by Mary Balogh
“Because I am your only grandson, sir?” Duncan suggested. And lest that not be sufficient reason, as doubtless it was not, “And because I plan to live respectably for the rest of my life now that Laura is dead?”
She had been dead for four months. She had taken a winter chill and just faded away—because, in Duncan’s opinion, she had lost the will to live.
His grandfather’s frown deepened, if that were possible, and he thumped the cane again.
“You dare mention that name in my hearing?” he asked rhetorically. “Mrs. Turner was dead to the world five years ago, Sheringford, when she chose to commit the unspeakable atrocity of running off with you, leaving her lawful husband behind.”
It had happened on Duncan’s twenty-fifth birthday—and, more to the point, on his wedding day. He had abandoned his bride, virtually at the altar, and run away with her sister-in-law, her brother’s wife. Laura. The whole thing had been one of the most spectacular scandals London had seen in years, perhaps ever. At least, he assumed it had. He had not been here to experience it in person.
He said nothing since this was hardly the time or the place for a discussion on the meaning of the word atrocity.
“I ought to have turned you out then without a penny,” his grandfather told him. He had not been invited to sit down, Duncan noticed. “But I allowed you to continue drawing on the rents and income of Woodbine Park so that you would have the wherewithal to stay far away out of my sight—and out of the sight of all decent, respectable people. But now the woman is gone, unmourned, and you may go to the devil for all I care. You promised solemnly on my seventieth birthday that you would marry by your thirtieth and have a son in your nursery before your thirty-first. You abandoned Miss Turner at the altar five years ago, and you turned thirty six weeks ago.”
Had he promised something so rash? Of course, he would have been a mere puppy at the time. Was this the explanation for the sudden cutting off of his funds? That his thirtieth birthday had come and gone and he was still a single man? He had been with Laura until four months ago, for the love of God. But not married to her, of course. Turner had steadfastly refused to divorce her. His grandfather had expected him to find a bride within the past four months, then, and marry her just to honor a promise made many years ago—by a boy who knew nothing of life?
“There is still time to produce an heir before my thirty-first birthday,” he pointed out—a rather asinine thing to say, as his grandfather’s reaction demonstrated. He snorted. It was not a pleasant sound.
“Besides,” Duncan continued, “I believe you must have misremembered the promise I made, sir. I seem to recall promising that I would marry before your eightieth birthday.”
Which was… when? Next year? The year after?
“Which happens to be sixteen days from now,” his grandfather said with brows of thunder again. “Where is your bride, Sheringford?”
Sixteen days? Damn it all!
Duncan strode across the room to the window in order to delay his answer, and stood looking down on the square, his hands clasped at his back. Could he pretend now that it was the eighty-fifth birthday he had named? He could not even remember the promise, for God’s sake. And his grandfather might be making all this up just to discomfit him, just to give himself a valid excuse for cutting off his grandson from all funds. Woodbine Park, though a property belonging to the Marquess of Claverbrook, was traditionally granted to the heir as his home and main source of income. Duncan had always considered it his, by right of the fact that he was the heir after his father’s death, even though he had not lived there for years. He had never taken Laura there.
“No answer,” the marquess said after a lengthy silence, a nasty sneer in his voice. “I produced one son, who died at the age of forty-four when he had no more sense than to engage in a curricle race and try to overtake his opponent on a sharp bend in the road. And that one son produced one son of his own. You.”
It did not sound like a compliment.
“He did, sir,” Duncan agreed. What else was there to say?
“Where did I go wrong?” his grandfather asked irritably and rhetorically. “My brother produced five lusty sons before he produced any of his daughters, and those five in their turn produced eleven lusty sons of their own, at least two each. And some of them have produced sons.”
“And so, sir,” Duncan said, seeing where this was leading, “there is no danger of the title falling into abeyance anytime soon, is there? There is no urgent hurry for me to get a son.”
It was the wrong thing to say—though there probably was no right thing.
The cane thumped the floor again.
“I daresay the title will pass to Norman in the not-too-distant future,” his grandfather said, “after my time and after yours, which will not last even as long as your father’s if you continue with the low life you have chosen. I intend to treat him as though he were already my heir. I will grant him Woodbine Park on my eightieth birthday.”
Duncan’s back stiffened as if someone had delivered him a physical blow. He closed his eyes briefly. This was the final straw. It was bad enough—nothing short of a disaster, in fact—that Woodbine and its rents were being withheld from him. But to think of Cousin Norman, of all people, benefiting from his loss … Well, it was a viciously low blow.
“Norman has a wife and two sons,” the marquess told him. “As well as a daughter. Now, there is a man who knows his duty.”
Yes, indeed.
Both Norman’s father and his grandfather were dead. He was the next heir after Duncan. He also had a shrewd head on his shoulders. He had married Caroline Turner six weeks after Duncan abandoned her on their wedding day, and he had apparently got three children off her, two of them sons. He had taken all the right steps to ingratiate himself with his great-uncle.
Duncan frowned down at the empty square beyond the window. Though it was not quite empty. A maid was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the steps of a house on the opposite side.
Did Norman know that Woodbine was to all intents and purposes to be his in sixteen days’ time?
“If I had written down that promise I made on your seventieth birthday, sir,” Duncan said, “and if you had kept it, I believe you would discover now that my promise really was to marry by your eightieth birthday rather than my thirtieth, though they both fall in the same year, of course.”
His grandfather snorted again—a sound that conveyed utter contempt.
“And what do you plan to do when you leave here in a few minutes’ time, Sheringford?” he asked. “Grab the first female you meet on the street and drag her off in pursuit of a special license?”
Something like that. When one had been brought up to be a well-to-do gentleman, to administer land, to expect to inherit an illustrious title and fabulous wealth one day, one was not educated or trained to any other form of gainful employment. Not any that would give him sufficient income to support dependents, including a child, as well as keep his own body and soul together, anyway.
“Not at all.” Duncan turned to look steadily at his grandfather. “I have a bride picked out, sir. We are already unofficially betrothed, in fact, even though there has been no public announcement yet.”
“Indeed?” There was a world of scorn in the one word. His grandfather raised his eyebrows and looked incredulous—as well he might. “And who is this lady, pray?”
“She has sworn me to secrecy,” Duncan said, “until she is ready for the announcement to be made.”
“Ha! Convenient indeed!” his grandfather exclaimed, his brows snapping together again. “It is a barefaced lie, Sheringford, just like everything else in your miserable life. There is no such person, no such betrothal, no such impending marriage. Take yourself out of my sight.”
“But if there is?” Duncan asked him, standing his ground though he had the feeling he might as well be standing on quicksand. “What if there is such a lady, sir, and she has agreed to marry me on the assumption that I have security
to offer her, that we will live at Woodbine Park and finance our marriage and our family on its rents and income?”
His grandfather glared at him with no diminution of either anger or scorn.
“If there is such a lady,” he said, almost spitting out the words, “and if she is undisputedly an eligible bride for the Earl of Sheringford and future Marquess of Claverbrook, and if you present her to me here the day before the papers announce your betrothal, and if you marry her no later than one day before my birthday, then Woodbine Park will be yours again on that day. That is a formidable number of ifs, Sheringford. If you fail in any one of them, as I have no doubt you will, then Woodbine Park will be your cousin’s on my birthday.”
Duncan inclined his head.
“I believe,” his grandfather said, “Norman and his lady may safely continue packing up their belongings ready for the move.”
Continue? Norman did know, then?
“They would be well advised not to, sir,” Duncan said.
“I will not invite you to stay for refreshments,” his grandfather said, his eyes raking over his grandson with contempt. “You are going to need every hour of the next fifteen days in which to find a bride—a respectable bride—and persuade her to marry you.”
Duncan made him another bow.
“I shall explain the necessity for haste to my betrothed without further delay, then,” he said, and heard his grandfather snort one more time as he let himself out of the room and proceeded down the stairs to retrieve his hat and cane.
This was one devil of a nasty coil.
How the deuce was he to find a bride and marry her all within fifteen days? And a respectable lady of good ton to boot—his grandfather, he knew, would accept no less. No respectable lady would touch him with a twenty-foot oar—not once she knew his infamous story, anyway. And soon enough the fact that he was back would spread all over London—even if it had not already done so.
Besides all of which, he had no wish whatsoever to marry. He had only recently been freed from a lengthy connection that he had found tiresome, to say the least—though poor Laura had not gone unmourned. He wanted to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, at least for a few years. Besides, and far more important, there was a purely practical reason why a wife would be a severe encumbrance. No respectable lady would tolerate the presence of an illegitimate child in her home—or even a strong attachment between her husband and his gardener’s presumably legitimate grandson. And how would he ever be able to mask that attachment?
It was unthinkable.
Besides, Toby, however well he had been coached, would not remember all the time to call him sir or my lord instead of Papa.
Damn it all!
But marry he must. He needed Woodbine. He needed his home and his roots. It was true, of course, that eventually he would inherit all his grandfather’s properties and vast fortune, including Woodbine Park, which was entailed and could not be given as an outright gift to Norman or anyone else. His grandfather could do nothing to prevent any of that happening beyond outliving him. But the trouble was, Duncan could not afford to wait for his grandfather’s demise, which might be many years in the future. Besides, he could not under any circumstances wish for the old man’s death. Far from it.
He needed Woodbine now.
He had a sudden image of Norman as lord of the manor there—with Caroline as its lady. And their children roaring through the house and romping in the park instead of Toby. It was a painful image. Woodbine was his home.
Marriage really was the only option open to him, then. But there was no time in which to choose a bride with any care to make sure he had picked someone who would not drive him to distraction within a fortnight—or, to be fair, someone he would not drive to distraction. There was only time to grab whomever he could find. If there was time even for that. He could hardly walk up to the first lady he saw at the first ball he attended and ask her to marry him. Could he? And even if he did, and if for some strangely peculiar reason she said yes, he would still have her family to persuade.
It simply could not be done.
Except that failure was not an option.
She would have to be someone very young and biddable. Someone whose parents would be only too glad to bag a future marquess for their daughter, scandalous reputation be damned. Some cit’s daughter, perhaps—no, she would not be acceptable to his grandfather. Some impoverished gentleman’s daughter, then. Someone plain of face and figure.
Duncan felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he stepped out onto the square.
Or someone…
But of course, it was spring, was it not? The time of the Season in London? The time of the great marriage mart, when ladies came to town with the express purpose of finding themselves a husband? And notoriety aside, he was the Earl of Sheringford, even if it was just a courtesy title and essentially meaningless in itself. He was also the heir to a marquess’s very real title and properties and fortune—and the incumbent was eighty years old, or would be in sixteen days’ time.
His case was not hopeless at all. It was a little desperate, it was true—he had only fifteen days. But that ought to be sufficient time. It was getting close to the end of the Season. There must be a number of girls—and their parents—who were growing uneasy, even a little desperate, at the absence of a suitor.
As he strode out of the square, Duncan found himself feeling grimly optimistic. He would hold his grandfather to his promise and get Woodbine Park back. He had to. He would somehow have to fit marriage in with his other plans.
The thought brought out the cold sweat again.
There must be entertainments galore to choose among. His mother would get him invitations to any he wished to attend—if he needed an invitation. As he remembered it, most ladies were only too eager to entice enough guests to their homes that they could boast the next day of having hosted a squeeze. They were not going to turn away a titled gentleman, even if he had run off with a married lady five years ago—on his wedding day to someone else.
A ball would be his best choice. He would attend the very next one—this evening, if there happened to be one.
He had fifteen days in which to meet, court, betroth himself to, and marry a lady of ton. It was certainly not impossible. It was an interesting challenge, in fact.
He strode off in the direction of Curzon Street. With any luck his mother would still be at home. She would know what entertainments there were to choose among during the next few days.
2
MARGARET Huxtable was thirty years old. It was not a comfortable age to be, especially since she was not married and never had been. She had been betrothed once upon a time—or, to be more accurate, she had had a secret understanding with a man who would have married her immediately, if she had not taken on the responsibility of holding together her family of two sisters and a brother after their father’s death until they were all grown up and could take care of themselves. Crispin Dew, eldest son of Sir Humphrey Dew, had set his heart upon purchasing a military commission and taking Margaret with him to follow the drum. She would not give up her duty, though, and he would not give up his dream, so he had gone off to war without her, promising to return for her when she was free.
They had been very deeply in love.
Before that time came, though, he had married a Spanish lady while he was fighting in Spain with his regiment in the Peninsular Wars against the forces of Napoleon Bonaparte. Margaret had fought quietly for several years afterward to put back the pieces of her heart and find some new meaning in life. Her family was not enough, she had found, much as she loved them. Besides, they did not need her any longer. Vanessa—Nessie—was now married to the Duke of Moreland, Katherine—Kate—to Baron Montford, and both were love matches. Stephen, the youngest, was now twenty-two years old and was very much in command of his life. At the age of seventeen he had unexpectedly inherited the title of Earl of Merton, and in the intervening years he had grown comfortably into his new role as an aristocrat
in possession of several properties and a large fortune. He was handsome and good-natured. He was popular with other gentleman and a great favorite with the ladies. Within the next few years he would almost certainly turn his thoughts to matrimony.
When that time came, when he married, Margaret would be displaced as lady of the manor at Warren Hall, Stephen’s principal country seat. His wife would take her place. She would become simply a dependent spinster sister. It was a prospect that filled her with dread—and it was one of the things that had led her to the decision she had made over the winter.
She was going to marry.
There were other reasons. The arrival of her thirtieth birthday had been a dreaded milestone in her life. No one could even pretend now that she was not a spinster. Her chances of marrying would grow slimmer with every passing year. So would her chances of being a mother.
She wanted to marry. And she wanted to have children. She had always wanted both, but all her youth had been devoted to the upbringing of her brother and sisters, and all her youthful ardor had been expended upon Crispin Dew. He had been her first, and only, love.
He was back in England—as a widower. He was at Rundle Park in Shropshire with his parents. So was his young daughter. And Lady Dew, who had never known of the secret understanding between Margaret and her son, had written to Margaret with the news, and gone on to say that Crispin had asked about her and about her marital status. Lady Dew had reminded Margaret of how exceedingly fond of each other they had been as children. Perhaps, she had suggested in her letter, Margaret would consider coming to stay at Rundle Park for a while. Perhaps the two former childhood friends would discover deeper feelings for each other now that they were both grown up and free of other obligations. Crispin, she added, very much hoped Margaret would accept the invitation.
The letter had upset Margaret. She was very fond of Lady Dew, their former neighbor, who was unfailingly good-natured. But the lady did have a tendency to embellish the stories she told. Had Crispin really asked about her—and her marital status? Had he really expressed a hope that she would come to Rundle Park? Did he really expect to rekindle the feelings they had shared in the past? Because his wife was now dead? Because he had a daughter to raise and needed a mother for the girl?
