When the Duke Found Love

by Isabella Bradford

  “I’ll be most happy if you do,” Sheffield said, smiling. “I trust you are in good health yourself?”

  “Tolerably well, sir.” The butler wouldn’t smile in return—he never did—but Sheffield never doubted the sincerity of the welcome. Everyone in his cousin’s employ was cordial and well-mannered, a reflection of Brecon himself. Even Brecon’s dogs were perfectly behaved and incapable of a misplaced yelp or a mess on the carpet, unlike a certain other canine of Sheffield’s acquaintance.

  “I’m happy you are well,” Sheffield said, handing his hat to the footman. Uneasily he glanced about for Fantôme, who was sniffing at the base of a tall Chinese vase with malicious intent. He grabbed the dog by the shoulders and hoisted him up into the crook of his arm, away from mischief. “Is my cousin in the library as usual?”

  “No, sir,” Houseman said, giving his jowls a sorrowful shake at having to offer Sheffield a negative reply. “His Grace begs your forgiveness for being unable to be at home to greet you, but he was called away of a sudden on a private matter.”

  Sheffield’s dark brows rose with interest. “For once it cannot have been me,” he said. “At least not this night.”

  “True, sir,” Houseman said. “I believe he was summoned by her ladyship the Countess of Hervey.”

  Now Sheffield was truly interested. Brecon must be in his mid-forties by now. He had long been a widower, and though he’d kept a succession of mistresses, each of those women had been as esteemed for her discretion as for her beauty. Brecon would never have become distressingly entangled with any true lady, especially not one so noble as a countess.

  “Who is this Lady Hervey, Houseman?” he asked, his curiosity growing. “Is she handsome?”

  Houseman blinked, his way of signifying that any dolt, including Sheffield, should have recognized the lady’s name.

  “Her ladyship is the mother of Her Grace the Duchess of Marchbourne,” he explained, “and of Her Grace the Duchess of Hawkesworth.”

  “Ah, yes,” Sheffield said, faintly disappointed. Lady Hervey was almost family since her daughters were married to his other two cousins. If the countess was old enough to have borne those daughters, she was also likely to be too old to amuse Brecon, at least in an interesting fashion. Instead he must have answered her summons in only the most courtly (and Brecon-ish) manner, ready to offer assistance to an aged, widowed gentlewoman. “The older ladies do need tending, don’t they?”

  “I will leave any further questions to His Grace to answer, sir,” Houseman said, prim even for him. “If you please, sir, His Grace asked that you wait for him in his library.”

  Obediently Sheffield asked no further questions, and followed the butler into his cousin’s library. This, too, had not changed: a dark-paneled retreat with enough books for a small college, the dark red armchairs, the framed portraits of ancient philosophers, and blind Homer’s marble bust on the mantel. He set Fantôme before the fire, where the dog turned three times and instantly fell asleep. Sheffield himself had scarcely sat when a maidservant appeared with a light supper and a footman came to pour him his choice of Brecon’s wines.

  Thus fortified, Sheffield stretched his legs contentedly before the fire and beside his dog, and pleasantly thought again about the girl in the park. For this he was obliged to the Countess of Hervey, since if she hadn’t conveniently fallen into distress this evening, then Sheffield himself would by now be the one receiving the full force of Brecon’s patient concern.

  Of course Sheffield believed he no longer required such supervision, having recently (and extravagantly) celebrated his twenty-fourth birthday. He was a peer of the realm, a gentleman of rank, educated and experienced in the great world. He looked after his own property and affairs and took his seat in the House of Lords. He even paid his bills on time. In return for all that ducal responsibility, Sheffield believed he was entitled to spend the hours that were left in his days however he pleased, and in the company—or bed—of whosoever pleased him.

  But things were different where Brecon was concerned. Brecon had played the roles of a father and older, wiser brother to Sheffield for so long that he’d a difficult time giving it up. Brecon had been the one who’d come to the ten-year-old Sheffield to tell him his parents had been killed in a carriage accident. It had been Brecon who’d brought him home to this house on school holidays, and who’d bought him his first hunter, his first pistols, his first suit of full evening dress. Brecon had presented him at court and introduced him to society, helped him learn to manage his estates and other property, and generally explained and guided him through all the challenges and temptations facing a too-young duke.

  Nor was he an ordinary duke, either, if there were such a creature. Sheffield and Brecon and their other two cousins, the Duke of Marchbourne and the Duke of Hawkesworth, were all descended from the same king, with his royal blood in their veins. To be sure, they’d also the blood of the four mistresses who’d shared that king’s bed, but it was the royal contribution that separated them from the rest of the peerage. At court the four were considered nearer to being princes than other dukes, a difference that had only served to bind them more closely together. Was it any wonder, then, that Brecon had not only looked after Sheffield but understood him, too?

  Sheffield smiled now, remembering how many times he’d been called into this very room to answer for some sort of schoolboy misdemeanor or another. He’d always be grateful for what Brecon had done for him—he’d be the world’s most miserable ingrate if he weren’t—and for that alone he’d returned to London and Brecon’s library. Brecon’s letter could not be ignored. But this time what Sheffield would have to explain wasn’t firing guns beneath the proctor’s window after curfew. No, this time his misdeeds involved a beautiful young French marquise and, unfortunately, the lady’s jealous older husband as well.

  Sheffield sipped his brandy and sighed, more with remorse for his own behavior than with any residual desire for the Marquise du Vaulchier. He didn’t usually make mistakes like this one. He’d been impulsive where she was concerned, yes, but he’d thought he was still being discreet. He’d no idea the lady herself would trumpet their assignation across Versailles and directly into her husband’s ear, and as soon as Sheffield had realized what she’d done, he’d broken with her.

  He hoped that would be enough to placate Brecon, though Sheffield didn’t really know what other penance he could be expected to do. Besides, the entire brief affair had taken place in France, not England, and what happened to young English gentlemen—particularly young gentlemen who were dukes—in France was generally overlooked at home. It was one of the reasons he was so fond of Paris.

  “Sheffield!” Brecon came striding into the room to greet him, not pausing to first remove either his hat or coat. Whatever assistance Lady Hervey had required must not have been terribly arduous, for he was still dressed with his usual impeccable elegance, in a plum-colored silk suit with cut-steel buttons. Brecon was a gentleman very much in his prime, and Sheffield himself had observed how his cousin could make every woman, young or old, turn to look at him, and every man wish to be his friend. Brecon had presence.

  “How glad I am to see you again, cousin,” he said now, seizing Sheffield’s hand, “and how sorry I am that I have left you to wait alone.”

  “It’s fine to see you as well, Brecon,” Sheffield said, grasping his cousin’s shoulder with genuine affection. “You’d a good excuse, riding in like Galahad to Lady Hervey’s aid.”

  He’d meant it as a small jest, picturing his cousin in full Galahad armor as he rushed to rescue the doddering Lady Hervey from whatever domestic trial faced her.

  But Brecon didn’t take it as a jest, his face growing grimly serious.

  “What Lady Hervey required more than Galahad was a friend to listen to her woes, and I was happy to oblige,” he said, shrugging free of his coat, which a footman behind him deftly caught. “Her youngest daughter is something of a trial to her, running after every manner of rogue.
I fear that Lady Diana has been indulged all her short life, and now refuses to make a graceful transition from a headstrong girl to an honorable and obedient wife.”

  Sheffield raised his brows with surprise. It rather seemed to him that Brecon, with his long parade of mistresses, would hardly be the proper gentleman to offer such advice. “I cannot imagine that you would have much to say on the matter.”

  “I don’t,” Brecon agreed. He dropped into the armchair beside Sheffield’s and sighed with pleasurable relief as another footman brought him a glass of sherry. “Having sired only sons, not daughters, I have little experience of my own in young female willfulness. Lady Hervey rather sought a friend’s commiseration, not advice, and that I was happy to provide.”

  “Tell me more of this willful young lady,” Sheffield requested. Both March and Hawke, the last of his cousins, had married daughters of the late Earl of Hervey through arranged matches. These ladies were beauties, but they were also now duchesses, and thoroughly respectable as such, even though Hawke had insisted on carrying his wife off to live in Naples. The notion of another, younger sister, one who was likely just as beautiful, but willful and impulsive, was intriguing to Sheffield. He’d always liked beauty unburdened by responsibility. “Is she as fair as her sisters?”

  “Some believe her to be the loveliest of the lot,” Brecon said, more with dismay than with admiration. “Golden hair, blue eyes with a winsome charm, and a lissome figure, too, much like her mother’s. Oh, yes, she’s fair, which only magnifies the misery she’s capable of inflicting upon her family. She’s had all manner of disreputable men sniffing after her, and there was one bounder in particular—an Irish officer, if you can believe it—who nearly coaxed her toward Gretna Green. All enough to scare off respectable suitors, and who can blame them? The chit’s a handful. I’ve never seen poor Lady Hervey so distraught with worry.”

  Sheffield nodded, considering as he sipped his wine. From Brecon’s description, this Lady Diana could be a twin to the girl that Fantôme had found for him in the park—as if any earl’s daughter, however willful, would ever be found alone beneath the trees. But at least he’d the explanation for Brecon’s involvement: a poor noble widow, distraught over her youngest child’s fate. How could Brecon resist?

  “It’s a pity her father didn’t have the chance to arrange a marriage for Lady Diana as he did for his other two daughters,” Brecon was saying. “If he had only lived a bit longer, then everything would have long been settled, and there’d be none of this nonsense from the girl now about falling in love.”

  “Love is hardly nonsense, cousin,” Sheffield suggested, sympathizing with the lady who possessed that golden hair and lissome waist. Perhaps she needed a champion, just like her mother. “What could be more important to a young lady than love?”

  But Brecon knew Sheffield well—too well, really. He set his glass down on the table beside his chair and leaned forward, his expression serious.

  “Sheffield,” he said slowly, so there’d be no misunderstanding, “you are to have nothing to do with Lady Diana Wylder. Not. One. Thing.”

  Sheffield smiled, bemused. “She’s as much as another cousin, Brecon. I do not see why I must keep from my own family.”

  But Brecon wasn’t smiling. “You will heed me in this, Sheffield, family or not. I know how you are with women.”

  Sheffield shrugged to show that none of it was his fault. “It’s rather how women are with me.”

  “I’m serious,” Brecon said. “The girl’s head is already too full of sentimental ballads and tawdry novels. She doesn’t need you addling her further.”

  Sheffield sighed, leaning back against the cushions. He rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and made a small tent of his fingers, bouncing them lightly against one another as he pretended to study the effect.

  “Then tell me, Brecon,” he said, musing, “for I am most curious. If not my own excellent company, then what would you prescribe for the lovesick lady? What do you believe she requires that I cannot offer her?”

  Brecon made a grumbling, growling sound deep in his throat. “I know exactly what you’d offer Lady Diana, sir, and she is already sufficiently tottering on the precipice of ill fame without you pushing her over the edge. I can only imagine the two of you together. You are both too much alike to make anything but a disaster.”

  “You can’t lock her away in a convent, you know,” Sheffield said, thinking of the loquacious French marquise and rather wishing she’d retreated to a quiet place among the good sisters of someplace or another. “We don’t do things like that to ladies in England.”

  “No.” Brecon finished his wine and irritably motioned the footman to refill his glass. “But I have helped Lady Hervey in finding Lady Diana a suitable husband, a measured, responsible gentleman who can rein in her spirits.”

  “Pity,” Sheffield said. “Her spirits sound as if they are part of her charm.”

  “They’ll be the ruin of her, too, if she’s not careful,” Brecon said. “Fortunately, I was able to advise Lady Hervey in the financial arrangements of the settlement in a way that was beneficial to both parties. After all, the girl is the daughter of an earl, with ten thousand pounds, and through marriage she is now connected to us, as well as to March and Hawke.”

  Sheffield chuckled. “Some would question the value of such connections.”

  “No one would who wishes to prosper at court,” Brecon said. “You must never forget the value of your heritage, Sheffield, or the influence that comes with it. Which at last brings me to your own situation.”

  Sheffield sat more upright in his chair, prepared to play the penitent. “By the time I’d received your letter, I had already ended the affair with the Marquise du Vaulchier, as you wished.”

  Brecon grunted. “What I wished should have been the least of your considerations in this matter, Sheffield. Where was your sense? With this latest conquest, you have managed to ruffle some very highly placed feathers in Paris as well as here in London. The Marquis du Vaulchier did not enjoy being cuckolded, and complained of you to his king, who has in turn complained to ours.”

  This was bad, far worse that Sheffield had ever imagined.

  “Louis complained of me?” he asked. “A ruler who has let himself be ruled by his mistresses is shocked by my passing dalliance? Are you certain, Brecon?”

  “How in blazes could I ever invent that?” Brecon said. “To be sure, the message was not spoken directly, but conveyed through their ministers, yet the gist of it was perfectly clear. You have brought embarrassment to His Majesty, and he is not pleased.”

  Sheffield dropped back in his chair and scowled, unwilling to accept the notion that he had somehow managed to outrage not one but two kings.

  “Most every gentleman in His Majesty’s court either keeps a whore or is dallying with some other gentleman’s wife,” he said defensively. “I do not see why I should be singled out as particularly offensive.”

  “You’re singled out because of who you are,” Brecon said, his voice growing sterner with every word. “You’ve royal blood in your veins, Sheffield, the same as I do, the same as March and Hawke. We’re not like every other gentleman at court. More is expected of us. More is expected of you.”

  “I’ve already told you I am done with the marquise,” Sheffield protested. “I’ve come back to London. What more do you wish? Sackcloth and ashes and wailing my sins in the street?”

  “It wouldn’t be untoward,” Brecon said, and to Sheffield’s dismay his cousin wasn’t jesting. “The king is weary of your bachelor antics, especially among the French. How many of those women have you bedded, anyway?”

  Sheffield shrugged, which seemed safer than trying to come up with an actual number. His great-great-grandmother had been French, which likely explained his weakness for French women. The fact that his great-great-grandfather had loved her as his mistress rather than his wife might also contribute to his habits. The tendencies were in his blood and could not be help
ed.

  Not that Brecon would accept that as an excuse. “You know His Majesty wishes to make the royal court less scandalous,” he said. “He wishes to set an example for the rest of the country. You are not helping.”

  “It’s all because His Majesty was forced to marry that German princess,” Sheffield said. He had heard all about the king’s new queen, who was whispered to be disappointingly plain. “He wants us all to become as tediously wholesome and German as he is himself.”

  Brecon sighed. “You can hardly fault His Majesty for wishing others to have the same contentment he has found in his own marriage.”

  “Thus I must give up my mistress for the sake of His Majesty’s morality,” Sheffield said. “Which I have done. What more can a lowly penitent do?”

  “Marry,” Brecon said succinctly. “The king wishes you to take a suitable wife who will both keep you from the beds of French noblewomen and provide you with an heir to secure your dukedom.”

  “Marry?” Sheffield repeated, feeling his comfortable bachelor existence being snapped out from beneath his feet. “Me? Marry?”

  “It is, for most people, an agreeable condition,” Brecon said. “It was for me, at any rate.”

  “But I am not you, Brecon,” Sheffield protested. “Not at all.”

  “No, you most certainly are not,” Brecon agreed, so quickly that in any other circumstances Sheffield would have been offended. “His Majesty suggests the oldest daughter of Lord Lattimore as being suitable, and I agree.”

  Abruptly Sheffield rose and went to stand at the mantel, staring into the fire. He’d always known he must marry. Producing the next generation of little Dukes of Sheffield was really the only obligation he had to fulfill. Noblemen were paired with noblewomen, like two-legged thoroughbreds. Future duchesses could never be the daughters of coal merchants or tavern keepers. Nor, God forbid, could they be mere actresses or milliners, no matter how charming those ladies might be in their person. Pedigree always trumped charm and beauty, and most especially it trumped love.