Sophie had been on his mind ever since the day of the meeting with Emily and Giles. There was an unspoken assumption of marriage between the two. They had grown up together and it was convenient not to have to go scouting for a suitable wife. They were comfortable together, but hardly passionate.
Sophie was the kind of woman who loved being courted but was not at all enthusiastic about showing any real emotion, except for the pouty jealousy she showed the other day when confronted with Emily.
Mark had to laugh at that. He had given her no evidence that he was particularly interested in Emily, but it still elicited Sophie’s unpleasant response. And then he remembered how gracious Emily had been by insisting Sophie stay for lunch. What a splendid gesture and that only made Emily rise in his esteem.
And what about this Emily? There was no doubt in his mind she was a handsome, attractive woman. She had a dignified, almost statuesque, beauty that was elevated almost to the level of the classic beauty found in the paintings of his art collection. And that did not even take into account her stunning talent. But why was he even thinking of her? She would not be an acceptable wife to either his father or his grandmother. She was not of his class and could not seriously be considered as the new Duchess.
“Ah, a bite,” he exclaimed as he jerked on the pole to securely hook the fish. And up it came wriggling and twisting on the line. But yet another disappointment.
Mark unhooked the poor baby. “Not worth the effort, old man. Back you go. You need to grow quite a few more inches to be of interest to me.” And he tossed it back into the lake.
Mark stood thinking about his situation with Sophie and decided he needed to have a visit with his father. And that made him even sadder. How much more time would the old man have? Not very much.
He put the rod back in its hiding place, went to his horse, and headed out toward Linfield Hall, but not before giving the horse a good stretch and himself a breathless ride.
“How are you doing this morning, Father?” Mark asked, as he stood beside his father’s chair by the window in his spacious and well-appointed room. His nurse sat close by knitting.
Father looked up at him. “As you can see, I am out of bed. I feel better today.” He looked to be in pain and even thinner in his large robe wrapped tightly around him
“I am happy to hear that.”
“Did I see you riding earlier?”
Mark pulled up a chair next to his Father’s. “I was. Both I and the horse needed the exercise.”
Father thought for a moment. “I seem to remember, when you went riding, it usually meant you were troubled about something. Is that so today, as well?”
Mark laughed. “Yes, Father, you know me all too well.”
“And what is troubling you, son?”
Mark stood up and went to the window and looked out over the park to the river. “I have been troubled about Miss Sophie.”
“Ah, a subject I hoped to talk to you about.”
Mark turned back toward his father. “Tell me your thoughts?” he asked.
Father smoothed out the blanket across his lap. “Son, is it not time you should be thinking about marriage? I was already married by your age and you were nearly a year old.”
Mark came back to his chair and sat down and put his hand on his father’s arm. “Tell me about Mother—how you knew she was the one. I never get tired of hearing that story.”
Father sat back in his chair and gazed up at the ceiling, trying to recall all the details. “Ah… What a beautiful woman. But you know that. You remember her, do you not?”
“Yes, I was five or six when she died giving birth to Alice.” He lowered his head as he remembered that fateful day.
Father drifted off into his memories as he began to narrate the story of his love. “I am afraid to say I was somewhat of a rebellious young man—the bane of my father’s existence. He had set up an arranged meeting with the daughter of the Earl of Bradford. We were to meet at a ball given by Lady Smyth-Hartford. But I was stubborn and insisted I did not want to go to the ball. I found the whole British mating ritual to be abhorrent and refused to attend.”
Father began to laugh which then turned into a bout of coughing.
“Should he continue?” Mark asked as he turned to the nurse.
She went over and gave him a spoonful of medicine, which he swallowed. It seemed to ease his cough and he soon turned to Mark to continue his story.
“Where was I?”
“The ball.”
“Ah, yes. Well, having absolutely refused to go to this damn dance, your grandfather said that I should not be getting the wonderful horse I had my eye on. ‘No ball, no horse,’ he said bluntly. Well, let me tell you, I was dressed and ready to go to that damned ball on time and with a bright face.”
“Now this is the part I like,” Mark said, as he waited for his father to continue.
“The ball was nothing special. I had been to dozens just like it before. The young ladies were all too eager and the young men were all too bored. It was the general practice that one rarely got to dance with the lady you wanted. There was an unseen spider web of setups well established long before the ball even started.
“Our family arrived, and Mother settled in with a number of her cronies, and they began to gossip. Father stood over my shoulder and watched like a hawk until the lady I was to dance with all evening appeared with her family.
“I had never met the girl before, so I had no idea what to expect. But when Father pointed her out to me, I became weak in the knees and had to put my hand on his shoulder to steady my balance.
“The girl was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen in my entire life. And when she looked over in my direction and caught my eye, I just knew we were destined to be together forever.”
Father sighed. “But, of course, it was not forever,” he said sadly.
Mark put his hand on his Father’s shoulder. “We still live with that every day, do we not?”
Father gazed outward, but without seeing. “We do, Son,” he said, as he put his hand on his son’s which was still on his shoulder.
“The rest you know. We courted, we married, and we were sublimely happy.”
“And I know you tell me this because I enjoy hearing it but also, I suspect because you want to impress upon me how Sophie is the person I shall be happy with forever.”
Father gave a short nod. “Something like that. But it is not just me. Your grandmother is also concerned about your delay in marrying.”
“But she has told me she has some reservations about Sophie, as I, also, do.”
“Reservations? How is that? You have known each other since you were children. How could two people be better suited for one another?”
Mark hesitated but said, “She is a fine young woman, but there seems to be a lack of passion between us.”
“Passion? My son, what is passion? It comes early and leaves quickly. A marriage is not based on passion but compatibility and shared interests. It concerns land, inheritance, and continuity.”
“And you were very fortunate to have all of that and passion. But without the passion, I am reluctant to move forward.”
“But Mark, my Son, I hate to state the obvious, but I shall not be here much longer, and I would so like to see an heir before I go.”
“Father, you have many good years ahead of you yet.”
“I am not so certain about that, my Son.” Father cast a quick glance at the nurse.
“But would you have me be unhappy?”
“Happiness is for Heaven, not for the sorry lives we live here on earth.”
Grandmother mostly kept to her rooms and had many of her meals there, but Mark liked to connect with her at least once each day. After his conversation with his father, he wanted to speak with the Duchess and get her considered opinion on what she thought his future should be. Not that he would necessarily agree with her, but she was the oldest, if not the wisest, member of the family.
She was usually
grumpy in the evening and retired early, but he had found that she was at her best either early in the morning or at tea time in the afternoon right after her nap.
“Might I join you for tea, Grandmamma?” he asked.
“Of course, my dear. Come sit with me.”
He went over to the sofa where she often spent her time engaged in petit point or reading. He sat in a chair facing her.
“I stopped by to see your father earlier,” she said. “He seems to have improved some.”
“Yes, I went to see him, as well.”
“He told me.” Grandmother rang her bell and Baggs appeared.
“Ma’am?”
“We will have tea now. And tell Wesley I should like some buttered toast with cinnamon and sugar.”
Baggs turned to Mark. “And what would you like, sir?”
“Just a crumpet, if you please, with the wild blackberry jam.”
“Very good, Your Grace.”
“Grandmamma, what are you planning for the garden show this year? You are still entering, are you not?”
She looked at him askance. “I always do. What makes you think this year will be any different?”
“I have not seen you out in the garden with the roses yet. Usually, you are out pruning by now.”
“I am taking a different approach this season.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I pruned much earlier this year and I will not prune again until four weeks before the show. My theory is the stress will force the blooms and they will be even more spectacular.”
“Much like your theory in raising children,” Mark teased.
Grandmamma laughed. “I do not think you have had any pruning at all, according to your father.”
“Did he tell you about our chat earlier?”
“He did. And he is in a horrid kerfuffle over you not marrying.”
“Yes, and that is why I came to see you this afternoon. He is stressing the need for an heir before he… leaves us.”
“Yes, I know. But as much as he might like that to happen, it is not your responsibility to provide him one on cue. What is important is that you chose the right woman.”
“Yes, that is my point, exactly. And you have expressed subtle reservations to me about Miss Sophie.”
“Hmm. Yes, although she is lovely, I sometimes wonder if she has the grit to be your wife.”
“How do you mean?”
Wesley appeared with the tea trolley, wheeling it to where they were sitting. It was not seemly to discuss personal family matters in front of the staff so they diverted to a less sensitive topic until the tea was served and Wesley left.
“How well do you remember your mother?” Grandmother asked.
“Not well. My memories are hazy and sketchy. Sometimes I can see her face leaning over me, like when she was tucking me into bed. And sometimes I see her dressed beautifully standing at the top of the entryway staircase before descending to take the carriage to some event or other.”
Grandmother seemed lost in thought as she brought up her memories of her daughter-in-law. “But more than being just lovely, she was substantial. And by that I mean she was intelligent, caring, and able to handle almost any crisis. And that is what troubles me about your Sophie.”
“Yes, that concerns me as well,” Mark added. “I am not certain she has the depth of character that I am looking for in a wife and mother.”
Grandmother nodded. “Perhaps you might try spending more time with her. Test her out. See if she has the character. And if not, then you must begin aggressively searching for a new candidate. I agree with your father, you must make an alliance soon. I am not such a spring chicken, myself. If your father does not go first, then I just might. And I, too, should like to see an heir. And make certain any young lady you choose has the breeding and stature to be a duchess.”
“Like my mother.”
“Precisely.”
Mark stood up from the tea table. He went to the fireplace mantel where his grandmother had her miniature portraits displayed. He studied the one of his mother. It was a charming and accurate characterization of both her character and beauty.
“Father was telling me the story he has told me, so many times before, of the first time he met Mother.”
Grandmother laughed. “Is it the one about seeing her across the dance floor and falling instantly in love with her?”
“Yes. He has told it to me many times and I never tire of hearing it.”
She laughed again. “I am afraid that is a fairy story. The truth is quite different. Would you like to hear the real story?” she asked.
Mark was astonished by this new information and came back to the tea table and sat down. “Yes, tell me, please. Although, I hope my illusions will not be shattered.”
“They may well be.” She said, as she shifted in her chair and brushed off her lap the crumbs of cinnamon and sugar from her tea toast. “Well, first of all, your father had a terrible complexion as a young man. He popped out with spots on his face every week or two and the day of the ball he had one of his worse cases ever. He was so embarrassed, he said he could not go.
“But his father insisted and offered to buy him the horse he coveted if he would show himself at the dance. Now, unlike a young lady, he could not wear a hat with a veil to hide his broken-out face. So, he pleaded with me to let him cover his face with a concealing powder I had on my dressing table.
“I am not sure it helped at all. It gave his face a plastered over, matte finish that made him look like the grand-dame in a pantomime. And when he finally arrived at the ball, he stood behind me and his father and was terrified to be seen by anybody.
“But his father was insistent that he meet his intended, and when she was spotted, your father gasped and went running out of the ballroom. And it was not until the ball was half over that his father managed to bring the two of them together.
“And your mother was both truly beautiful and also gracious. She gave no indication that she was put off by your father’s appearance. But he barely spoke to her at all. It was not until several weeks later when his spots had cleared up that he felt confident enough to meet her face to face again. It was only then that they began to court and discover the special qualities each had.”
Mark nodded. “Most interesting. It gives my father a different dimension, but it is not disillusioning.”
Grandmother smiled. “I am glad to hear that. Now, young man, you have your job cut out for you. Both your father and your grandmamma need an heir, and it is up to you to do something about it.”
Chapter 8
Emily arrived at Giles’s studio a little early as she had been doing some errands for her mother beforehand. As she waited outside his studio studying the music she would be practicing, she heard the most delightful, delicate rendition of a Chopin nocturne that she, herself, had been thinking of performing. She stopped her studying and listened. Most delightful, she thought.
When the playing had finished, Giles opened his door and spoke to the unseen student. “Caro, you must still work for a lighter touch on the keys. Like a bird that walks on the beach but leaves no footprints—half walking and half flying.”
“Thank you, Professor Carter, I shall do my best,” a male voice said before appearing behind Giles at the door.
“Oh, hello,” the young man said when he saw Emily. “Emily Dunn, I have seen you play many times,” he said offering his hand.
“Oh, hello,” Emily said, struck by the gracious beauty of the young man. “And you are?”
“Excuse me, I am Linton Hawthorn. I have just started studying with Professor Giles. After hearing how lovely you played, I sought him out to make me as good as you are.”
Emily blushed. “Oh, Mr. Hawthorn, you are far too generous.”
“Not at all.”
The two stared at each other for a moment. Emily found him to be very attractive, with his finely chiseled features, long flowing black hair and surprising blue eyes. He dressed simply, as was
the fashion with humble students with little income.
A Dashing Duke for Emily Page 6
