by Diane Farr
His mother’s gaze had sharpened. Perhaps that was occurring to her, too. Her tone was slightly milder when next she spoke. “Sit down, John. I am craning my neck to look up at you, you’ve grown such a height.”
He sat, and tried to look meek. It had never been possible to dupe Mother, however, and it still was not. “Take that foolish look off your face,” she said crossly. “It puts me out of all patience. Dressing like an idiot is bad enough, but you also seem to have adopted the manners of a buffoon. Has behaving like a dolt become the rage as well?”
He waved his hands vaguely. “Well, you know, mother, mannerisms do go in and out of style—”
She snorted with derision at this, and he was startled into silence. He had rarely seen her show emotion of any kind, and was surprised at the unexpected strength of the effect his little joke was having. His normally unperturbable mother was evidently much moved.
“Nonsense!” she huffed. “Utter nonsense. I have long deplored that circle of friends with which you surround yourself, and now we see its natural effect. You have chosen, heaven knows why, to associate with those who are beneath you, with commoners and vulgarians—”
Jack straightened in his chair, frowning, but his mother continued wrathfully. “If your conduct this evening is a sample of what your friends think amusing, I tell you point-blank that you need new friends! Unfortunately, however, your manners have deteriorated to the point where you will find it difficult to cultivate any friends worth having. Your boon companions are a motley set of mismatched care-for-nobodies. They may find it amusing when you utter ill-considered remarks and laugh like a hyena, but I promise you, no person of worth will admire such behavior! I suggest you make an effort, John, to remember who you are! I was never more vexed with you in my life than I was this evening.”
“For that, ma’am, I am sorry,” said Jack quietly. “But even if you were correct as to the source of my behavior, you could not seriously expect me to abandon my friends at your command. Nor will I. We are unlikely to agree on the question of what defines a worthy individual, so in the interests of harmony I respectfully suggest that we let the matter drop.”
A muscle jumped in the duchess’s jaw, but she managed to keep her teeth firmly clenched as she struggled to suppress her frustration. Jack waited in polite, but unyielding, silence. Finally his mother said, tight-lipped, “Very well. It is not my purpose to quarrel with you.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment of her sacrifice. Really, one had to admire her self-control, he thought wryly. She would obviously love to rake him over the coals. But Her Grace never, ever, slipped from the standards she set for herself. She studied him a moment longer. He waited.
“I shall not browbeat you, John,” she said at last. “You believe that your life in London is no concern of mine. Very well. You are a man grown. Beneath this roof, however, I feel sure you will respect my preferences and accede to my requests. I am asking you, as a favor to me, to dress conventionally and behave mannerly while at Delacourt.”
Jack felt a stab of dismay. Dash it all, how could he accede to her requests and still manage to frighten off his would-be bride? “I shall endeavor not to embarrass you, Mother,” he said carefully.
“Thank you. It will also oblige me if you make an effort to become acquainted with your cousin Celia.”
The frontal attack startled him. She had never done such a thing before. In the days when she tried to match him with Lady Elaine, she had kept a careful distance, in fact—all too aware that any hint of interference or pressure would cause him to bolt. It struck him as uncommonly odd that she would change her tactics.
He frowned. “Why?” he asked, matching her bluntness.
The duchess regarded him calmly. “Because it is my hope that you will make her an offer of marriage. At your earliest convenience.”
“Good God!” This unexpected frankness propelled him out of the chair with astonishment. He took a hasty turn about the room, raking his hand through his hair. “Good God!” he repeated, stunned.
The duchess appeared unmoved. “Pooh! There is no need for these theatrics. You are making a great piece of work about nothing. Sit down, John.”
He fell, rather than sat, into the chair across from her, and stared at her in wild-eyed amazement. “I never thought I’d see the day when you, of all people, abandoned subtlety.”
Her mouth quirked. “And I never thought I’d see the day when you, of all people, expressed a preference for it! What has become of your much-vaunted love of plain dealing? I find it highly ironic that I have offended your sensibilities, merely by directly stating a truth.”
“No, no—you are right. I still prefer the word with no bark on it. I just never expected to receive it from you. Forgive me if I seem a trifle—taken aback.”
“Certainly. May we now discuss the matter like rational creatures?”
Jack blinked dazedly at his mother. She looked perfectly composed. There was no trace of the anger with which she had greeted him just a few minutes ago. He supposed that since she wanted something from him, she had decided that anger would not achieve her ends. He raked his hands through his hair again, then sighed. “By all means,” he said politely. “Shall we start with the obvious?”
Now she looked a trifle wary. “What do you consider obvious?”
“Well, for one thing, I have never before seen, or heard of, Celia Delacourt. Who in blue blazes is she, and why the devil should I marry her?”
The duchess stiffened. “There is no need to employ strong language, John. I have already told you, she is the granddaughter of your father’s Uncle Richie. His favorite uncle, you know.”
“That’s no recommendation,” said Jack grimly. “My father and I have hardly a single taste in common.”
“Nevertheless, I gather Lord Richard was generally considered a charming individual. He was rather after your own style, I believe. He had a reputation as a jokester.”
“Excellent. Cousin Celia is the granddaughter of a jokester. Well, that is all I need to know. I’ll go wake her up and make her an offer.”
The duchess glared reprovingly. “You are being sarcastic, John,” she informed him.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But pray continue. What is the cause of Miss Delacourt’s former obscurity? I have never heard that branch of the family mentioned—at least not by you. In fact, I have no idea what became of Uncle Richie and his progeny. If I have the story straight, he thumbed his nose at the family’s choice of a bride for him, married to please himself, and, as a result, was disinherited.”
By the lengthening of the duchess’s upper lip, Jack gathered that she found the subject distasteful. “That is true,” she said repressively. “He married most unwisely.”
“Ah.” Jack stretched his long legs out before him. “Then I can guess the rest. His granddaughter has been sent to rectify the situation. She will atone for her ancestor’s sins by marrying very well indeed, thus ending the breach. How commendable! I only wonder why you have volunteered in her cause. It isn’t like you, Mother, to busy yourself in the concerns of others—particularly those whom you deem to have come by their just deserts.”
“Celia was not sent. I invited her. And she cannot be held responsible for events that occurred long before she was born.”
Jack shook his head in amazement. “But this is odder and odder! You invited her? She told me so, but I assumed it was a euphemism. Most uncharacteristic of you, Mother! There is something havey-cavey about this entire scenario. Give me a round tale, if you please! I know you are afraid that I, like Celia’s unfortunate grandfather, will eventually—as you put it—marry unwisely. But how did you hit upon cousin Celia as the proper person to save me from this fate? Good God! We don’t even know her. And what advantage is there in my marrying her? Does she have political connections? Unsuspected wealth? She must have something to recommend her, or you never would have singled her out.”
The duchess’s face became more than usually mask-like. She re
garded her son for many moments in silence, with an expression so wooden that he was tempted to poke her, as one does a waxwork, to see if she was breathing. It was impossible to guess what thoughts were revolving in her brain. At last she heaved a tiny sigh, and gazed into the fire.
“I cannot tell you all my reasons,” she said slowly. “You are correct that the succession has been very much on my mind of late. Your way of life has caused me—concern. I do not deny it. Your taste for low company distresses me. You have deliberately placed yourself among what I can only term a dangerous set of persons; the very sorts of people who might be depended upon to introduce you to their sisters and cousins—well. I shall say nothing further on that head, since you have made it plain I cannot interest you in confining your friendship to gentlemen.” Her voice dripped with contempt. “Suffice it to say, I have long considered what the family’s response ought to be, should you propose marriage to a girl so far beneath yourself that—” She glanced fleetingly at Jack’s face, and something in her son’s expression warned her that she should stop. “Very well. To date, such a calamity has not occurred. It is, perhaps, foolish to worry overmuch about an event which may never occur.”
“You are right, however, that no consideration of what my family may find acceptable will deter me from offering marriage to a girl of my choosing.” Jack’s voice was quiet, but there was a note of implacability in it. “Pray do not delude yourself into the belief that my opinions were carelessly formed, or that I can be dissuaded from them by argument. I have thought long and hard about this.”
The duchess’s hands clenched on the arms of her chair, belying the calmness of her demeanor. “I, too, have thought long and hard about it. Allow me to point out to you that I have rather more experience than one acquires in a mere three-and-twenty years! You would do well to heed the advice of your elders. The choice of a marriage partner is the most important decision you will ever make.”
“On that, madam, we are agreed. And that is why I must reserve the right to make that decision, and not permit anyone else to make it for me.”
The duchess’s expression grew fierce. “You speak as if you will be the only person affected by your choice.”
His brows lifted. “I am certainly the person who will be most affected by it.”
“No, you are not,” she snapped. “You are not a merchant, or a farmer! The livelihood and well-being of hundreds of people is in your hands. What will happen to them, if you are cozened into marrying a girl whose professed adoration of you is entirely false? Such things have happened to other rich men, as you know well. Even if you succeed in finding a girl whose love is genuine, you will discover that her family’s love for you is a little less disinterested! It is the way of the world, John. If you marry beneath yourself, your bride’s relatives will attach themselves to you like so many leeches. You cannot afford to be distracted from your duties by a wife who does not know how to go on, or by in-laws who embarrass you, or who hang upon your sleeve, forever with their hands out, begging you for money, for introductions to influential persons, for invitations to gatherings where they will be completely out of place—and where you will be loath to acknowledge your relationship to them! You cannot afford to have your tenants and your peers resent your bride, or hold you in contempt for choosing her. You will not like to have your children looked upon as mongrels, a little less fit, themselves, to marry well—by heaven, the thought is insupportable! Do not burden your sisters, do not burden your unborn children, with relatives of whom they must be ashamed. You will be the Duke of Arnsford, John! You, of all men, should choose a bride with your eyes wide open.”
It was an admirable speech, and obviously deeply felt. Jack looked thoughtful. “It is something to consider,” he admitted. “For posterity’s sake, we must hope that I fall in love with a girl of my own rank. But frankly, ma’am, I would place no strong dependence on the likelihood of that. And I will not marry a girl I do not love.”
Two spots of color appeared on his mother’s cheekbones. “How dare you be flippant, sirrah? I am speaking to you most earnestly.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I, too, am speaking earnestly. And you have yet to explain to me how you picked cousin Celia, of all unlikely prospects, to become the next Duchess of Arnsford. What became of Lady Elaine?”
“You disliked Lady Elaine.”
Jack’s tender heart felt a pang. He hoped inoffensive little Elaine had not realized how dull he found her. “Well,” he temporized, “I did not dislike her, precisely—”
“It was clear you would never take her to wife.”
He sighed. “True. But that still does not tell me why you are pushing Celia under my nose.”
The duchess moved impatiently. “I will not fence with you, John. You are aware that I would have preferred you to marry a woman of birth and fortune. But I am correct, am I not, that you do not share that ambition?”
“You are correct. I’ve no ambitions in that area at all.”
A faint sigh shook the duchess. “Then Celia will have to do,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Her birth is respectable, at least, and she seems healthy and sensible. She is not unattractive. You could certainly do worse.”
A short bark of laughter escaped Jack. “Left to my own devices, you mean, I am likely to do worse! And yet, ma’am, I prefer to be left to my own devices. I will take my chances, I think, and pick my own bride.”
Anger flashed in the duchess’s eyes. “It is of the first importance that you marry respectably. You could marry brilliantly, an you would, but I suppose there is no hope of that.”
“No hope at all! But what’s your hurry? I am not yet in my dotage. Surely there’s no immediate need for me to step into parson’s mousetrap.”
“I would like to see this matter wrapped up before—” she broke off, then went smoothly on. “Before you fall in love, as you call it, with someone wholly unsuitable.”
Jack had the distinct impression that she had been about to say something else, and had abruptly changed course mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. “I am in no immediate danger of falling in love, Mother. I have met no one.”
“But once you do, it will be too late to act,” she said, her lips curving in a dry little smile. “Come, John! What is the harm in getting to know Celia? You may like her very well.”
“Oh, I’ve no objection to befriending her. But I’ve every objection to finding myself compromised! If she is under the impression I am dancing attendance on her, about to offer her marriage—”
“Pooh. To whom will she complain?”
“Why, to her par—” Jack stopped, suddenly remembering what Celia had told him. A frown descended upon his face. “She has no parents, has she?”
“No,” said the duchess placidly. “They died, I believe, in early September.”
“Good God,” whispered Jack, appalled. “Both of them at once?”
“Yes, and her siblings as well. Celia is completely alone in the world. I received a letter from someone—the local squire or landholder, I suppose— describing her plight and begging me to help her. After her family died, she had continued to reside in the vicarage where she was born, but apparently the man who wrote to me had just engaged a new vicar. Naturally, he required that Celia vacate the premises post-haste. That is why I invited her here. She has nowhere else to go, so we are like to find her on our hands forever unless we can find a suitable husband for her.”
The calmness of his mother’s tone spoke volumes to Jack. He found himself moved against his will, and rose to take another turn about the room. The last thing he had expected was to find himself roused to anger and pity on Celia’s behalf, but that is what he was feeling. When he finally trusted himself to speak, he said, trying to match his mother’s calmness, “What you are telling me is, Celia has no one to defend her if we abuse her.”
His mother’s brows flew up in momentary surprise. “Abuse her? What a strange concern. It is unlikely that we will do so, I think.�
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“It is abusive, madam, to lead the girl to believe that I will marry her, when I will not.”
The duchess’s brows snapped together. “Nonsense. Celia is extremely grateful for the chance to reside at Delacourt. Regardless of what happens, she will not fly into odd humors or fancy herself ill-used.”
“She cannot, can she?” said Jack bitterly. “She is completely dependent upon us. She has no choice but to be grateful for whatever crumbs drop from our table.”
The duchess looked exasperated. “I do not understand your attitude. You seem upset by a circumstance which works wholly in our favor. It is this very dependence that has enabled me to assume control of Celia’s education. How else, pray, was she to become accustomed to our ways here at Delacourt? How else was she to learn the manage of a ducal palace, or how to behave in polite society? It is no mean feat, I assure you, to present a creditable appearance to the world when one is a duchess. Certain expectations of appearance and deportment must be met. Celia was reared in a vicarage, in surroundings so modest, they verged on squalor! No servants to command, no stable, no Season in London, none of the elegancies of life—why, without my advice and assistance, it would have been impossible for her to step into her role here at Delacourt.”
An arrested look crossed Jack’s features. “Aha. This is the real reason why Celia appealed to you, isn’t it? You have brought her here to mold her into your own image. Well! That is certainly an advantage no female of birth and fortune, as you phrased it, would enjoy. I fancy Lady Elaine’s parents had strong ideas of their own on how to train their daughter. Most parents do! But your ideas, naturally, are superior to everyone else’s; that goes without saying. No wonder you switched your allegiance to an orphaned and unsophisticated girl. Such a defenseless chit would have to accept your tutelage without question. And if you treat her abominably, or fill her full of nonsense, no one can say you nay. No one will step in and interfere. I congratulate you, ma’am. Cousin Celia is quite a find.”
