How to Marry a Duke

by Vicky Dreiling

  “There they are,” his mother said.

  His sister and Georgette followed an unsmiling Tessa into the drawing room. All three curtseyed. Tessa sat apart from the girls and accepted a cup of tea.

  “Excuse me,” Hawk said. Then he claimed a chair next to Tessa and engaged her in conversation.

  Tristan turned away. He would not let her see what her refusal had done to him. By God, he’d offered her everything, and she’d refused him.

  Boswood cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would take me on a tour of the spectacular gardens.”

  Tristan knew better than to let Boswood corner him. “Perhaps another time,” Tristan said. “My mother will take it very ill if we leave.”

  Boswood sipped his brandy. “Shall we move out of ear range?”

  Tristan followed Boswood over to the open French windows overlooking the mansion’s front entrance. The breeze stirred the marquess’s thinning gray hair.

  Bloody hell. Tristan couldn’t allow his inner turmoil to distract him. Boswood was a ruthless politician with numerous allies. His ambitions knew no bounds. Every word he spoke was calculated to manipulate his opponents. Tristan could not let down his guard.

  He kept silent as he gazed down at the parterre where a riot of colorful blossoms sprang alongside the tall, clipped hedges and conical shrubs. Long before his father had bled the estates dry, a landscape artist had designed the formal gardens. Tristan had planned to show them to Tessa, but everything had changed yesterday.

  He had only himself to blame.

  Boswood sipped his drink. “I had misgivings about allowing my daughter to participate in this courtship.”

  His mild tone did not fool Tristan. “Yet you allowed it.”

  “My wife convinced me our daughter stood no chance with you otherwise.” Boswood’s eyes glittered dangerously as he regarded Tristan. “You have a sister, Shelbourne. I imagine you would kill any man who played fast and loose with her.”

  He found the coy threat ridiculous. “Defense is the best offense. I protect my sister to prevent any harm coming to her.”

  Boswood arched his brows. “Would you allow her to enter into a similar courtship?”

  “If you disapprove of your daughter’s involvement, you may withdraw her. I will not take offense.”

  “Does my daughter mean so little to you, Shelbourne? You would let her go so easily?”

  True to his character, Boswood had laid a smooth trap, one intended to force Tristan to declare his intentions or risk insulting Georgette. “I have the highest regard for your daughter and for Miss Hardwick as well.”

  The marquess inclined his head. “A diplomatic response. While we have not always agreed upon matters of state, I appreciate your caution and your astute opinions.”

  Another of Boswood’s famous tactics: Bowl over your opponent with a compliment and then go in for the kill. Tristan let the statement pass without comment, but remained alert.

  The marquess looked out the window and said nothing for several minutes. When he spoke, his voice sounded rough. “She’s my only daughter.”

  Tristan’s neck prickled at the unexpected words.

  After a few minutes, Boswood spoke again. “Her brothers were easy. Throw them out into the world, knowing they’ll grow tough and wild until they settle down to their responsibilities. But I still see Georgette in braids carrying around a kitten like a doll. I know I can’t keep her at home forever.” Boswood looked at him. “But I won’t give her up unless I know the man she marries will adore her as I do.”

  Boswood might as well have punched him in the gut.

  Tristan met the man’s eyes, knowing what it had cost the powerful politician to make such an admission. He understood how Boswood felt, for he felt the same way about Julianne. But Tristan could not tell Boswood what he wanted to hear, would not lie to the man. “One of the reasons I decided to hold the final session here was so I could get to know both girls better. In London, there is too much scrutiny—the scandal sheets, the ton. I feel an obligation to both girls—to give them equal consideration. But they should also have a say in the matter. And so should you and Hardwick.” Your daughters are too good for me.

  Boswood cleared his throat. “It’s hard on the girls.”

  “I imagine it is,” Tristan said. “All the decisions have been mine, though I gave them the opportunity to bow out.”

  “That is not what causes my Georgette anguish.”

  Tristan waited for him to supply the answer.

  “The damnable thing is, Shelbourne, you chose the two girls who are fast friends.”

  And forced them to compete against each other. For him.

  All these weeks, he’d given only cursory thought to the way the girls and their families felt about the courtship. He’d made an unspoken promise to choose either Amy or Georgette for his wife. Guilt seared his gut. Yesterday, he’d betrayed them.

  They would never know, but he would.

  He’d proven himself to be his father’s son after all.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The letter from Tristan’s secretary arrived Wednesday morning.

  After breakfast, he sat in his private study reading the lines. The vicar, the tenants, and the villagers all praised Tessa. She made frequent donations to the poor and visited the sick. Tessa often patronized the village shops and made multiple purchases. All the shopkeepers knew she could find much finer goods in London.

  He scowled as he realized his secretary had filled an entire page with glowing commentary about her. The devil. Tristan had asked him for a report on Mortland, not a syrupy ode to Tessa’s many virtues. With an impatient sigh, he turned the page.

  The following paragraphs about Mortland were not conclusive. His secretary had made several visits to the local tavern. No one had definitive information, but all had thought him a shiftless young man with no career aspirations. The local men confessed they were surprised when Wentworth purchased a military commission for Mortland. A few suggested the late earl might have caught Mortland at some nefarious deed. More ominously, shortly after Mortland had reported for military duty, one of the village girls had left suddenly for a supposed position as an upstairs maid at a grand manor in Derbyshire. She’d never returned, and her family had refused to speak to Tristan’s secretary about her.

  Tristan locked the letter in his desk and leaned back in his chair. Mortland might have gotten the village girl with child. Upon learning of it, Tessa’s uncle would have made secret arrangements to send the blackguard away before he harmed another. Of course he would not have told Tessa or anyone else in order to save the village girl’s family from embarrassment.

  A tap sounded at the door. Hawk poked his head inside. “I have news if you’ve a moment to spare.”

  “Come in,” Tristan said. After Hawk slouched in a chair before the desk, Tristan told him about the letter from his secretary.

  “Your theory about the village girl sounds plausible,” Hawk said. “My cousin Henry sent a report about Mortland’s military career. Of those who remembered Mortland, most believe he deserted at Toulouse. With the confusion of the bridge falling, there was no proof.”

  “What about the French family?” Tristan asked.

  Hawk shifted in his chair. “He might or might not have spent time with French peasants. What I do know is that my cousin’s spies tracked Mortland in London. He’s been there for at least six months, possibly longer.”

  “What?” Tristan stared at Hawk. “The Bow Street runner didn’t uncover this information.”

  “Because he was only looking for Mortland’s current activities. Where else could Mortland hide so well? The gaming hells and prostitutes would have drawn him,” Hawk said.

  “Mortland told me he contacted his sister after reading about her marriage in English newspapers in Paris. I should have guessed he was in London.” Tristan frowned. “I’m surprised Broughton did not discover more in his investigation of Mortland’s military career.”

  “
My cousin looked into that. Mortland’s superior officer thought the lieutenant dead and didn’t want to unsettle Broughton, since he’d written on behalf of his wife.”

  Tristan scrubbed his hand over his face. “Bloody hell.”

  Hawk brushed his sleeve. “The overwhelming evidence proves Mortland is a bad character.”

  Tristan jerked out of his chair and paced before the fire. “I’d planned to talk to Broughton when we return to London. Broughton is no fool. He’s bound to know Mortland is accumulating debts.”

  “You’ve got the proof you sought. Present it to Broughton. He’ll cut off Mortland without a penny.”

  Tristan met Hawk’s gaze. “It’s not enough. Mortland wants Tessa’s fortune. I’ll have to get Broughton to agree to hand him over to a press gang. I’m sure Broughton will be only too happy to be rid of him.”

  Hawk lifted his brows.

  “What?” Tristan said irritably.

  “If you care for her, and I know you do, don’t let her Christian name slip again.”

  The next day, Amy and her parents arrived. Tristan liked the rotund Hardwick, more so when the man confessed his grandfather came from trade—a shopkeeper. Hardwick didn’t want it to come as a surprise. Tristan assured him it did not affect his opinion of Amy. He’d told Hardwick he held the greatest esteem for Amy and then wanted to kick himself when he saw the man’s eyes light up with hope.

  He didn’t deserve Hardwick’s daughter.

  After luncheon, his mother insisted on taking everyone for a house tour. She’d left the gallery for last. Tristan took first Amy and then Georgette about the room, telling stories about his ancestors. Both girls had made polite comments, but he could tell they weren’t much interested in the ducal battles of yore. He ought to have known better. And then he watched them gather round his sister, saw their animated expressions, and suspected they preferred Julianne to him.

  His gaze strayed to Tessa as the entire party trooped to the other wall. He stilled at the sight of her pale complexion. She’d barely eaten today. Bloody hell, he’d damn well make himself stop watching her. By God, he would not worry about her. She was just another of his former lovers. He’d left them with nary a thought. He would forget her as well.

  His mother stopped before the enormous painting of his father. “This portrait of my husband was commissioned shortly after Julianne’s birth,” she said.

  Georgette and Amy exclaimed over Tristan’s resemblance to his father. Tessa stood near his mother. Two days had passed since he’d brought her here. It felt like weeks.

  His mother started relating her fairy tale version of her courtship. As she droned on, Tristan turned his face away. Lady Boswood exchanged a speaking glance with her husband. And then she regarded Tristan’s mother with pity.

  He strode off to the fireplace and leaned his hands against the mantel. Where the hell was his mother’s pride? But then she’d never had any when it came to his bloody father. The man was dead. Gone. Dust to dust. She ought to thank God. But no, after thirteen years, she still refused to let go of her illusions. If he’d ever had any, he’d lost them after burying his misbegotten sire.

  At the swish of skirts, he stiffened. Leave me alone.

  Tessa walked up beside him. “Tristan,” she whispered. “She needs to hold on to her happy memories of him.”

  He kept his eyes on the marble mantel and gritted out, “You know nothing.”

  She was silent for a moment. “I know a little. And I feel a lot.”

  He whipped his furious gaze to her. “You do not understand. They know.”

  Her eyes widened. “Know what?”

  Tristan lowered his face to hers and gave her a cold look. “He flaunted his mistresses in public. In front of my mother.”

  She winced. “That explains why she only speaks of the courtship and nothing else. She wants others to know he loved her once.”

  A bitter laugh escaped him. “No, he loved her fortune.”

  The next afternoon, the duchess instructed Tessa to take all the young people out for a walk among the grounds. The elderly people, she’d said, would play cards indoors.

  A cool spring breeze fluttered Tessa’s bonnet ribbons. The oak trees across the lake were monstrously large, perhaps as old and venerable as Tristan’s lineage. She stood well back, the silent observer, watching Hawk teach Julianne and Amy how to skim pebbles on the lake. Their laughter rang out periodically. Hawk, the consummate charmer, was teasing them. Amy learned quickly and skimmed a pebble over the glassy blue-green water. Hawk mussed her hair, and Amy danced a little jig with Julianne. They looked carefree and happy.

  A shriek drew Tessa’s attention to the right, where Tristan was pushing Georgette higher and higher on a swing. He met Tessa’s gaze and gave her a cynical smile. Then he caught Georgette from behind, lowered the swing, and leaned over her with his face upside down, making the girl giggle. When he straightened, he cast a swift, hard glance at Tessa. Then he walked round the swing. He grasped Georgette’s waist and lifted her up in the air, making her shriek again.

  Tessa’s heart knocked against her chest as he lowered Georgette slowly to her feet and held on to her waist. He gazed into the girl’s wide eyes.

  Tessa stood frozen in the spring sunshine as his words came back to haunt her. He flaunted his mistresses in public. In front of my mother.

  He’d made sure she would see him. He meant to pay her back for refusing his proposal. He meant to flaunt Georgette because he knew she was jealous of the girl.

  It was the opera all over again, only this time, he knew she was watching. She’d wounded him, and he meant to hurt her. Only this time, it wasn’t a thousand knives stabbing her heart. This time, he’d thrust a single broadsword into her heart, the same one she’d imagined him wielding that first day he’d called upon her. She stood there bleeding from the inside out while he exacted retribution.

  A burning sensation shot up through her throat, stinging her nose and her eyes. She whipped around, because she would not let him see the furious tears threatening to spill. Her side ached as she marched off faster and faster. She wished she’d never come. Never met him.

  Running footsteps thudded behind her, and then a hand shot out to grab her elbow. Stunned, she stared up into Hawk’s laughing eyes. He let her go, made a ridiculous courtly leg, and offered his hand. “Dance with me, mademoiselle?”

  She glanced past him to see Tristan and the girls watching. Two could play this game, she thought. She looked at Tristan once more to ensure he knew she was about to do a little flaunting herself. Then she curtseyed to Hawk, and suddenly he led her round the grass in a waltz, a dance she’d only observed because no one ever asked. Hawk counted the steps the whole time, and she laughed as if she’d not a care in the world. Then he stopped, grabbed her hand, and propelled her along in a run toward the lake.

  She was out of breath by the time they reached the edge of the water. Julianne’s pretty blue eyes filled with misery. Tessa despised herself for hurting the girl, when she knew Julianne adored Hawk. But she meant to rectify the situation immediately. So she pushed Hawk at Julianne. “He’s your prisoner,” she said.

  Julianne’s eyes lit up, and she called Amy to help her. The two girls started leading him away. Tristan bent his head, speaking to Georgette. Her eyes shone as she curtseyed, and then she ran off to join her friends.

  Tristan watched until they disappeared, and then he strode toward Tessa. She turned and walked in the direction of the house, because she owed him nothing.

  “I never marked you for a coward,” he called out.

  She spun around, her face hot with anger, and marched toward him. He met her halfway and grabbed her upper arm. “Miss Mansfield, you are my prisoner for the next few minutes.”

  He left her not a second to protest as he took off. Tristan strode diagonally through the forest, off the path, and she struggled to keep up. Her lungs constricted, as much from fear as the grueling pace he set, but she vowed she would never show
it. Then he stopped and backed her up against a tree, holding her wrists at her sides.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  He released her, but he didn’t step back. A muscle ticked in his cheek. He was breathing hard, his blue eyes stormy.

  She drew in her breath. “I played your childish game back there, but I’ll not make that mistake again. And I won’t watch you use that little girl as a pawn in your quest for vengeance.”

  “Jealous?” he said.

  Her temper ignited. “This is not about Georgette, and you know it. You are angry because I refused you. You ought to be relieved, but your pride is in it now. Do not for one moment suppose that you seduced me. We have been playing with fire from almost the first moment we met. Both of us knew better, but still we flirted and danced a dangerous game. I will not blame what happened in that carriage on being swept away by passion. We took precautions to prevent consummation, and that alone is proof we both knew exactly what we were doing. We let it happen because we both wanted to step right up to the bonfire and let the heat scorch us.”

  “The reasons do not signify,” he gritted out. “I compromised you and did what any honorable man would do. But you made sure I walked away dishonored, not because of the scandal, but because you are afraid. You make matches for everybody else, but you won’t risk marriage because you’re too scared to commit yourself. And you use bravado to hide it.”

  She trembled. His furious blue eyes frightened her because he was too close to the truth, and he knew just enough about her life to put the puzzle pieces together. She must divert him to protect her secrets.

  “I never misled you about marriage,” she said. “I’ve explained my reasons for remaining single until I’ve hardly any breath left. You do not even realize you insulted me.”

  “I never insulted you,” he said, his voice rising.

  “Oh, yes, you did. You insinuated you would not marry me if you’d not compromised me.”