When the Duke Found Love

by Isabella Bradford

  But this morning was different. They had all stayed at Lady Fortescue’s house long after midnight, and Diana had not been undressed and in bed until nearly three. Yet as exhausted as she’d been, her thoughts—and her conscience—were far too tangled to let her sleep, and the sun was just beginning to rise when at last she’d drifted off. All she wished now was to return to blissful sleep and forget about the Duke of Sheffield, Lord Crump, and everything she’d said and done with them both.

  “You’ve only twenty-five minutes now to eat and dress, my lady,” Sarah warned, the chocolate pot in her hand poised to pour. “Unless you wish me to send Her Grace your regrets.”

  “No, no, Sarah, I’ll rise.” Diana pushed herself upright, sending a disgruntled Fig sprawling to one side. “I cannot disappoint the children, and Charlotte will remind me of it all the day if I am late.”

  She took the cup and saucer that Sarah offered, sipping from it before setting the cup alone back down on the tray. While Sarah watched in silent disapproval, Diana filled the deep-sided saucer with the extra cream intended for the chocolate, then set it on the bed for Fig. With a chirrup of pleasure, the little cat settled down, her tail straight behind, and began to lap the cream while Diana gently ran her hand along the silky fur of her back. Fig had come with her from Ransom, one of her few remaining connections with their old life in Dorset. As cats went, Fig was no beauty—no matter how much cream she ate, she remained small and bony and her fur an irregular patchwork of tawny brown and black and cream—but she was afraid of nothing, and as devoted to Diana as Diana was to her.

  “Best leave that cat be, my lady,” Sarah said, “and come to your dressing table so I may begin your hair.”

  Obediently Diana climbed from the bed, slipped her arms into the silk dressing gown that Sarah held up for her, and plucked an iced raisin bun from the plate. As soon as she’d sat on the cushioned bench before the looking glass, Sarah had begun pulling apart Diana’s long nighttime braid and began brushing furiously at her honey-gold hair.

  “You needn’t do anything fancy, Sarah,” Diana said, wincing from the brushing as she ate the bun. “I’ll just be in the garden.”

  “There’s undress for Dorset, my lady, and then there’s undress for London,” Sarah said, deftly smoothing and twisting Diana’s hair. “Her Grace expects you to present yourself as is proper for Marchbourne House.”

  Diana sighed wistfully, pulling the raisins one by one from the bun. In the old days at Ransom, she and Charlotte would have chosen ragged boy’s breeches, oversized sailor’s jerseys, and bare feet, and they’d have been as happy and free on the beach as the gulls wheeling over their heads. But now Charlotte was the Duchess of Marchbourne and the mistress of this house and two more besides, and she was required to dress in silk and furs and jewels. Although a marquis was not so grand as a duke, Diana supposed the same would be expected of her once she married Lord Crump.

  Lady Diana, Marchioness of Crump. Oh, she did not want to be reminded of what she’d done! Desperately she tried to put it from her mind and think of something, anything, other than how last night she’d announced to her world that she was going to marry Lord Crump.

  But what—or who—came to mind at once was far worse: the Duke of Sheffield, his dark hair tousled and his gray eyes shining with merriment as he smiled at her, sharing the secret of how she’d boldly, wantonly kissed him.

  She closed her eyes for a moment and gave her head a fierce shake, then with a deep breath looked around for any distraction.

  “What are those, Sarah?” she asked. One of the large silver salvers from the front hall was sitting on a nearby chair. The salver was piled high with cards and folded letters, and even without reading any of them, Diana could tell from the well-bred penmanship and the crowns and coronets pressed into the sealing wax that they’d come from some of the most noble addresses in London.

  “Lady Hervey said they’re for you, my lady,” Sarah said, her mouth bristling with hairpins as she dressed Diana’s hair. “Her ladyship says they’re congratulations upon the announcement of your coming marriage, all delivered this morning.”

  Unhappily Diana looked at the piled salver. Each of those letters and cards represented one more person she could not disappoint, and every good wish they contained sealed her betrothal to Lord Crump a bit more firmly, bound her a bit more inexorably to him.

  “Her ladyship ordered them brought up to you,” Sarah continued, “for you to read and acknowledge, my lady.”

  Mama would expect her to answer them all this afternoon. Only a sentence or two would be required, and likely the same sentence or two. But written over and over, it would be like a schoolroom punishment—especially since it would be a sentiment of joy that Diana did not feel.

  With her hair done, Sarah dressed her quickly. Her days of boy’s breeches might have passed, but at least she wasn’t expected to wear silk for paddling in the pond. Instead she wore a plain dark red linen jacket over a blue-and-white-striped linen petticoat, and a kerchief printed with roses over her shoulders and breast. To keep the sun from her face, she pinned on a wide-brimmed straw hat with red ribbons tied at the nape of her neck.

  She was taking another bun from the breakfast tray just as the clock on the mantel struck eleven. Quickly she stuffed the rest of the bun into her mouth, scooped Fig from the bed and tucked her into her arms, and hurried from her bedchamber and toward the stairs.

  Marchbourne House was very large and very grand, and even at a swift pace, it took her several minutes to race along the corridor from her bedchamber, past bowing footmen and maidservants, and down the marble staircase. The garden door was within sight when a footman hurried toward her.

  “Lady Diana,” he said. “Lady Hervey wishes you to join her now in the green room.”

  “Now?” Diana stopped abruptly. “But I am on my way to join Her Grace in the garden.”

  “Forgive me, my lady,” he said, bowing again as if to apologize. “Lady Hervey said now.”

  “Now,” she repeated with resignation. At least Charlotte would understand, considering it was Mama delaying her. “Very well. Please tell Her Grace in the garden that I shall be with her as soon as Lady Hervey releases me.”

  She left him and headed back to the green room, a small chamber to the front of the house that her mother used as her office and sitting room whenever they stayed with Charlotte. With walls papered in a pattern of oversized white and yellow tulips, the little room seemed always washed with sunshine, its cheerfulness very much like Mama herself.

  Today Mama shared the green room with another. She sat in one of the curving armchairs that flanked the fireplace, and in the other was Brecon. Diana wasn’t surprised; the duke was often with her mother. They’d both lost their spouses early in life, and Mama seemed as willing to turn to him for advice about business and legal affairs as Brecon was eager to offer it. Diana understood perfectly well why her mother would like a gentleman-friend such as Brecon. She was fond of Brecon, too, enjoying his company as if he were a favorite uncle who told silly stories over dinner. He was amusing and gallant and relatively handsome, for all that he must be at least forty, though Diana could never be sure with older people.

  But Brecon and Mama certainly seemed happy enough now—so happy, in fact, that Diana had the uncomfortable feeling of interrupting as she stood in the doorway.

  “Come in, lamb, come in,” Mama said. She was dressed to make calls or visit shops, in a painted silk morning gown, a frilled linen cap, a lace scarf over her shoulders, and matching worked mitts on her hands, while her pelisse and hat lay ready on her desk. Smiling, she patted the seat of the chair beside hers to encourage Diana to join her. “There’s no need to look so uncertain. We’ve only the pleasantest matters to discuss.”

  “How is Mistress Fig this day?” Brecon asked. He, too, was dressed to go out, in a dark blue coat, dark beaver hat, and tan buckskin breeches, or perhaps that was simply what he’d chosen to wear to call here. “Her whiskers ar
e looking particularly glossy.”

  Diana grinned, taking the chair beside her mother. When Brecon smiled at her like that, she saw at once the cousinly resemblance between him and Sheffield: a most inconvenient observation to make this morning, and one she tried hard to forget.

  “If Fig’s whiskers are glossy, it’s because she has had an especially large saucer of cream this morning,” she said as the little cat circled around and around on her lap before finally settling. “Likely there’s still some on her whiskers.”

  Brecon laughed, but Mama’s expression was a bit wryer.

  “It would seem Fig’s not the only one wearing her breakfast,” she said, not so much scolding as observing. “Truly, Diana, sometimes I do despair. I know poor Sarah does her best with you, but here you are, scarce out of bed, yet already covered with crumbs and cat hairs.”

  Already knowing what she’d find, Diana glanced down at her jacket. The dark red linen was sprinkled with white crumbs and a smear of sugar icing, added to a scattered dusting of Fig’s fur.

  “Forgive me, Mama,” she said, brushing her bodice as best she could. “I didn’t intend to be untidy. But all I’ve to do this morning is sail boats with Charlotte and the children, and I doubt they’ll care.”

  “But you should, Diana.” Mama sighed. “One day you’ve plumes in your hat as tall as Westminster’s towers, so fashionably dressed that you’d give a Parisian lady pause, and the next you look ready to muck the stables. There should be some balance. A true lady draws admiration for herself, not for what she wears.”

  Now Diana sighed, too, for this was not a new conversation. “You mean you wish me to be more like Charlotte.”

  “No, I do not,” Mama said. “I wish you to be yourself, Diana. Only a less extreme version, if you please.”

  Diana sighed again, thinking how there was enough sighing between her and Mama this morning to blow a ship across the Channel. Mama wasn’t being particularly honest, either. Diana was certain she’d much prefer her to be a precise copy of Charlotte. What mother wouldn’t? Charlotte always did the proper thing, whether choosing a suitable gown, arranging guests for a formal supper, or producing sons to secure March’s dukedom, and she did it so pleasantly that few realized how impossibly perfect she was. Of course Diana did, having to follow after such an exemplary older sister. Even if she wished to be like Charlotte, she could never be as dutiful. It simply wasn’t in her blood.

  “You must think of Lord Crump now as well as yourself,” Mama was saying. “I’m sure he would much prefer to have his wife as an ornament at his side, rather than drawing stares of amazement from strangers.”

  “I could put plumes in my nose, and I doubt Lord Crump would take notice. Tall curled ostrich plumes, dyed crimson.”

  Brecon laughed, until Mama shot him a look of warning that made him smother it into a restrained cough.

  “Certainly Lord Crump would notice,” Mama said. “Gentlemen always take notice of what ladies wear. They simply don’t feel the need to comment on every scrap. Still, if you were to wear your cherry-colored silk tomorrow night when Lord Crump attends the theater with us, I doubt even he will be able to resist smiling at you with pleasure.”

  “You have asked him to come with us, Mama?” Diana asked faintly, her heart sinking. “Tomorrow?”

  Mama nodded, smiling warmly. “I thought he would enjoy it, and heaven knows there’s plenty of room in March’s box. We never begin to fill the chairs.”

  “It’s not that his lordship wouldn’t enjoy the play,” Diana said, looking down at Fig in her lap. “It’s only that, ah, I do not wish us to appear too forward. Last night I thought he seemed somewhat, ah, startled that I’d accepted his proposal as quickly as I did. Perhaps he needs a bit more time apart for considering. To be completely certain in his choice, you know.”

  That was her only hope now: that Lord Crump would have second thoughts and break off the match. A gentleman could do that, and though he’d be faulted for a while, he could still marry someone else. But a lady would forever be known as a jilt if she changed her mind and went back on her word, a reputation that would keep away all other suitors.

  To be sure, it was a slender hope, and Brecon soon squashed it flat.

  “Nonsense,” Brecon said briskly, leaving no further room for doubt. “What has the man to consider? A most delightful young lady has accepted his proposal of marriage. I’m sure he’s as proud as the day, and with every good reason, too.”

  Mama leaned forward eagerly. “Most likely he was simply stunned by his good fortune, that was all. I saw not a hint of reluctance from him. But I thought that was why we should include him in our party tomorrow night. The sooner we welcome him into our family, the sooner he will feel at ease among us.”

  Diana ran her fingers along Fig’s spine, ruffling her fur back and forth. “I’m not sure Lord Crump feels at ease anywhere.”

  “Clearly he does in your company,” Mama said, resting her hand gently on Diana’s knee. “And no wonder, when you are being so very thoughtful and considerate for his sake. Oh, Diana, I am so happy for you!”

  “We all are,” Brecon said. “I’m sure your head was spinning too fast to hear it, but there was nothing but praise for the match last night at Fortescue’s. It’s most satisfying to see such a creditable arrangement made between two young persons of rank.”

  “That’s it exactly, Brecon,” Mama agreed, then turned back to Diana. “But it’s not only about having you become a marchioness, lamb. It’s that you have appreciated Lord Crump’s virtues in a mature and sober manner. You and I both know that you’ve often preferred a handsome face above all things, and I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am to see you put aside impulse and frivolity and make such a wise decision about your life.”

  There was a little trembling in Mama’s voice that betrayed the depth of her emotions. Diana knew that if she looked up from Fig’s patterned fur even for a second, she’d soon be crying, too, not from emotion but from the truth.

  She hadn’t made a wise choice, not at all. Instead she’d made the most important decision of her life based on exactly the kind of impulse and frivolity that Mama thought she’d outgrown. Worse still, she’d done it because of the handsome face of the Duke of Sheffield, and she’d acted entirely in reaction to his own announcement.

  “The carriage is here,” Brecon said, glancing through the window as he rose to leave.

  “The carriage can wait,” Mama said lightly, her hand still on Diana’s knee. “I’ll be there soon enough.”

  Over and over Diana ran her hand over Fig’s fur, feeling the vibrations of the little cat’s purr beneath her fingers. She could still confess everything to Mama, from how she’d first met Sheffield and Fantôme in the park to how she’d kissed him last night, and most of all, how she despaired of ever being happy with Lord Crump for her husband. Last night, as she’d tossed sleeplessly in her bed, she’d imagined doing exactly that.

  And if she did? There would be tears and unhappiness and abject misery, but in the end, likely nothing would change. Mama wouldn’t understand, at least not enough to make a difference. Instead Diana must be like every other lady of her class. She must be obedient, and she must marry Lord Crump, just as everyone expected, and make the best of it. All a confession now would accomplish would be to upset and disappoint Mama, and that Diana did not wish to do.

  Perhaps, after all, she was more like Charlotte than she’d ever realized.

  With a shuddering gulp, she forced herself to look up from Fig and meet her mother’s gaze.

  “Thank you, Mama,” she said, determined to be strong. “I am grateful for your faith in me, however undeserved.”

  “You deserve everything, lamb,” Mama said, slipping her arms around Diana to kiss her forehead. “You’ll see. You’re not as happy as you should be now, but in time, you’ll have the love and the life that you deserve.”

  But as Diana buried her face against her mother’s shoulder, she didn’t believe she
deserved anything at all.

  Sheffield followed the servant through Marchbourne House with Fantôme at his side, his footsteps and the click of Fantôme’s claws echoing as they crossed the patterned marble floors. This was the largest of the town houses—it was really nearer to a palace—belonging to the cousins, and the grandest as well. The last time Sheffield had been here, soon after March and Charlotte had been married, the place still had felt like a bachelor’s residence. March, too, had absorbed the lessons of diligence and responsibility from Brecon, and this house had shared the same dull and dutiful air: beautiful, lavish, filled with exquisite paintings and furniture, but with all the cheer of a tomb.

  Somehow Charlotte had managed to change that. Sheffield couldn’t begin to guess how, but just as she’d thawed March, she’d also done the same with Marchbourne House. The marble floors were the same, as was the army of servants, and the same somber ancestors stared down from the walls. But now there were fresh flowers in porcelain vases everywhere, and in the rooms they passed Sheffield saw how the chairs were invitingly cushioned and drawn close around fireplaces, and that there were smaller, more cheerful paintings of family pets and laughing children among the portraits of long-dead ancestors. Less tangible was the new sense of a family at home here, with four lively young children plus Charlotte’s mother and, most noteworthy, Lady Diana.

  Would a wife make the same transformation in Sheffield House? His own London house was smaller, elegant rather than grand. Though it was all Sheffield’s, and had been for many years, in a way he still thought of it as his parents’ house, with everything virtually unchanged since his mother had arranged it. It was just as well that Lady Enid would not become the next duchess; she’d probably want to put busts of Homer and Virgil in every room and turn the ballroom into the library. He smiled, thinking of what his mother would have made of such additions.