“That you like to mete out discipline because you were a strictly disciplined child.”
He waved a hand. “One has nothing to do with the other, believe me. And I will not fault my parents for the way I was raised. If they’d allowed me to be weak or shirk duties, there was no younger son to take my place. There was no measure for failure. They only had one chance to mold me into the man I had to be.”
“My brother was my parents’ only chance and they didn’t raise him so strictly.”
“Your brother is an ill-mannered rake.” He put a hand over hers, where she picked at the edge of a bench slat. “Stop that. You will damage your gloves.”
She ceased her fidgeting and folded her hands in her lap. “We will have children, won’t we?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What if I only have one son? Will he be raised as you were? What if I do not bear any sons at all?”
“We shall see what transpires,” he said stubbornly.
She knew she shouldn’t rip up at him. It was not something a fiancée or a future duchess should do, but she needed him to know before they married that she would demand a say in the raising of their children—and that she would never allow lessons on Christmas morning, or frequent trips to a dreaded study. “Whether I have one son or ten,” she said, “or only ten daughters, I will be a loving and kind mama. I will not be like your mother, and allow my children to be raised without joy.”
“My mother loved me in her way.”
“She doesn’t even use your given name.”
“Neither do you.” His voice sounded heated, almost as heated as when he’d scolded her on the side of the road. He drew a deep breath, then let it out. “No one uses my given name. I prefer they don’t.”
“You don’t like the name Benedict?”
“It doesn’t represent me. Courtland is my name. Courtland represents my dutiful side. I have responsibilities to a lot of people. I provide a great many people a livelihood and property.”
“What does Benedict represent?”
“A child. Someone that doesn’t exist anymore. I was Lord Raymore from the day I was born. Our first son will be born to the title too.”
“Lord Raymore,” she echoed, feeling sad for him, for all the poor little first-born children who were never allowed to be children. “How terrible, to make a child give up his own self to the cause of a family line.”
“Harmony. That is quite enough. I am a grown man and I would prefer not to spend my time with you hashing over my boyhood days, particularly since you disapprove of them. What do you wish me to say? That you may raise our children differently? I wish you would, but I warn you, they will not be permitted to run wild and undisciplined.”
“Like me?”
He gritted his teeth. “Like you and your brother, yes. Our children will know duty and responsibility. Our sons will be gentlemen and our daughters will not run about the North Country in search of damned Roman walls, trapping themselves into marriages with beleaguered aristocrats.”
She inclined her head to him a little, her lips curving in a smile. “You cursed again, Your Grace. But I understand your annoyance.”
He took her hand in a rough, affectionate way, perhaps as an apology. “Somehow I imagine I shall curse my fair share before our days are over.” With a great sigh he took to his feet and helped her rise. “I must see you home. I do not look forward to Mrs. Jenkins’ countenance should I deliver you one minute past the appointed hour.”
“Are you vexed with me?” she asked, straightening her bonnet.
“Only if you are vexed with me,” he answered lightly. “It cannot be easy to be affianced to such a dull stick. All the way home, I shall berate you with observations about the weather.”
He did no such thing, although they avoided fraught topics by silent agreement. In the name of peacemaking, she invited him to tea even though she knew he would decline. He’d developed quite an aversion to the hovering Mrs. Jenkins, and Harmony suspected the housekeeper made the tea intentionally weak to discommode him. At Brook Street, His Grace helped her down from the curricle with his hands at her waist as if she was light as a feather—and she was nowhere near light as a feather. As he led her to the front door, it opened to reveal a portly gentleman and a beloved, familiar face.
She pulled away and ran to her father’s arms. “Papa! You have finally come.” She turned back to the duke, her eyes shining. “Your Grace, now you must join us for tea!”
*** *** ***
Court could refuse her nothing, even if it meant an exceedingly awkward hour in the Morrow’s cramped day room with Mrs. Jenkins scowling over the tea tray.
Lord Morrow was the polite, pleasant fellow he remembered, although he was given to unusually prolonged silences. Court couldn’t tell if it was social ineptitude or disapproval of his company. Court had, after all, run off to Newcastle with his daughter, whether it was his fault or not.
Despite the tension, he enjoyed watching father and daughter share pleasantries and catch up on news of their country estate in Hampshire. Lord Morrow flattered Harmony’s new gown and listened patiently to talk of the wedding. Then, just as Court was about to make his excuses, Morrow stood and fixed him with a look.
“Shall we have a smoke in my study, Your Grace?”
Court didn’t smoke, but since his fiancée’s father was asking, the only appropriate answer was, “Yes, of course, sir.” He bid Harmony a chaste farewell under Morrow’s watchful eye and proceeded to the gentleman’s study at the back of the house.
Once there, the contemplative viscount lit an old-fashioned tobacco pipe and offered Court the same. He refused, but settled with Lord Morrow into worn leather chairs before the fire. The study was pleasing, a comfortable space lined with books. The fire was warm but not hot, and the aroma of Morrow’s pipe pleasant. The room reminded him not at all of his own father’s study, thank God, although he did feel called on the carpet a bit.
“Yes, well…” Morrow began, clearing his throat. “I’ve spoken at length with my son Stephen about this engagement. I admit I had questions when I first heard the news.”
Court regarded the man through a haze of smoke. He could glean nothing from his mild tone. “Have your questions been answered?”
“With Harmony, my questions are never answered, or, as soon as they are, more questions crop up in their place. She has a talent for getting into scrapes even though she is a docile woman.”
Court’s face nearly cracked, thinking of Harmony as a “docile” woman. With effort he schooled his voice to seriousness. “It is true our courtship and engagement did not proceed in the traditional manner, but we have become quite fond of one another.”
“I sense she is reluctant to wed you.”
Plain-spoken. Was this a quality he had appreciated in the man? He appreciated it significantly less when the directness was aimed at him. Court decided to offer it back, like for like.
“Her reluctance springs from a sense of unworthiness. Not that I have ever expressed to her that she was not worthy of being my wife.”
Morrow fingered his pipe, blowing out a series of smoke rings. “‘Tis true she has not been groomed to be a duchess. I thought to set her up in the country with a small allowance. You know, she is happiest with her history and her books.”
“I do know.” Morrow gave him a long steady look that had Court clearing his throat. “Of course your daughter shall be free to pursue her studies after we are wed. I am not one of those men who believes females should be blank and silent.” Even if life would be easier that way, he added to himself.
Morrow nodded. “I’m glad to hear that. It eases me to see you together, to see that there is affection between you.” His voice trailed off as he blew out another puff of odoriferous smoke. “The fact is, Your Grace—”
“We are to be family. Call me Courtland.”
“As you wish. The fact is, Courtland, since the engagement I’ve heard tales that sound amiss.”
&n
bsp; “What sort of tales?” Court asked tiredly.
“It hardly seems gentlemanly to discuss it. I’m not one to heed gossip or believe the more outlandish things I hear—but I’ll tell you this plain. I care for my daughter’s welfare. I’ll not stand by if I think she’s being ill-used.”
“Your son and I had this conversation already.” As much as he wished to be on good terms with Harmony’s father, he couldn’t keep the haughty offense from his voice. “As for ill use, it was perhaps unwise to place her in the care of Mr. Barrett if you wished her to live a cosseted life.”
Morrow took this criticism with the slightest twitch of his features. “Perhaps. I haven’t been as involved as I should have in recent years. Harmony has always been a self-reliant soul. I encouraged this quality in her.”
Court remembered her stalking, alone, down the side of a deserted road. I am going to see it. I am going to walk. Where might he be today if he had allowed her to walk? Relaxing in the country? At the club preparing to take dinner with friends? He would not be sitting in a smallish study being scolded by an impoverished viscount while swathed in smoke, that was a certainty.
“We must speak of her dowry,” Morrow said abruptly.
“There is no need of a dowry.”
“I’ll not allow her to bring nothing to this marriage, and leave her dependent on your good will.”
“Dependent on my—?” Court sat up straighter, very close now to losing his manners. “My dear Morrow, I assure you the honor of her hand is enough to secure my good will, but if you must—for pride—offer a dowry, it shall not be refused.”
“I am a proud man,” her father shot back in a coughing splutter of smoke. “I do not adhere to the niceties as my late wife would have wished, nor do I cut a stylish figure, but I have a thought or two about things and I would have my only daughter happy in wedlock. I would not have her come to you feeling less than she should be.”
“That makes two of us.” Court sat back in his chair again, gazing at the fire. “I have a lot of books, Morrow. Piles of them. More than will fit on my shelves. I have patience…more than most men, if not as much as I’d like. I try to be an honorable gentleman in all things.” He looked back at the old man. Not many fathers of his rank would sound out a duke before giving his blessing to the match. Most would push their daughter toward any husband of his stature, even if he were abusive, moon-mad, and riddled with pox. “I admire you for loving and wishing your daughter to be happy,” he said. “I promise to do the same.”
Morrow held his eyes for a long moment, then gave a short nod. “Sure you won’t have a pipe with me? I get my tobacco from a gem of a shop over on Broad Street.”
Again, Court respectfully declined, then offered the man an open invitation to call at St. James any time. The viscount’s manners would addle his mother no end, which Court would heartily enjoy. No matter her feelings, in a few weeks time they would all be family. His mother, blunt Lord Morrow, Mr. Barrett, Court and his lovely Harmony.
How odd that he would find her worth all these lowering trials. How odd that he’d been drawn to a rapscallion like Morrow’s daughter—dutiful, sedate man that he was—nearly from the start.
Chapter Ten: Her Grace
Harmony’s wedding took place on a late morning in November at St. George’s, the grand cathedral filled to capacity with guests of His Grace. She stood beside him at the altar in her gown of embroidered ivory satin and shook down to the soles of her slippers to be on such display. His steadfast presence was the only thing that saved her. How serious it all was, and how overwhelming. By the time the ceremony was over, she felt ready to collapse.
They rode to his home in St. James afterward to receive their wedding guests. She had not yet been to visit and the sight of the place was a shock. There was no comparison between the duke’s house and her father’s house on Brook Street. The edifice stretched an entire block and rose four stories high, with numerous wide windows trimmed with carved cornices. She knew her new husband was wealthy and powerful, but it hadn’t crystallized in her mind just how wealthy until now. She stood before the grand curving staircase in the main hall, marveling at the luxurious white paneling and gawking at paintings and tapestries and chandeliers. This was not even like Danbury House. This was something quite a bit beyond.
She smiled and nodded through introductions and well wishes, her mind a boggle of faces, names, and titles. Her father, by tradition, was seated near the duke’s mother and Harmony feared he caused her great displeasure from the harried look on her face. From time to time Harmony met the duke’s gaze to reassure herself, and he’d look back at her with an expression that spoke of things she didn’t understand. He was her husband now. She both dreaded and craved to be alone with him in the way of married couples. For days, she had thought of little else.
What would it be like? She couldn’t put together a sensible possibility from any of the gossip she’d overheard, and there was no one to talk to save Mrs. Jenkins, who’d silenced her vague questions with a scowl. Of course, Harmony was an educated and well-read woman, and knew in general terms what was to go on, but the specifics… If only her mama were here to enlighten her. Harmony searched out the duke’s mother across the ballroom. The formidable dowager had taken a dislike to her from the start. She would receive no motherly advice from that quarter. She ought to have asked Lady Darlington some of the finer details while she had the chance, but back then she’d been too shocked at the idea of getting married.
By late afternoon, the guests began to thin. Mrs. Melton, the head housekeeper, led Harmony to the second floor, to a suite of rooms as big as the entire first floor of her father’s house. She informed her these were her rooms. Disbelief battled with delight.
There was an opulent sitting room, a soaring space with large windows for sun. It was furnished in quality carved pieces, soft armchairs and divans, and a desk and side tables weighed down with flowers. Tall shelves flanked one corner, laden with history books of all eras. Emotion tightened Harmony’s throat, for she knew he’d had the shelves and books installed here especially for her. The sitting room adjoined a massive chamber containing a wide gold-and-ivory curtained bed, as well as a slightly-less-massive dressing room that would dwarf their largest parlor back home.
It was in this dressing room that she met Mrs. Redcliff, her lady’s maid, who told her amiably that she would be available to help Her Grace at all her changes from now on. Morning, luncheon, afternoon, dinner, social events, and bed. At each change, her hair could be re-done if Her Grace wished, brushed and misted and curled in any style she wanted. During the season, she was told, there would be even more changing, for social calls or driving in the park at the appointed hour. Harmony began to comprehend why the duke had commissioned so many gowns.
From all corners of the dressing room, embellished frocks flooded armoires and trunks, along with riding habits, cloaks, reticules, fans, shoes, pelisses and shawls of every color and design. All of these items would be replaced regularly, her lady assured her, as they went out of style.
Harmony did not know what to say. It was more clothing than she’d owned in her lifetime. Without being asked, Mrs. Redcliff prepared a bath and helped divest her of her wedding finery. Harmony’s ivory and gold-flecked wedding gown probably cost more than the sum of all the gowns in her armoire at home. His Grace had gifted her with a diamond necklace the evening before, and a diamond tiara to adorn her hair. They were hers now, the priceless, garish diamonds, the showy gown, as well as the fine silk stockings she’d worn, and the embroidered, matching shoes of worked leather that did not squeeze or pinch her feet since they had been fitted especially for her. Mrs. Redcliff stored it all away with capable efficiency.
Such grandeur and pomp, such pampering. If only she could believe she was deserving of it.
Harmony sank down in a fragrant, steaming tub of water and let Mrs. Redcliff wash her hair, only because the maid seemed determined to be motherly. The sturdy, middle-aged woman
had been selected by her husband from the ranks of his existing staff, and was so much kinder than Mrs. Jenkins had been. This would have been the time to ask questions but she was still a stranger to her, and Harmony was so overwhelmed by her surroundings she doubted she could string together the words anyway. She wondered where His Grace was. Seeing off the last of the guests? Would he come to her now? Or later tonight?
Mrs. Redcliff helped her from the water and dressed her in an embroidered ivory nightgown with a matching dressing gown of ruffled silk. She felt like a package being wrapped for his pleasure, and wondered if he’d chosen these intimate garments himself. They were modest but of the highest quality, and beautiful, so beautiful. She watched in the mirror as Mrs. Redcliff brushed and dried her curls, arranging them in a casual fashion over her shoulders. When she finished, Harmony stared down at the silver-plated hairbrush the maid had used, tracing the swirling C on the ornately etched handle. C for Courtland. C for caught.
Mrs. Redcliff beckoned her to the sitting room to enjoy a dinner tray and some wine. While Harmony ate, the kindly woman went about the room lighting lamps and rearranging the vases of flowers, and then passed into the bedroom, perhaps to light those lamps too. She suspected the maid was inventing tasks so as not to leave her alone, and Harmony was glad, for she felt reassured by her company. When Harmony finished her meal she went to one of the high windows and looked out at the darkness, wondering if she would have a view of the back or the side yards. She was so turned about in the large house she wasn’t certain.
“Your Grace. Your Grace? Your Grace?”
Harmony looked over her shoulder at her maid’s soft but persistent voice. “Oh! I didn’t realize you were addressing me. I have never been…you know…a Grace until today.”
Mrs. Redcliff bobbed a curtsy and smiled. “Your Grace, is there anything more I can do for your comfort?”
Stay here with me, so I don’t have to face him alone.
Disciplining the Duchess Page 12
