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

by Jane Ashford

  “No. So, we had a long, rather rambling talk, during which I learned a good deal about him. He is a third son, you know, and hasn’t had much to occu—”

  “Is he still threatening to shoot me?” Marianne interrupted.

  It disturbed Violet that her friend didn’t seem to care about the young man’s life. Still, he had threatened to kill her. And perhaps she already knew the details of his story.

  “He is not,” Nathaniel replied dryly.

  “Thank God.” Marianne sagged back on the sofa. “Can you make him stay away from me?”

  Violet watched Nathaniel look at Marianne. It seemed to her that there was sympathy as well as judgment in his gaze.

  “I was able to point out that he had choices open to him,” Nathaniel said. “Opportunities for advancement and…exotic adventure. Providing he did not ruin all by another rash act. Such as fomenting a scandal, or shooting someone else. Mr. Whalen was eventually moved by this argument. He has decided that he would like to try his luck in India.”

  “He will leave his life here behind?” Violet said.

  As Nathaniel was speaking, Marianne had looked more and more cheerful. “I daresay he will have far better prospects there,” she said. “Men are always making their fortunes in India. Look at all the nabobs.”

  In that moment, Violet felt that she didn’t really know her friend. Her attitude toward the young man she’d recently claimed to love seemed callous. She exchanged a glance with Nathaniel and saw he felt the same.

  Marianne noticed the look. Her eyes fell. “It might be the push he needed,” she added. “To make a great success of his life. He was bored at home, and…constrained. He told me so. This could be a good thing.”

  “He is clearly unhappy now,” Nathaniel replied.

  Marianne’s hands twisted in her lap. “I’m sorry for that. I truly am. I made a mistake.”

  There was a pause. There could be no answer other than, “Yes, you did.” And Violet didn’t wish to say it aloud.

  “The thing is,” Marianne continued, “Anthony is…he seems different. He was quite shaken by the shooting. The…the contemplation of death. And he really seems to be grateful for my nursing. Surprised that I… It may be that there is…that this truly regrettable…situation can help us make a change.”

  Violet searched for a reply. Finally, she said, “Well, that’s good then.”

  Marianne nodded. She stood abruptly. “I should get back to him.” She held out a hand to Nathaniel. “I am so very thankful for your help.” When Nathaniel had clasped her hand politely and let go, she bent and embraced Violet. “You are such a good friend to me!” she exclaimed. In the next moment, she was gone.

  They sat in silence, listening to her footsteps hurrying down the stair. When they had died away, Violet said, “You gave him money, didn’t you?”

  Nathaniel turned to her, eyebrows raised.

  “A third son of a country squire? How would he equip himself for a new start in India?”

  He shrugged. “It seemed a small price to pay. Literally.”

  “It was kind of you.” He was kind, she thought—kind bone deep.

  “I felt a certain…sympathy for his plight.” In response to her look, he added, “Not the entanglement with your friend, but what lay behind it. A young man’s longing for something significant to do. Daring exploits, intensity.”

  “I thought females were supposed to be the dramatic sex?” Violet replied with a smile.

  “Did you somehow avoid hearing of Byron?”

  She laughed and enjoyed a moment of lightness and freedom. Nathaniel had solved her friend’s problem so neatly, so perfectly. She truly believed that Daniel Whalen would be better off on his adventure than scraping for some occupation as a third son.

  And then the moment passed, for she couldn’t forget the much thornier dilemma still hanging over her. How happy she would be now, she thought wistfully, if only she had appreciated the contentment she’d already possessed.

  * * *

  The day continued fine, declining into a lovely evening, with soft sea air and the promise of a glorious sunset. The Hightowers went out to stroll along the Marine Parade, with all the rest of Brighton society, and enjoyed it. With his wife on his arm, nodding to acquaintances, pausing to speak to friends, Nathaniel regained a sense of well-being. He recalled Violet’s admiring gaze at the way he’d handled young Whalen. Though the thing hadn’t been that difficult in the end. He’d known just what to say to turn the fellow’s ambitions in another direction, after years of advising his brothers. Still, he didn’t mind if his wife thought him a hero. Didn’t mind it at all. That look had taken all the sting from her earlier complaints about interference. Indeed, he expected it would add spice to their activities later tonight. Or, why later? Why shouldn’t they turn back right now?

  “Hightower.”

  He turned to find Rochford approaching, walking with a group of gentlemen whose red faces and loud laughter suggested they’d had a very convivial dinner.

  “Got home safe the other night, did you?” Rochford added. He nudged the man next to him, drawing the group’s attention.

  Nathaniel had expected that the story of his exit from the brothel would make the rounds. He knew he would face a certain amount of chafing, and though he wished otherwise, he would endure it. But he hadn’t expected Rochford to refer to it in front of Violet. That was beyond the line; Rochford had more finesse. He was thoroughly drunk, Nathaniel concluded, though he carried it well. “As you see,” he said evenly.

  Rochford gathered the gazes of his companions with a derisive look. “Always a sad thing to see a man living under the cat’s foot, eh?”

  He actually smirked at Violet. Nathaniel was abruptly furious. How dare the man bring her into this? In the street, where anyone might hear. He had to shield her…

  “I’m quite partial to cats,” Violet said before he could speak.

  “Such sweet, furry creatures?” Rochford sneered. He looked at his friends again, enjoying his own cleverness, clearly implying that Violet was a ninny.

  “Do you think so?” Violet responded, the epitome of well-bred surprise. “Have you never reached for a cat who did not wish to be patted and ended up scored with bloody scratches?”

  Rochford blinked, suddenly looking more befuddled by drink.

  “They’re ruthless when they hunt too,” she mused. “Have you seen a pampered house cat toy with a mouse? Letting it go, until the poor creature thinks it has escaped those sharp claws, and then sinking them in again?”

  “Isn’t it a splendid sunset?” interrupted Nathaniel. He’d been hiding amusement and admiration of Violet’s pluck, but Rochford had begun to scowl. Whatever the man deserved, it wasn’t wise to push him further.

  Most of Rochford’s companions turned to gaze at the western sky. Nathaniel wondered if they would even recall this exchange? Obviously, they’d all drunk deep.

  “So, do you still intend to race, Hightower? Perhaps you will be sneaking out of that as well? If the…cat objects?”

  It had been a mistake to renew his acquaintance with Rochford, Nathaniel realized. At first blush, the man seemed cordial and entertaining, but he was unsound at heart.

  “Oh, no one tells Nathaniel what to do,” said Violet, steel in her tone. “He makes up his own mind, on all things.”

  Pulling gently on her arm, Nathaniel urged her away. Much as she might enjoy twitting Rochford—as she obviously did—it was enough. Best to leave him before he had any real excuse to retaliate.

  “What a tiresome man,” Violet said when they were well out of earshot.

  Nathaniel nodded. He was that, tonight at least.

  “Will you still race his team?”

  Part of him wanted to draw away from Rochford, letting the connection lapse into its former distance, yet the challenge and excitement of the race had gotten into his blood. He found he was reluctant to let that go.

  “You want to,” Violet said.

 
“Not because it is his team. Despite that.”

  “Well, then, you must. Although…” She smiled impishly up at him. “The cat insists that you be careful.” She made a small clawing gesture with her free hand.

  Nathaniel laughed. They strolled on, admiring the bands of warm color on the horizon. As the light faded, they turned and were heading for home when they encountered another familiar group. Violet’s family stood before them, the earl and his wife overshadowed, as always, by the dowager countess. Nathaniel felt his wife tremble against his side.

  She’d almost forgotten, for a little while, that she’d been ordered to go back to her old way of dressing and behaving, Violet thought. So much else had been happening. But now, face to face with her putative grandmother, her anxiety came flooding back. Confronting Rochford had been simple by comparison.

  The dowager was looking her up and down. Her glances, her expression, catalogued a host of faults. When she met Violet’s eyes, her gaze was absolutely unyielding. And then she shifted her attention to Nathaniel. “I will call on you tomorrow morning, Hightower,” she said.

  The words struck Violet like the knell of doom.

  “On me?” he asked.

  “I have something important to say to you,” the old woman answered.

  Violet tried to still her trembling, but she couldn’t manage it. Nathaniel looked down at her, then back at the dowager. “I’m afraid that will not be convenient,” he said. “I’m quite busy just now. I have a race coming up.”

  The dowager snorted her contempt of this activity.

  “And so I shall be out most of the day. Perhaps when it is done—”

  “Are you putting me off? ” The old woman seemed unable to believe it.

  “For a few days only.” He was pleasant but unyielding. “I really have no time until then.”

  “I shall come early. Before you go out. You would not dare deny me.”

  The expressions of her son and Violet’s mother showed that they certainly would not have dared.

  “I’m sure you would not wish to push in when you have been informed the visit is unwelcome.”

  Violet’s mother gasped audibly.

  The dowager sputtered and fumed. She tried to stare Nathaniel down, and failed. So she glared at Violet as she said, “It seems I have no choice but to wait.”

  “It is kind of you to understand,” said Nathaniel blandly. No one, hearing it, could miss the irony in his voice.

  Violet had never admired anyone more in her life. Or been more relieved.

  “Good evening,” he added and led Violet away.

  “That was…tremendous,” she said. “It was beyond anything. You…you routed her.”

  He smiled. “We are each to have our victories tonight, it seems.”

  “I rate yours well above mine. Rochford may be annoying, but G-Grandmamma is…she is like one of those things in the Alps. What is it called? When the side of the mountain collapses?”

  “An avalanche?”

  “Those cascades of snow that roll right over whole villages and crush them to splinters?”

  “That is what they call them. But I think you overrate—”

  “That’s what it feels like when she descends on you.” Seeing that he was staring at her, Violet added, “Felt like, I mean. When I was younger. A child.”

  He regarded her with grave sympathy. “Is there anything you wish to tell me, Violet?”

  In that moment, Violet wanted to tell him everything. She yearned to lay all her worries at his feet and have them swept off as handily as the dowager had been just now. His expression was so resolute, his voice so kind. It seemed as if she could confide anything, and he would accept it and stand by her and make it right. But a frightened inner voice reminded her of her husband’s preoccupation with birth and lineage and the legacy of his noble family. He hated to appear less than the perfect duke’s heir.

  “I can’t imagine anything you could say that would trouble me,” he added.

  Could he imagine that she was not the person she was supposed to be? Violet doubted that his imagination ran as far as that. Violet sighed. Her doom had only been postponed, not averted, and she still didn’t know how she was going to stop it. But she knew in that moment that she had to do it herself.

  “Violet?”

  “There’s nothing. It’s…merely a disagreement between G-Grandmamma and me.”

  “I side with you,” he declared.

  He would, Violet realized, in public, before others, the dowager in particular. He would never act like Rochford or as the dowager had threatened Granchester would. He had too much pride, compassion.

  But what about in private, in the inner sanctum of their marriage? Would he feel deceived, betrayed? Would that change everything between them? She simply could not take the risk. She would find her own way out of this tangle.

  Nineteen

  On the following day, the town of Brighton was gratified to learn that the Duke and Duchess of Langford had arrived to enjoy part of the summer season. The Regent, who was given a daily list of such illustrious additions to local society, immediately added them to the guest list for his next reception. Friends and acquaintances noted the address of their lodgings and made plans to call. Violet learned the news more personally, when their landlady’s housemaid came scurrying into her parlor, goggle-eyed, and announced, “There’s a duchess at the door, my lady!”

  “A…?” The maid handed her a visiting card, and Violet read the name of Nathaniel’s mother. She felt as if her heart had leapt onto her throat. She was alone; she had never received the duchess alone. Indeed, their previous meetings had been very formal occasions, supervised—indeed, fully orchestrated—by the dowager countess. Two formidable women facing each other over Violet’s…person. It had felt rather like making her curtsy to the Queen at her court presentation. The gravity of each occasion was impressed upon her. She was warned not to offer her uninformed opinions, not to fidget or seem bored, and never, ever, to ask impertinent questions. Since the dowager’s idea of impertinence was unpredictable, she’d made no inquiries at all. As a consequence, their exchanges had been bland and empty, and they could not be said to know each other at all. There was no question of refusing her admittance. But Violet would almost rather have had a visit from the dowager herself. “Of course, ask her to step upstairs,” she said, her voice a bit higher than usual.

  In the next moment the tall, striking figure of the duchess appeared. She looked, as she always did, alert and assured, as well as unostentatiously fashionable. She looked the way one would hope to look when past fifty, Violet thought. Probably a forlorn hope. She would never be so poised. Violet restrained her impulse to sink into a deep curtsy. She called upon her years of social tutelage and held out her hand instead. “How pleasant to see you. I didn’t know you were coming to Brighton. I fear Nathaniel is out just now.” It came out in a rush, as if she was nervous, which of course she was.

  The duchess shook her head and smiled. “Practicing for this race tomorrow. I know. His father went to watch the contenders try to improve the speed of their turns.”

  Had they come to town because of the race? Violet wondered. Did they disapprove of it as much as the dowager did? Was Nathaniel’s mother here to blame her for his escapade? That wasn’t fair. “He bought a high-perch phaeton, and then he…” Was she trying to divert any scolding onto Nathaniel? Violet got hold of herself. She offered the sofa with a gesture and sat down.

  The duchess joined her. “So we have heard. Did you have a hand in that? Well, you must have.”

  They were blaming her. “I didn’t. He went up to town with…” Did they feel as others did about Rochford? She wouldn’t mention him.

  “Look at your lovely gown, for example,” the duchess continued.

  Confused, Violet looked down at her dress of amber silk embroidered with twining vines of green and black. What did it have to do with high-perch phaetons? Was she criticizing it as well? But she’d said lovely as i
f she meant it. She met the duchess’s eyes, the same lustrous blue as Nathaniel’s. She couldn’t read them; she didn’t know her. “Th-thank you.” It seemed the safest response.

  “You know, when Nathaniel announced that you had accepted his offer of marriage, I was doubtful.”

  “What?” replied Violet, stricken. The older woman’s rueful expression was unfathomable. But the thought that both Nathaniel’s mother and the dowager had been against her marriage made her stomach churn.

  The duchess nodded. “I said nothing to him, of course, because I could see that he was determined. And in any case, it was settled. He couldn’t draw back. But I thought you much too…staid for him. I feared you would pull him down a path that he had already traversed too far.”

  “Too far?” Violet told herself to concentrate and keep up, but it felt as if the ground of this conversation kept shifting under her.

  “Toward solemnity.”

  “Solemnity?” She must stop repeating words like a parrot, Violet thought. This didn’t sound like something her grand—the dowager would say at the beginning of a thundering scold. But she still wasn’t sure.

  “Well, there is steady, and then there is starchy, yes?” The duchess smiled. She had a lovely smile. It gave her austere features a clear radiance. Violet couldn’t help smiling back, even though she was hopelessly off balance. “So I must congratulate you.”

  “Congratulate…me?”

  “I’m delighted that you’ve proved me quite wrong,” Nathaniel’s mother continued.

  “Wrong about…?” She should know the answer to this. But one part of her was so agitated at the thought of being blamed that she couldn’t quite comprehend.

  “Your temperament.” The duchess nodded, as if they were agreeing about something. “Your grandmother did not really…allow us to become well acquainted. I suppose all those pastels you used to wear were her idea?”

  Violet nodded, not wishing to reveal her bewilderment by speaking.

  “So unbecoming. But she is a woman of strong opinions.”

  Violet nodded again. This, at least, she could wholeheartedly endorse.