“I hear you’ve got a rather attractive visitor at Nettlefield,” Lucien said as the two men shared a drink after Trevor’s purchase of the horses. “My valet had the news from the tweeny whose sister works in your kitchen,” he explained wryly.
Trevor’s lips twisted in a wry smile. “Glad to hear the gossip is traveling as quickly as ever through the village.” He was hardly surprised, but he had hoped for Lady Isabella to be on her way back to London before the village learned of her presenc. It was bad enough that she’d met his sisters. If the local ladies got hold of her she would tell them her reason for being at Nettlefield, and he had no wish for the collective wisdom of the village to be put to work devising reasons for him to fully accept his position as the Duke of Ormonde.
His father had made that decision for him long ago when he’d chosen to remain in Yorkshire and marry Trevor’s mother against the old duke’s wishes. If the old duke was worried about the succession then he should have thought beyond his own vanity and into the future. It was hardly Trevor’s fault that his uncle and cousin had died so young. He had no sense of loyalty to the Ormonde family at all. Especially after the way they’d cut off his father. Trevor would do his duty to the estate itself, because he knew that the people who worked for it had not chosen to cut off his father, but he would be damned if he’d go up to London and parade himself before the ton when he despised everything about the Ormonde family.
“So,” Lucien prompted, “tell me about her, this mysterious Lady Isabella Wharton who arrived in the night.”
Trevor rolled his eyes. “You make it sound like a Minerva Press novel.” He frowned. “Trust me, she is not the stuff heroines are made from.”
“Well, what stuff is she made from?” Lucien prodded. “There is little enough to amuse me here in the wilds of Yorkshire. I have never had your knack for animal husbandry or crop management. I am a shallow sort of fellow, I fear, and must needs get my entertainment from gossip.”
It was hardly an accurate assessment, Trevor thought. Luce was an excellent landowner and had ably managed his own lands since his father’s death when they were in their teens. But it was true enough that little of note happened in their tiny village, so he told him about Lady Isabella and her reason for descending upon Nettlefield in the dark of night.
“But you do not say anything about the lady’s appearance, man,” Lucien pointed out. “Please tell me that she is at least more pleasant to look at than Lucy Fenwick at The Curdled Pig.” Lucy was known village-wide as an able barmaid but hardly attractive.
“Oh, she’s beautiful if it comes to that,” Trevor said ruefully. “In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen anyone lovelier.”
“Even prettier than the Misses Sprinkle?” Lucien asked, both brows raised. The Misses Sprinkle were known far and wide as the great beauties of the county. And enjoyed the attentions of every man within a twenty-five-mile radius as a result. Both were a bit young for Trevor and Luce, however, and were, to both men’s sincere regret, as dumb as posts.
“Considerably,” Trevor confirmed. “Not least because she appears to be able to maintain more than one thought within her mind simultaneously.”
“Interesting,” Lucien said, taking a sip of coffee. “So you are naturally going to try to make the lady return to London at once.”
“It’s hardly as simple as that, Luce,” Trevor protested. “She is here for one reason and one reason only. To convince me to return to London and take my place as Ormonde. Which is something I will never, ever do. It’s not just a matter of stubbornness on my part. You know what the old duke did to my parents.”
“Of course I do,” his friend conceded. “But both your parents and the old duke are gone now. And there is a family there who is in need of your guidance.”
“I sincerely doubt that any of them are feeling my absence with any degree of discomfort. I manage the estates from here, and see to it that the dependents upon the estate are seen to. What more can they want?”
“Your presence, man,” Lucien said firmly. “I know you think that a dukedom without a duke can rub along just fine, but you know as well as I do that an absence like that will open the door to pretenders and usurpers. The dowager herself is not going to live forever. And there was something untoward about the young duke’s death. How often does a man fall on a knife?”
“Well, the dowager can damn well deal with the dukedom on her own without my help. And my cousin’s death, whether it was untoward or not, has nothing to do with me.” He shook his head. “I know you think I’m being a fool about this, Blakemore,” he said, “but I cannot simply ignore the years of rancor between my father and his family. It would be disloyal to his memory. And aside from that, I don’t wish to expose the girls to that world. Can you imagine the sort of damage the venality of the ton could do to someone as sensitive as Bel?”
“She’s a bit young for making her debut,” Blakemore said practically. “I should imagine that she’d remain in the schoolroom for several years yet. But it might do her some good to mix with girls of her own social station for a change. She can hardly run tame in the village until she’s ready to marry.”
“You know what I mean,” Trevor said. Though he did concede that Bel needed some sort of civilizing influence. “I am in the market for another governess,” he said, keeping the subject, albeit tangentially.
“Again?” Blakemore shook his head pityingly. “You’re too damned nice to them. You realize that, right?”
“I treat them with kindness and civility if that’s what you mean,” Trevor said haughtily. “It is hardly my fault that they mistake it for finer feelings.”
“Trev,” the other man said in exasperation, “they are governesses. They are unaccustomed to kindness. You have never gotten the knack of polite indifference that is necessary to interact with females of a certain station.”
“I have no difficulty with Mrs. Templeton or the maids,” Trevor argued.
“That is because you’ve known them since you were in short coats,” his friend said. “Governesses begin life as ladies for the most part, and through some unhappy circumstance find themselves working in the households of what were once their peers. It’s a damned uncomfortable situation.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Trevor demanded.
“I read,” Blakemore said with a shrug. “And I knew a lady once who was forced by circumstance to go into the profession. It is not an easy life. Even in a household where the gentlemen behave as gentlemen.”
“Hmm. I suppose you’re right that I should perhaps work on cultivating distance. But now you make me feel like a churl for hiring one at all.”
“Don’t be a nodcock. They need the work, after all. But what they do not need is for you to treat them as equals.”
“I don’t suppose you know of anyone who is looking for such a position.”
Blakemore snorted. “I’m not an employment agency, man. Though perhaps you might ask your guest if she knows of anyone. Most ladies know at least someone who is looking for a position or who has recently lost their governess.”
“Good point,” Trevor said approvingly. “Perhaps I can find a way for Lady Wharton’s visit to be useful before I send her packing.”
“Do not send her away before I am able to come make her acquaintance,” Blakemore said. “I am currently in need of a bit of dalliance, and a young, attractive widow might be an excellent prospect.”
A jolt of annoyance shot through Trevor as he pictured Lady Isabella in an embrace with his friend.
Blakemore’s mouth dropped open. “Did you just growl?” he demanded, his eyes wide.
“Of course not,” Trevor said, though he suspected that he had in fact emitted such a sound.
Blakemore’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Are you certain? Because if you have some claim on the lady I will leave her alone.”
“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
“Because you want her for yourself?”
A
silence fell between them.
“Blakemore,” Trevor said, rising from his chair.
“Yes?”
“Shut up.”
* * *
To Isabella’s surprise, the tidy sitting room of Nettlefield House was filled with no fewer than five ladies when she and Eleanor arrived. Excellent, she thought. I’m to be examined like a moth-eaten lion in the zoo. She was suddenly struck by the wish to do something vulgar, like pick her teeth or belch. Something that would set their provincial minds on edge.
“Lady Wharton,” said a woman with excessively styled blond curls, who seemed to be the leader of the group, curtsying with just the right amount of deference. “It is an honor to welcome you to Nettledale. It is not often that we are graced with someone of your social standing.”
Isabella took in the older woman’s elegantly cut gown and mentally pronounced her to be a social climber. The woman’s next words confirmed the assessment.
“My husband, Mr. Humphrey Palmer, is one of the duke’s closest friends. Indeed I cannot think of a day that’s passed in the last few months when they were not much in one another’s company.”
Behind that lady’s back, Eleanor’s eyes widened and she frowned to indicate that such was not the case.
“Indeed? How fortunate for him,” Isabella said, careful to keep her smile polite but not overly inviting. She gestured to the other ladies with her hand, and Mrs. Palmer seemed to need the reminder that they were there. “I hope you will introduce me to your friends.”
Mrs. Palmer tittered. “Oh, of course. How silly of me.” But her smile was empty of any real self-deprecation. Turning to her companions, she began introducing them. “Miss Fanny Edgerton,” she said, indicating an elderly lady with a severe expression, who offered a tight smile. Isabella had met many iterations of her type over the years, none of them pleasant. Still, Miss Edgerton seemed to disapprove of Mrs. Palmer, so that was a point in her favor. Isabella offered the old woman a smile and was rewarded with a grudging nod.
“And, this is Mrs. Green, the wife of our local squire,” Mrs. Palmer said with pursed lips. It was easy to see why Mrs. Palmer would be jealous. Mrs. Green was quite pretty, with wide blue eyes and shining red curls. But it was her youth and vivacity that the older woman must find most annoying. She could buy as many pretty gowns as she wished, but nothing would bring back the blush of youth. “Mrs. Green was fortunate enough to meet our squire when he visited Brighton last summer. It was quite the whirlwind romance. We were quite surprised that he married so soon after the first Mrs. Green’s death.”
Not batting an eye at the matron’s ungenerous words, Mrs. Green gave Isabella a warm smile. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Lady Wharton. I will be more than happy to offer you a cup of tea if you will be in residence long enough for such things. We are quite proud of our little corner of Yorkshire.” She glanced sideways at Mrs. Palmer. “Even one so lately arrived like me.”
Strangely touched by the young woman’s generosity, Isabella smiled back. “I do not know how long it will take for my carriage to be repaired, but if I do stay more than a few days I should like that.” She might regret the decision later, but it was difficult to remain unmoved in the face of such a good-spirited welcome. Even from someone she’d never encounter in town. “Thank you.”
The invitation was echoed by the other ladies, though whether it sprang from genuine welcome or from a desire to compete with Mrs. Green Isabella could not say. She was so accustomed to the cool civility of town manners, however, that the easy welcome came as a refreshing change.
Next she was presented to Lady Penelope Frith and her sister Mrs. Leonie Kilmarten. Both ladies were widows of a certain age, and it was clear from Mrs. Palmer’s introduction that they were influential in the neighborhood. “It was Lady Penelope and Mrs. Kilmarten who first welcomed me into the village when I married my own dear husband,” Mrs. Palmer said glacially. So much for the warmth, Isabella thought. However, the chill seemed reserved for the sisters, so perhaps she shouldn’t be so sensitive. There was clearly some sort of rivalry among the women. Lady Penelope’s title probably did not help matters.
“Lady Wharton,” Lady Penelope said with the haughty tones that only someone born into the aristocracy could manage, “I believe I am acquainted with your godmother, the Dowager Duchess of Ormonde.” She glanced round the room, as if getting the others’ attention, “She is the grandmother of our dear duke, you know,” she said, as if Isabella were unaware of the fact.
“Are you indeed, Lady Penelope?” Isabella asked coolly. This was the sort of provincial posturing she’d expected. Fortunately for her sake, she’d been taught at the knee of the most condescending of them all. “I believe my godmother is acquainted with a great many people,” she continued, furrowing her brow just a smidgeon to affect puzzlement. “She has never mentioned you, I’m afraid.”
But Lady Penelope was not cowed. “Dear me,” she said, arching one narrow brow, refusing to acknowledge the slight. “The old dear can hardly be expected to remember everyone, I suppose.”
“Quite,” Isabella returned, preparing to move on.
Lady Penelope, however, was not finished. “We were quite good friends when I lived in London with my dear, dear Alfred. I hope you will remember me to her when you see her next.”
“I shall endeavor to do so,” Isabella said without much enthusiasm. She knew well enough that the dowager was approached by countless social climbers and hangers-on on a day-to-day basis. Just the sort of person the duke had thought Isabella to be last evening. She sincerely doubted that an elderly widow living in the wilds of Yorkshire would be worth the dowager’s notice. Still, she would mention Lady Penelope. If for no other reason than to see her godmother rack her brains trying to remember how she knew her. The dowager despised it when she forgot things.
Realizing that the ladies would stand about posturing socially forever without some distraction, Isabella turned to Eleanor. “Perhaps you should ring for some refreshments for your guests, Miss Eleanor.”
The girl blushed but seemed grateful to have guidance. It was clear that she had no notion of how to handle a parade of callers, much less callers who were intent upon staying as long as they could possibly manage.
They chatted amiably while they waited for the arrival of the tray, and once it did, a bit of the tension in the room dissipated. Nothing like a shared cup of tea to calm things among a group of feuding ladies.
She had just begun to pour when Mrs. Kilmarten, as bold and demanding as her sister, asked the question Isabella had been expecting from the first.
“What brings you to Yorkshire, Lady Wharton?”
The words hung in the air above the tea table for a moment as the ladies watched Isabella avidly for some response.
It would serve them, and the duke, right if she lied and said that she was the duke’s betrothed and she’d come up to Yorkshire to marry him at last. She enjoyed imagining the varying degrees of horror they’d evince in the face of such a shocking revelation. Small country villages were marvelous for generating scandal, she thought wryly.
Instead, however, she kept somewhat closer to the truth. “Well, Mrs. Kilmarten,” she said, taking a fortifying sip of tea, “I was sent on a very important errand by the Dowager Duchess of Ormonde.”
Isabella debated telling them the whole truth: that she’d been sent to convince the duke to take up his duties. What better impetus for the duke to take up his responsibilities than to escape the haranguing of the neighborhood ladies? She would certainly think twice before running that gauntlet. Even so, she did not wish to say it before Eleanor, who was an innocent party in the matter. So she said instead, “The dowager would like for the duke to attend her birthday celebration next month at the family town house in London.”
It was true enough that the dowager would like for him to attend her birthday celebration. The fact that she would wish him to do so after being presented at court as the new Duke of Ormonde and taking up his seat
in the House of Lords was beside the point. At least that’s what Isabella told herself.
Despite Isabella’s wish to protect the girl, however, Eleanor was intrigued by Isabella’s prevarication. “I should very much like to visit London to celebrate my grandmother’s birthday,” the girl said, her eyes alight. “We have yet to meet her, you know. And I feel sure that she notices the slight. I know I should if I were a grandmother who had never met my grandchildren.”
Before Isabella could address that misguided notion of the dowager’s sentimentality, a male voice sounded from the doorway. “As you well know, Eleanor,” Ormonde said, “we are not on speaking terms with our grandmother. And the dukedom does not change the matter.”
He stepped into the room, looking virile and masculine and completely foreign in the room of ladies and tea and biscuits. Isabella was quite sure that every woman in the room—even the elderly ones—sat up straighter and mentally smoothed her hair as he gave a slight bow. “Ladies,” Ormonde said, his voice deep and with just a thread of humor in it. “I trust you have been keeping our guest entertained.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Mrs. Palmer said with a fatuous smile. “We could not allow her to think us complete savages here in Yorkshire. A lady of such status is such an infrequent sight in these parts. We are quite honored by her presence.”
“I feel sure Lady Wharton appreciates your condescension,” Ormonde said with a quirked brow at Isabella. “She doubtless was starving for civilized company after her ordeal on the road yesterday.”
“You are right, of course, Your Grace,” Isabella said with an answering raised brow. “I vow I cannot go above four hours without some sort of socialization. Otherwise I grow intensely bored. So much so that it is quite difficult to pass an evening alone.”
At her provocative words the duke’s mouth thinned. “Indeed, Lady Wharton? I hope that you will not find us to be too tame here. Perhaps it would be best if you returned to London sooner rather than later. We would not wish you to expire from dullness. Or lack of … companionship.”
Why Dukes Say I Do Page 4
