigorous specimen than Peter had been for much of his adult life.
Which was unfair and mattered not at all.
“I could bring a book and do some reading.” Why wasn’t Elizabeth a fixture among Haverford’s French novels?
“Griffin can fish with nothing more than a net,” Andover said, “but I’m too slow. He throws them all back, as if fishing were a game between him and the trout. I’ll idle along the bank, enjoying a pretty day with a pretty lady.”
“You needn’t flirt with me, sir.” Though Arabella liked that he did. He had a light, warm touch with a compliment or a tease.
He rose—no creaky limbs or awkward pushing and scooting for him. “Bella, would you think me a pathetic old hound if I asked to pay you my addresses? I would never try to compete with Peter’s memory, but you and I rub along together well, and I’m lonely. I mostly ignore the loneliness, but then you stepped down from your coach, and I’ve asked myself: Why ignore it? Why not do something about it?”
Old people could be so blunt. “If that’s your idea of a proposal, your technique is in want of polish.”
“If that’s your answer, I’ll apologize for presuming. Your friendship is precious to me, Bella.”
He could apologize without imperiling anybody’s dignity, a skill only a mature man could command.
“The problem is my nieces,” Arabella replied. “I know how they think: If Aunt Arabella can manage so handily without a husband, surely spinsterhood can’t be that terrible a fate. With the younger two married off, Charlotte and Elizabeth have formed some sort of pact: They will remain unmarried, and eventually keep house together. It’s noble and entirely wrong.”
“Not every woman is bound for a husband and children, Bella. Neither of my sisters married, and they’re a jolly pair.”
Arabella loved his sisters. She also loved her nieces. “Charlotte and Elizabeth are lonely too, Benny. They are Windhams, and thus they are surrounded by marital bliss on every hand. Tony and Gladys are shockingly besotted, and Percival and Esther…”
“Moreland’s devotion to his duchess is a reproach to every peer who ever strayed.” Andover picked up the novel Arabella had been reading—Candide—and ran a finger down the page. “Are you determined to see your nieces married?”
“Not determined, but willing to aid the cause of true love when I can. Elizabeth disappears for at least two hours every afternoon, and she’s not resting in her bedroom. By odd coincidence, Haverford is nowhere to be seen during those same two hours. If I can get Elizabeth matched, then Charlotte is more likely to admit she’s curious about Mr. Sherbourne.”
He closed the book. “There’s enmity between Haverford and Sherbourne. Bad blood that goes back to our day. I don’t think His Grace is in a position to offer for anybody and certainly not for the niece of a duke.”
“Young people can be so foolish.” So could old people—old women unwilling to admit they had sacrificed enough years out of loyalty to a departed husband. Peter’s dying wish had been that Arabella be happy, that she not wear weeds for the rest of her life and bury her heart next to her spouse.
“I suspect the young ladies aren’t aware of all the facts, Bella, but back to the matter at hand. Shall I court you?”
There was more than one way to be a good example to a pair of headstrong nieces. “I believe you shall, and to the extent you are able, you will do what you can to make a path to the altar for Elizabeth and her impoverished duke.”
“From what I hear, the bulk of Haverford’s debt is to Sherbourne, courtesy of His Grace’s late father. Marriage for His Grace to a woman of Elizabeth’s standing is thus all but impossible.”
“Not impossible, Benny. Improbable, certainly, and yet I have faith in true love. Miracles can befall us when we least expect them. Witness, I’m inviting you to court me.”
* * *
“You were wise to schedule the grand ball for Friday evening,” Elizabeth said. “Your guests will have two days to recover before they set out for home.”
She was making small talk, because Haverford was silent. He grew quiet when he worried, and for the past few days, he’d been very quiet.
Also very passionate.
As Elizabeth walked along beside him, she admitted to being a fool. Haverford had been nothing but honest with her—he could not afford a ducal bride—and yet, she had started to hope. The ball was tomorrow. The following day would be for resting and packing. Sunday services would mean another morning in the village, and then Monday, the coaches would depart.
“I wrote to your uncle,” Haverford said, offering Elizabeth his hand as they came to a stile that separated Lord Griffin’s pastures from his barnyard. The duke assisted her over, took two steps back, then vaulted the boards in a single, clean stride.
“You wrote to Uncle Percival?” Hope fluttered anew, cautious and uncomfortable. “What did you write about?”
“Books. The perishing damned books.”
Chickens strutted underfoot, pecking at the dirt. A brindle heifer curled in the grass chewing her cud, and a mastiff trotted out of the barn, tail held high and waving slowly.
For once in her life, Elizabeth did not care at all about books, perishing or otherwise. “Any particular perishing damned books, Haverford?”
“My books. The books that have nearly bankrupted my family.”
“I gather Moreland has not replied?” Uncle Percival was nothing if not responsive to correspondence.
“I told him I would give every book I owned for permission to court you, and I own more books than all the rest of the dukes in the realm put together.”
Hope crashed against consternation. Haverford had asked for permission to court her—more or less—and Uncle Percy had not replied. He was doubtless conferring with Mama and Papa, gathering intelligence, and consulting with Aunt Esther.
Or he was on his way to Wales, ready to create a scene that would make Allermain’s attempted kidnapping a farce? Or perhaps, Haverford’s epistle had been too delicately worded, too conditional?
“Where is my brother?” Haverford asked, gazing about the tidy farmyard.
Griffin’s cottage—more of a fieldstone manor house—sat some forty yards away, up a gentle slope. The drive was lined with venerable oaks leafed out in mid-summer glory, and the front steps held pots of red salvia.
“I expect your brother is inside waiting for his callers because we’re a bit early. You did send a card? I’m told Biddy Bowen’s shortbread is not to be missed.”
That earned her half a smile. “Griffin told you that a dozen times if he told you once, and yes, I sent a card.”
“Julian, you needn’t worry.”
He was attired for a call among country neighbors, but very much the duke today. Top hat brushed, cravat in a fancy knot, a carved walking stick in his hand. Setting an example for his brother, no doubt.
As always.
“Worry? About this call?”
“About Uncle Percy. He’s mostly bluster, and can be both discreet and discerning where his family is concerned. Aunt Arabella doubtless wrote to Aunt Esther, and they will ensure that Uncle’s reply is civil.”
Elizabeth didn’t particularly care how Uncle Percy replied. Julian had expressed a wish to court her. She was happy to be courted, she’d be happier to become his duchess.
The chickens made those odd little contented poultry noises, the dog sat by Elizabeth’s side. Haverford took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair, and finally, finally looked at her.
“I also informed Moreland that my means are worse than embarrassed, and you don’t seem bothered by my relative penury.”
“You told him that?”
“In so many words. Was I correct, Elizabeth?”
A couple emerged from the barn, holding hands and laughing. They were entirely absorbed with each other. The man gathered the lady close, pres
sed her up against the wall of the barn, and kissed her madly.
She wrapped one arm about him—the other held a basket of brown and white eggs—and kissed him back with equal fervor.
The gentleman pulled away enough to shout in perfect English, “I love you, Biddy Bowen!” before resuming his enthusiasms.
“Oh, dear,” Elizabeth murmured, just as Haverford bellowed, “What the hell is going on here?”
The duke stalked over to the couple, who continued to hold hands. Lord Griffin was the fellow, and the lady—clearly—was Biddy Bowen, baker of the world’s best shortbread.
And keeper of his lordship’s heart.
Lord Griffin reached around to take the egg basket from Biddy. “Good day, Julian.” He bowed stiffly. “You are supposed to bow to Biddy.”
The duke offered the lady—who was blushing bright pink—the merest hint of a courtesy. “Miss Biddy, good day. Unhand my brother.”
Griffin and Biddy kept hold of each other.
Haverford had never displayed an ungovernable temper before Elizabeth, not when Sherbourne had invited himself to the party, not when Lady Glenys had run up extravagant bills, not when admitting the local merchants overcharged him.
And he wasn’t displaying a temper now. He was upset, though, probably with himself for not having seen this situation developing.
“Good morning,” Elizabeth said, joining the other three. “Griffin, a pleasure to see you.” She made him a proper curtsy. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
“Miss Elizabeth.” Griffin bowed far more correctly than Haverford had bowed to Biddy. “Good day. May I make known to you Miss Biddy Bowen. Biddy, this is Miss Elizabeth. She teaches me English, and I teach her birds and flowers.”
“Shall we go into the house?” Elizabeth suggested, twining her arm with Haverford’s. “I hear Miss Biddy’s shortbread is the best in the world.”
The brothers were glowering at each other, as brothers tended to. In other species, the same sentiments were accompanied by pawing, snorting, and much swishing of tails.
“Griffin favors my shortbread,” Biddy said. “My real name’s Bridget.”
“That is a lovely name.” Elizabeth gave Haverford’s arm a discreet tug. “I adore fresh, warm shortbread.”
Biddy dropped Griffin’s hand and took his arm. “Griffin helps me make it, though he steals half the batch before it’s in the oven.”
Haverford yielded to Elizabeth’s silent suggestion and escorted her up the path to the house. The dog and a half-dozen chickens followed, strutting and clucking.
“Did you receive His Grace’s card, Griffin?” Elizabeth asked.
“Yes. Julian said he would call at ten of the clock, and it’s not ten of the clock yet.”
“We took a shortcut,” Elizabeth replied. “The pastures are so pretty this time of year, and the lanes are dusty. This is King Henry, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Haverford was concerned, while Griffin was furious and hurt. He’d been kissing a pretty lady, shouting his devotion to the heavens, and Haverford had come on the scene like the wrath of Moses.
The gentlemen bowed the ladies through the front door, and then greater awkwardness ensued, for no servant came to fetch the egg basket.
Biddy was the servant.
“Let’s take the eggs to the kitchen,” Elizabeth suggested. “I’ll help prepare the tea. Haverford, you might entertain Griffin with tales of yesterday’s scavenger hunt. Miss Biddy and I won’t be but a moment.”
“I don’t like hunting,” Griffin muttered.
“It’s not that sort of hunt,” Haverford said. “It’s more of a treasure hunt.”
“We don’t have any treasure,” Griffin replied, some of his truculence fading.
“You have each other,” Elizabeth said, sending Haverford an admonitory glance. “Come, Biddy, and perhaps we’ll steal a bite of shortbread before the gentlemen have a chance.”
“I should take your hat and coat, Julian,” Griffin observed, passing Biddy the egg basket. “And your walking stick. That is Grandpapa’s walking stick, isn’t it?”
“The very one.” Julian handed it over, and Elizabeth took the moment to retreat with Biddy to the back of the house.
The premises were spotless, commodious, and decorated with the occasional bundle of dried herbs or fresh flowers.
“You keep this house?” Elizabeth asked.
Biddy set the eggs on a sturdy wooden table in the kitchen. “I do for Abner and Griffin. You needn’t pretend, ma’am. I’ll not be doing for them now that His Grace caught Griffin kissing me.”
She collapsed onto a stool and stared at her basket of eggs. Biddy wasn’t a great beauty. Her hands were red and roughened, she had freckles across her cheeks, and her apron bore a suspicious streak of brown near the hem.
“You love him,” Elizabeth said.
“With all my heart. Griffin isn’t quick like a lord is supposed to be, but he’s smart in his own way, and he’s as good-hearted as they come. I should not have let him kiss me, though what’s the harm in a few kisses? We forgot to wash the eggs. That will bother Griffin.”
“Would he be faithful to you, Biddy?”
“Yes. There was that business with that woman, all those years ago, but Griffin understands what’s what. He has only the one child, and misses her terribly. He’d be a good papa, if anybody would give him the chance. Family shouldn’t be kept apart.”
A tea tray sat ready on the table, two plates of shortbread stacked three layers high. Elizabeth offered Biddy one of the plates.
“Ma’am, I couldn’t.”
Elizabeth passed Biddy the topmost slice. “Yes, you could. They are merely brothers having a disagreement. Haverford doesn’t deal well with surprises, and he’s had rather too many of them lately. Take off your apron, wash your hands, and we’ll show them how a pair of adults behave on a social call.”
Elizabeth sounded very like Aunt Esther, which was probably why Biddy complied. She smoothed a nervous hand over her hair, and would have taken the tray, except Elizabeth lifted it first.
“If you’d hold the door?”
“You love Haverford, don’t you?” Biddy asked.
“Madly.” And how wonderful, to be able to say that.
“Good. He needs somebody to love him madly and take his mind off his troubles. Griffin worries for him so.”
“Brothers do that too.”
Biddy presided over the tea tray, saying little, perching on the very, very edge of her chair. Elizabeth coaxed Griffin into telling her about his hens, each of whom had a name, personality, and preferred place to leave her eggs.
The St. David menfolk were an attentive and mannerly pair. The visit passed without either brother erupting into a temper, though Elizabeth could feel Haverford’s consternation boiling up inside him. He and Elizabeth took their leave, and like a conscientious host, Griffin escorted them to the door.
“I want to marry Biddy, Julian. I love her and she loves me too.”
“Love is precious,” Elizabeth said, “but a decision to marry mustn’t be undertaken lightly. Perhaps after the house party, you and His Grace might discuss the situation further.”
Griffin passed Haverford his hat. “I could get a mortgage. For the settlements. For Biddy.” He pronounced the word mortgage carefully, using the English term.
“A mortgage?” Haverford said slowly, as if Griffin had offered to contract a wasting disease. “Who explained mortgages to you?”
Griffin studied the head of the duke’s walking stick. “A friend explained it to me. I could sell some of my acres instead. I have hundreds of acres, all mine.”
Elizabeth heard a sound that might have been Haverford’s molars grinding.
“Griffin, please don’t sign any mortgages or sell your acres until we’ve had a chance to speak further,” Haverford said. “After the house party, we can discuss the nuptials as much as you please, but I’d ask you not to make any decisions until th
en.”
“Biddy said mortgages are bad.”
“And Biddy,” Haverford said, “is a woman of great good sense. Witness her devotion to you. You will please keep Grandpapa’s walking stick.”
The walking stick had been carved into the shape of a dragon, with an intricately scaled tail winding down its length.
“You want me to have Grandpapa’s walking stick?”
“You are out tramping around far more than I am, and I’ve had it long enough.”
Griffin held up the walking stick, grinning at the dragon, who appeared to smile back at him. “Thank you, Julian.”
Elizabeth remained silent, as did Haverford. He was quivering to lecture, advise, exhort, and be the duke—she could feel that too—but he said nothing.
“We can talk about mortgages after your guests have left,” Griffin said. “I won’t sign anything or make any promises. Biddy said I have to be careful about promises too. I want to marry her, Julian. I love Biddy Bowen.”
Griffin’s smile was beatific.
“I love you,” Haverford said, kissing his brother’s cheek. “My thanks for your hospitality. Miss Windham, shall we be on our way?”
Heavenly days, she was proud of them both. “Of course, Your Grace. Griffin.” She curtsied, he bowed, and before the door had closed behind them, Griffin was bellowing to Biddy about his grandfather’s walking stick.
“I shall curse now,” Haverford said. “I shall curse and rant and behave most unbecomingly.”
“Good,” Elizabeth replied, taking his hand. “You’re entirely allowed, once we get past the barnyard.”
When they had cleared the stile and gained the footpath behind the hedgerow, Haverford did not curse or rant, or even carry on unbecomingly. He took Elizabeth in his arms, kissed her passionately, and then gathered her close, all without shouting anything at all.
Chapter Nineteen
I love you, Elizabeth Windham.
Julian kept a grip on Elizabeth’s hand when he wanted instead to wrap himself around her and hold her as the seasons changed and the years marched past. He’d awoken from a nap the previous day, and she’d been sitting at the desk in the tower room, wearing only his shirt and his spectacles, stitching down a loose thread on his favorite waistcoat.
No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides) Page 24
