Heir to the Duke (The Duke's Sons #1)

by Jane Ashford

It came out a bit feeble, so when he turned and stared at her, she tried again. This laugh was much louder.

  Marianne caught her eyes and joined in.

  “Is there some joke?” The Regent did look uneasy. He also looked petulant. Violet wondered if her friend had ever tried this technique with royalty?

  Still, she had no other stratagems, so she proceeded to laugh unpredictably as their host conducted them around his beloved dwelling. And quite soon it was apparent that the scheme was working. The Regent asked twice more what was so funny, and received only dazzling smiles from Marianne in reply. He progressed from disgruntled to bewildered to annoyed, and finally to muted anger. Violet grew certain that only the Regent’s legendary graciousness kept him from ordering them out of his house. By the time the tour ended, cut short she thought, she was no longer worried about fending off his advances. She didn’t think he would wish to see her again any time soon.

  * * *

  They returned to their table, and the seemingly eternal tea wound to a conclusion. Walking home with Marianne, Violet could at last give vent to the question that had been occupying her for more than an hour. “What can Nathaniel be doing with Thomas Rochford?”

  Marianne indicated ignorance.

  “I didn’t know he knew him. I mean…everyone knows him.” Rochford was a fixture in society, one of its leading lights. Violet had heard anecdotes about him, though before her marriage, she’d been excluded from stories like those repeated today. Rochford was one of the people who provided the haut ton with titillating stories and bon mots, the currency of social exchange. She’d never paid much heed. She’d hardly ever spoken to the man. Her grand—the dowager countess hadn’t allowed it. And anyway, she hadn’t been pretty enough for Thomas Rochford. Or, more likely, dashing enough. Rochford’s acknowledged flirtations skirted near the line. And from what had been said at the tea, his less public liaisons were far more racy.

  Marianne said nothing.

  Violet found her silence more unsettling than speech. “Nathaniel has not gone off with Thomas Rochford to indulge in some sort of debauchery.”

  Marianne looked away.

  “We are speaking of Nathaniel,” Violet pointed out. “His interests and habits are well known.”

  “That’s true,” her friend admitted. She shook her head as if to clear it. “Of course they are. I was just… Living with Anthony has made me cynical.”

  “He needed to go to London, and Rochford was driving there. He took advantage of an opportunity.”

  “Of course.”

  Marianne did not say that such an impulsive action wasn’t like the Nathaniel who was so well known. Who was prudent and straightforward and reliable. She didn’t have to. Violet was well aware. And although she didn’t for a moment believe that he was up to something disreputable, had he done this because he was angry with her? Was it a punishment?

  Violet jerked her shawl closer about her shoulders. Why must people make a great to-do out of nothing?

  Marianne stopped, and Violet looked up to find that they stood at the door of her lodgings. They must have passed right by Marianne’s rented house. She hadn’t been paying attention. She was about to thank her friend for her kindness in walking the extra distance, when Marianne said, “If anyone should ask, I was with you till eight o’clock.”

  “What? No.”

  “No one will ask.”

  “The servants will know that you were not—”

  “No one is going to submit them to question,” said Marianne impatiently.

  “How do you…?”

  “I helped you, as promised.”

  “That was a different case!” Violet cried.

  “I’ve made up my mind.” Marianne turned and walked quickly away.

  Should she run after her? Violet nearly did, but then she saw all too clearly the argument in the open street. Impossible. And Marianne hadn’t listened to her before. Then it was too late. She was gone.

  Violet stood a bit longer, until an old man passing by asked if she was unwell. Her expression must reflect her worries all too clearly, she realized. With a polite denial, she went inside. Leaving her bonnet and shawl with Furness, she sat down in the parlor. Alone.

  And contemplated what a pleasure this might have been just days ago. She had time to herself, and the ability to decide just how to spend it. There would be no one looking over her shoulder to criticize. How she would have reveled in this unprecedented freedom, if only…

  Why had she meddled? She’d been happy. For the first time in her life, everything had been going splendidly. Why hadn’t she simply settled down to enjoy it? But no. She’d had to poke and pry, and now all was ruined. Nathaniel had left her…

  At that point, Violet’s common sense took her sternly to task. He had not left her. He would be back tomorrow. And she would not sink into maudlin unreason. She’d always despised that sort of person. One made mistakes—even very large mistakes—and one found a way to make amends or leave them behind. And so she would. She would, she told herself fiercely.

  Yet an insidious part of her mind insisted upon wondering if any of the older generation knew about her mother’s misfortune. Had there been any whispered questions about her early birth, about her parentage? Rumors arose about the most ridiculous things. Look at the talk today about Nathaniel…which she was not going to rehearse yet again.

  She’d never seen any sign of it, but then she’d never been looking, never imagined… And her grand—the dowager had kept her well away from gossips.

  Was the Regent pursuing her because he thought she was like her mother?

  Stupid, absurd. She would not have been married into a great ducal house if there had been such talk. Which was true, but far—very, very far—from comforting. If the Greshams learned the truth…

  They wouldn’t. Why should they? How could they? This was a secret that had been kept for years and years. All her life, in fact. It was not going to get out now. She needed to forget it, push it from her mind, and let her life return to its pleasant new routine.

  She would, Violet vowed. She would do exactly that. As soon as Nathaniel came home to her.

  Thirteen

  There was no sign of Nathaniel the following day, and no word. Violet pretended to the servants that she hadn’t expected any, while she wondered what she would do if he stayed away. But of course he was not going to do that. He was not the sort of man who would do that. She was being ridiculous.

  Violet sat down in the parlor and gathered her faculties. All right, it was natural that she’d been shaken, after her mother’s revelations. Perfectly understandable that she’d gotten…off balance. But that must end. Not least because one did not keep a perilous secret by moping about and acting quite unlike one’s familiar self. People—Nathaniel—would ask what was wrong, and she would have no explanation.

  Violet sat straighter on the sofa, as if her old deportment teacher from school had walked into the room. Nathaniel undoubtedly did have matters to occupy him in London. He had many responsibilities—which would often take him away from her. It wasn’t as if they would spend every day of their marriage together. Far from it. Perhaps their disagreement caused him to think of his obligations as he wished to get away. She would mend matters there.

  As for making the journey with Thomas Rochford… He’d ridden along with an acquaintance who was going up to town. No more than that.

  She went to the ball that evening with friends and danced as if she hadn’t a care in the world. When women from the tea party asked after Nathaniel, she said his business had taken a bit longer than he’d planned. If she gave the impression that he’d written, and met knowing looks with bland incomprehension, well, what else did the gossips deserve? They certainly didn’t have her best interests at heart. But when another day dawned with no communication from her husband, she found that her chest was knotted with worry.

  Then, in the afternoon, as she was once again sitting in the parlor alone, Violet heard Nathaniel calli
ng her. His voice rang distinctly in the empty room. Was she was going mad with worry?

  “Violet!”

  This time she realized that the sound came from outside. But Nathaniel wouldn’t shout her name in the street. That was quite improper.

  “Violet!”

  She rose and went to the open front window. There below her—but not nearly as far below as would be expected—was her husband. He held the reins of a shiny new high-perch phaeton. Its great wheels and tall springs brought his head almost to the level of the sill.

  Seeing her, he grinned like a boy. “How do you like it?”

  She didn’t know what to say. It was one of the sportiest carriages she’d ever seen—buffed and lacquered and glinting with embellishments.

  “I bought it in London, along with the new team,” Nathaniel added when she didn’t speak. He waved one hand at the horses. “They’re a pair of sweet goers. I drove here in under five hours, faster than the stage.”

  She’d never heard him speak so, or express such enthusiasm about a vehicle. “I didn’t know you were thinking of buying—”

  “I did it on a lark,” he interrupted. “On the advice of an old friend.”

  “Thomas Rochford?” It came out accusing. She pressed her lips together.

  Nathaniel nodded. His horses sidled and backed. He controlled them with easy competence.

  “He is an old friend?” She couldn’t stop herself.

  “We were at Eton together.” He didn’t seem to be paying attention. His eyes were on the phaeton. “It’s quite a beauty, isn’t it?”

  Violet looked from his beaming face to the carriage. She wasn’t used to seeing Nathaniel drive this sort of vehicle. This phaeton was created for wild races and reckless bets, slipping through gates with inches to spare and feathered corners. Her young brothers exclaimed over and coveted equipages like this. Half brothers, offered an unwelcome inner voice.

  “It can easily take four horses, but I only bought a team for now. Get your hat and come down. I’ll take you for a spin.”

  “I’m not dressed for—”

  “Just a few minutes. No need to fuss. Come, I can’t keep the horses standing too long.”

  Their disagreement seemed forgotten, and this was reason enough for Violet to throw the proprieties of dress to the four winds. She rushed to her bedchamber and grabbed a bonnet at random. The August day was warm. She wouldn’t need a wrap for a brief spin. A nagging preceptor in her mind insisted that she should don a carriage dress and a proper hat with a veil. She dismissed it and tied the strings of her bonnet as she hurried out. She did pull on gloves as she went down the stairs.

  Nathaniel was walking the pair of glossy chestnuts. He turned them neatly in a wider space down the street and came tooling back to her, stopping precisely at the doorway.

  Violet looked up. The phaeton’s back wheel was nearly as high as her head. Its seat was higher still, seeming to float in the air. Nathaniel smiled down at her from that summit, and her heart skipped a beat at the welcome in his face.

  The step at the front of the carriage was above her knee. How did a lady climb up without showing her stocking to the whole street? Nathaniel held out a hand, easily managing the reins with the other. Violet grasped his warm fingers, lifted her skirts, and stepped up. He pulled her smoothly onward and into the seat beside him. A breathless laugh escaped her. Then he gave the team its head, and they moved off.

  As the phaeton picked up speed, the ground seemed very far away, racing by at an alarming rate. Violet held on to the seat below her with both hands. She’d never ridden in a carriage like this. Along with wild races, it was ideal for a tête-à-tête, since there was no space for a groom to perch behind and overhear a young man’s wooing. She’d never been allowed such an outing—not that any rakish young blades had ever asked. As far as she knew. “How did you get a new carriage so quickly?” she wondered. It took time to build even a small one.

  “Some fellow ordered it and then couldn’t pay,” Nathaniel replied. “Or wouldn’t. The coach maker was discreet, of course, but Rochford suspected it was Darrinforth. Said his trustees have applied the brake on his spending. How he knows such things…” He shook his head. “Whatever the case, there she was, just waiting for me.”

  “She?” They took a corner at a speed that made Violet squeak.

  Nathaniel grinned at her as he patted the side of the phaeton. “No opportunity to add my own touches, of course. But I don’t know what else I could have asked for.”

  “Shouldn’t you use both hands?” Violet ventured as they sped past a row of shops. Her voice was a few tones higher than usual.

  “Are you questioning my skill with the ribbons?”

  “No, just… Look out!”

  A cart was backing out of an opening between two buildings ahead. It seemed that the driver had found the alley too constricted to pass. Someone shouted at him, but he was oblivious. The gap between the back of the cart and the opposite pavement slowly, inexorably, shrank.

  “Stop!” cried Violet.

  Nathaniel ignored her. He checked the horses only slightly, gauged speeds and distances, then neatly threaded the narrowing opening. His left rear wheel might have just kissed the back corner of the cart, but he didn’t think so. “I’ll have you know, I’m a notable whip,” he said.

  Violet put a hand to her chest, then quickly gripped the seat again as they knocked against a stone and the phaeton rocked on its springs. “I’m going to have a nervous spasm.”

  “Nonsense.” Nathaniel didn’t mention that his driving skills had been gained in more stable carriages. He’d made sure to take several trial drives with the coach maker’s expert, and he was confident he could manage the phaeton. Indeed, he’d just demonstrated as much. But perhaps he’d cut it a bit close just then, showing off. An equipage like this was very likely to tip over if you cornered too fast; he knew of two men who’d been badly injured in such spills. He directed the horses toward the Marine Parade, a wider avenue, without turns.

  “Or fall into a fit of the vapors,” Violet said.

  He gave her a sidelong glance and saw the teasing glint in her gray eyes. “I’m sure the town would find that most entertaining. Wait until we reach the largest group of saunterers.”

  She laughed. Nathaniel’s heart lifted at the musical sound, and he laughed too. From the corner of his eye, he watched Violet begin to enjoy the rush of air across her cheeks, the rhythmic sway of their speeding perch. As he had, she was discovering the exhilaration of flying along in this marvel of a vehicle. At last, she released her death grip on the side of the seat, both hands free as she tightened the whipping strings of her bonnet.

  They turned onto the broader avenue by the water, and he risked a bit more speed, rushing past the strollers enjoying a breath of sea air. Heads turned. Without doubt, tongues began to wag. And he didn’t even care.

  “Everyone is staring at the dashing Hightowers,” Violet said. “You can see that some of them long to point at us, but they don’t dare be so rude. Ah, there’s Mrs. Elton from the charity tea.” She waved with aggressive gaiety.

  They swept along the seaside, bathing machines in the surf on their left, the town running along on their right. Rather like flying, Nathaniel thought. Or how he imagined that freedom from Earth’s bonds would feel. Then Violet said, “Oh dear.”

  Her tone had changed radically. “What?”

  “Mama,” she replied dully. “Walking with…my grandmother. What a glare she gave me. I daresay she’ll be at our lodgings when we return, to tell me that I am dressed quite improperly. And that my bonnet is wrong and my hair a windblown disgrace.”

  “Then we shan’t go back,” declared Nathaniel. He steered smartly past a curricle, giving the other driver a regal nod from his greater height above the road. “Not for hours yet. We’ll head out the London road. Not too far, because the horses need a rest. But we’ll find an inn and buy our dinner—”

  “Like a pair of heedless gypsies,”
said Violet, imitating the dowager countess’s censorious voice.

  “Care for nobodies,” Nathaniel agreed, smiling.

  “I am shocked, profoundly shocked, at your ramshackle suggestion,” she said in the same tones.

  “So you refuse?” he asked, cocking his head.

  “On the contrary.” Violet made an expansive gesture. “Drive on, as fast as…as is…wise.”

  Nathaniel laughed again as he steered off the Marine Parade and headed for the north route out of Brighton.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in sporting vehicles,” said Violet as he negotiated some of the narrower streets. “You never said.”

  Nathaniel hadn’t known himself before his impulsive trip to London with Rochford. Riding along in his old acquaintance’s phaeton, some combination of his mood and situation, and Rochford’s daring style of driving, had sparked a wild desire. Without his company, it might have blazed up and died, Nathaniel admitted, but Rochford had fed the flame. And taken him straight to the coach maker, to discover the invigorating vehicle he now possessed.

  He could have resisted. It was not a case of succumbing to another’s urging. Nathaniel was perfectly clear on that. Rochford’s languid enjoyment of his enthusiasm could not have been mistaken for influence. But he hadn’t wanted to. The thrill of hurtling along so far above the road had gripped him. And then, the exhilaration of handling a high-perch phaeton himself dissipated the frustration that had been dogging him, like a stiff breeze breaking up a fog bank. It seemed to promise a more lighthearted, bracing reality.

  “Nathaniel?” said Violet.

  She’d asked him a question. “I’d never had a proper ride in an equipage like this,” he replied. “Not over any distance.” Recognizing the truth of it as he spoke, he wondered why? None of his close friends drove a high-perch phaeton, he realized. They’d turned to more practical conveyances as their familial responsibilities increased. But in the past…in his youth…hadn’t there been opportunities? Did he have stodgy friends?

  “I’d never been in one at all,” Violet said. “It’s…rather exciting.”