by Claudia Dain
“Plans? What plans?” George said, reaching out to knock her bonnet askew in response to her very practical and necessary straightening of his collar.
“Plans to get my duke, George, which would go far better with a properly arranged bonnet!” she said primly. Trust George to get playful at the most important moment of her life, the moment when she began her assault on some duke or other, preferably Edenham. Iveston in a pinch. Calbourne as a last gasp necessity. They were so nicely and neatly arranged in her thoughts; one did hope that they would line up in an equally orderly fashion when she got round to them in person.
“Which one, Pen?” George asked pleasantly. “You’ve just missed Edenham it seems.”
Penelope turned and there, of course, went Edenham in all his gorgeous splendor right up to Dalby House where he was admitted without pause. He didn’t cast so much as a glance in her direction. Her timing had been that far off with him in this instance. She resolved to do better next time.
“We’re off to Hyde House, George, where I will present Amelia with the famous tattered shawl, thereby proving myself to be a most stellar friend to her reputation,” Penelope said, marching off down Upper Brook Street to their house at the end opposite Dalby House. “If we time this well, I might be introduced to Lord Iveston.”
“You fancy Lord Iveston, Pen?” George asked.
“Not particularly,” Penelope said, “but I shall make do with him, if I must.”
George grinned and gripped his jacket lapels with both hands, ambling alongside her to their house. He looked near to whistling, silly old fool. “I’m relieved to hear it. I had not liked to think I’d misread you as badly as all that. It’s Edenham you fancy. Am I right?”
“He’s a duke, George. Of course I fancy him. Don’t think yourself as wise as all that.”
“Oh, not as all that,” George said with a grin. “But wise enough, surely.”
And then he did begin to whistle.
THE Marquis of Iveston walked into the music room of Hyde House whistling. Everything was just as it should be. Blakes was married to Louisa, the woman he’d trotted after throughout the salons of London for two years, and Cranleigh was married to Amelia, the woman he’d either kissed or avoided for the past two years, depending on his mood of the day. All good and well, things settled as they ought to have been two years ago when his brothers had first set eyes on the women of their hearts, but which hadn’t been settled easily at all, and certainly not quickly, which had made a bloody mess of everything.
Still, spilt milk and all that. Things were as they were and were well settled now. That was all that mattered, all that should matter. Indeed, just because he had spent the past two years very nearly hiding in his house, trying to avoid Amelia, who he was quite certain had expected to marry him, well, why shouldn’t he whistle? He was free now to go about Town as much as he liked.
He didn’t like to all that much, truth be told, but he liked it more than he had let on. He’d had to protect Cranleigh, hadn’t he? Of course he had. It wouldn’t have done at all for him to have somehow wound up being leg-shackled to Amelia. And he could have done. Men found themselves married at alarming rates, truly alarming. A man had to be quite on his best game to avoid the net.
Iveston, with quite justified pride, was always on his best game.
Two brothers married within the month and he still free. It was a good day, quite worthy of a hearty whistle. His mother must be satisfied now; two sons married to very respectable women. She could and should nearly forget that her eldest and Hyde’s heir was still running free upon the earth.
Yes, that is how he thought of himself, first and always, as Hyde’s heir. What else? It was his duty, his birthright, his place in the scheme of the things. He didn’t quite know if he liked his place or not. Hadn’t given it any thought, actually, as there was nothing to be done about it.
There were worse things, certainly.
He could be married, for one.
Iveston chuckled under his breath and whistled a tune he’d heard just that morning from a street vendor on Piccadilly, just beyond his window glass. Jaunty little tune. He quite liked it. Suited his mood to perfection.
“What are you so cheerful about?” Cranleigh said, coming upon him, some parcel shoved under his arm.
“I’m cheerful for the same reason you’re not. I’m not married. You are,” Iveston said, and then he laughed, quite fully in his younger brother’s face. Cranleigh, not the most cordial of men, did not laugh with him. Well, Iveston hadn’t truly expected him to.
Cranleigh, as second born of Hyde’s five living sons, was not often of a cheerful bent. Probably a direct result of being second born and, thereby, feeling some ill-placed notion that he had to protect and support Iveston in every blessed thing. It was quite nice of him, naturally, but entirely unnecessary. Iveston required no support and no protection, though Cranleigh, a bit of a dockside dog, would hardly have agreed, not that Iveston was at all inclined to put it up for a vote.
“Ridiculous,” Cranleigh snarled under his breath, a smile half tugging at his mouth. “You’ve got it entirely wrong, Iveston. I am merely out of sorts because I am on my way to Dalby House. Delivering a gift of sorts to Lady Dalby. Which would put anyone of any sense into an ill temper.”
“A gift?” Iveston said, sitting himself in front of the pianoforte and beginning to play. “How very unlike you. Whatever for?”
Cranleigh grimaced fractionally and sat down on a small chair opposite the pianoforte, the parcel balanced on his right knee. “It seems I must, Iveston. Blakes gave her something, some bit of expensive frippery in thanks for getting hold of Louisa. What can I do but the same? It’s perfectly obvious that Sophia had a hand in managing to direct Amelia in my direction, which is what Amelia states emphatically even when I expressly forbid her from talking about Sophia.”
“She doesn’t sound obedient or compliant in the least, Cranleigh,” Iveston interrupted. “I do begin to wonder what you see in your lovely wife.”
Cranleigh’s ice blue eyes shone in the pale light of the music room. “Let’s keep it a mystery, shall we? Lock your eyes upon your own wife, Iveston.”
“Haven’t got one,” Iveston said with a flourish of the keys, the light notes rising to the impressive height of the room. “Hence, my innate good cheer, rising up to enchant all near me.”
“Oh, yes, I’m enchanted,” Cranleigh said sarcastically, moving the bundle to his left knee. “But, as I was saying, as Blakes has set the precedent, I feel I must match him, and so it’s to Dalby House, gift in hand. She’ll likely grab it out of my hands before I can explain myself,” he grumbled.
“Hardly likely as I’m perfectly certain that Sophia Dalby has been the recipient of many gifts and is therefore quite adept at the protocol in receiving them. You shall be unscathed, Cranleigh, have no fear. But what did you get her?”
“Something I picked up whilst in China.”
“Didn’t Blakes give her some porcelain from China?”
“He might have done,” Cranleigh said casually, tapping the parcel.
“And you are giving her … something infinitely finer?” Iveston guessed, his fingers moving over the keys effortlessly. He liked to play the pianoforte; music had entertained him during his long hours hiding in the house.
“Perhaps not infinitely,” Cranleigh said with a smirk, “but it is a fine piece. I shan’t be outdone by Blakes. His marrying Louisa was no better an acquisition than my marrying Amy.”
“And the porcelains will prove that,” Iveston said with a smile. “Does Amelia know?”
“Know? She helped me choose the item.”
“What is it? Something costly? But of course it would be.”
“I shan’t show you. If you want to see it, you’ll have to traipse over to Dalby House to see it,” Cranleigh said. Iveston rose to his feet, looking imminently ready to go.
Cranleigh sighed. “Wait ten minutes, will you? I don’t require an escort, whi
ch is surely what she will conclude.”
“Why should you care what Sophia Dalby thinks?”
Cranleigh snorted and stared up at him. “Not Sophia. Amy. I can’t have my wife thinking I didn’t go willingly, can I? If it doesn’t seem my idea, she’ll get the notion that she can compel me to do anything.”
Iveston, who knew very nearly everything as it pertained to the courtship of Amelia and Cranleigh, found it almost impossible not to laugh outright. He did chuckle, but that was to be expected, wasn’t it?
“And she doesn’t have that notion already?” Iveston said.
If Cranleigh hadn’t been holding a very costly Chinese something-or-other, he was quite sure Cranleigh would have given him a black eye. Or tried to, anyway.
“You’re determined to come, aren’t you? Just dying to find a laugh at my expense,” Cranleigh said as they walked across the music room side by side.
“Well,” Iveston said slowly, “yes, actually. I ain’t see how you’d disappoint me in that, can you? A gift for Sophia,” Iveston said, grinning. “I quite think she must deserve one.”
“I’m quite certain she would agree with you,” Cranleigh grumbled.
Iveston could see the gleam of humor in Cranleigh’s eyes; he was not fooled. It was as they were walking into the blue reception room that Mr. George and Miss Penelope Prestwick were admitted to Hyde House by Ponsonby.
“Ten minutes, Iveston,” Cranleigh murmured as they walked across the spacious room. “After that, you must face Miss Prestwick on your own. I’ll not be waylaid in my own home.” Nevertheless, Cranleigh bowed crisply to Miss Prestwick’s pretty curtsey, accepted Mr. Prestwick’s felicitations on his marriage, and said most cordially, “And how are your roses today, Miss Prestwick? Quite as lovely as they were when I last viewed them?”
Miss Prestwick, her dark eyes glittering, said a bit stiffly, “Most assuredly, Lord Cranleigh. Give them not a moment’s worry. Whatever befell them, they have made a full recovery.”
“How stalwart of them,” Cranleigh said, “or is it your sure hand with roses, Miss Prestwick?”
“I should say the credit should go to the roses, in this instance,” Mr. Prestwick said, smiling cordially. His sister did not appear to think him cordial in the least, to judge by her chilly demeanor.
As Iveston had developed the habit of spending the better part of his days avoiding the rabble that was the ton, he had not met Miss Prestwick before the night of the ball her father, the viscount, had hosted. She was, either fortunately or unfortunately, not quite like the other women of his scant acquaintance. In concert with her bold coloring, there was something about her manner that was equally bold, very nearly masculine in force. It was quite intriguing. In point of fact, he had never been looked over by a woman with quite so appalling a lack of subtlety since reaching his majority. In some strange fashion, it was very nearly refreshing.
Iveston, who was by no measure a fool, knew he was the most eligible man in Town. He was of good house, good family, good fortune, good health, and good teeth. He was heir to a dukedom, and quite a nice one. He, without being obnoxious about it, had it all. Naturally, women being what they were and Society being what it was, nearly every unmarried woman below the age of forty and above the age of fifteen would be delighted if he showed them the slightest interest.
It was not to be supposed that Miss Prestwick was any different.
“As interesting as I find my roses to be,” Miss Prestwick said, glancing coolly at her brother, “I’m quite aware that others don’t share my passion for horticulture. I can see that you are on your way out. Please don’t allow us to keep you. My brother and I had hoped to see Lady Amelia, to return the shawl that was … that I … that she …” Miss Prestwick looked quite at a loss. Iveston had a most difficult time not laughing outright.
“How very thoughtful, and indeed generous of you, Miss Prestwick,” Iveston said into the stilted and sudden silence. “Quite as generous as when you made loan of your lovely shawl when Lady Amelia was so in need of it.”
Cranleigh, it should be reported, looked quite red about the neck. As well he should, as he had been responsible for Amelia needing the shawl in the first place, her muslin gown quite torn to shreds, very nearly literally.
“The shawl belongs rightly to you, Miss Prestwick,” Cranleigh said, shifting his package from hand to hand.
“I feel that, as things stand,” Miss Prestwick replied, ignoring whatever attempts her brother made to enter the conversation, “the shawl should remain in her care. Permanently.”
“Goodwill gesture, you might say,” Mr. Prestwick said in slightly cheeky fashion. Iveston found it all rather amusing. Cranleigh, by his expression, not as much.
“However it is phrased,” Miss Prestwick said firmly, “we shall not keep you. As you are so readily available, will you not take the shawl, Lord Cranleigh? I will feel so much more at ease knowing it is in the proper hands.” Clutching her own red shawl about her shoulders, she looked nearly ready to sprint for the door.
Odd. Should she not be making some more determined effort to stay? And to win his attention? It was completely irregular. Here he was, caught out, one might say, an heir apparent who was known best for not being readily available to callers. Yet here he was, available, facing a quite attractive girl with dark hair and eyes and fashionably pale skin.
It was beyond question that she would be very delighted to marry him. They all were, weren’t they? He had what every woman wanted in a man, and he was not such a dullard that he didn’t know it.
Of course, she was a bit peculiar. That might explain it. Wasn’t she just slightly too forceful? Too direct? It wasn’t at all what a man looked for in a woman, not if he had any sense. His mother was entirely too direct and very nearly forbiddingly forceful, so he was very clear about what he wanted in a wife, when he bothered to think about it at all, which he rarely did. He wanted a wife he could manage without any effort, he knew that. Most women looked pleasant enough from a distance, but get to know them in any degree of polite familiarity and they became positive dragons. Not that he would ever call his mother, the duchess, a dragon; however, the duke did have a bit of a time with her, not that he ever complained. On the contrary, his father seemed remarkably content with his situation, but Iveston was nearly certain that it was possible to be even more content with a less energetic wife.
Miss Prestwick, now that he had got a good look at her, seemed to boil with energy.
Entirely unpleasant. He was completely put off.
He stood in a relaxed posture of attention and said not a word, shutting her out and showing her that he was not in the least interested in her. Of course, he watched for her response.
Proving that she was peculiar and not at all aware of how to behave, she barely glanced at him. And when she did, she was quite obviously dismissive.
In all his twenty-nine years, nearly ten of them being feted and pursued by every mama to every girl above the age of fourteen, he had never been dismissed so thoroughly. In fact, not at all. Not a bit of it. He’d been hotly pursued, as was entirely appropriate, if annoying. This chit, this little nothing of more money than breeding, was discounting him?
Gad, she was peculiar. Very nearly mad, by all appearances.
“We must be off, Cranleigh,” he murmured, ducking his head slightly before looking at Ponsonby, communicating without words that the Prestwicks could be shown to Amelia or out the door, so long as they were shown away from his presence. Ponsonby, quite well trained in that sort of thing, understood completely. “Your pardon, Miss Prestwick. Mr. Prestwick. My brother and I have an appointment we must keep.”
“I shall inform Lady Amelia that you are calling,” Ponsonby said. “If you will just wait here?”
“Oh, not at all necessary,” Miss Prestwick said, eyeing the tall clock against the wall. “The shawl is safely in your care, Lord Cranleigh, and that is all that can matter.”
“You do not wish to stay?” Ponsonby as
ked.
Cranleigh and Iveston, against all sense, stood somewhat mesmerized at being so ruthlessly managed by this slip of a girl. Her brother looked entirely accustomed to it, proving Iveston’s point neatly.
“I’m afraid we can’t. We have an appointment of our own to keep,” Miss Prestwick said.
“We do?” Mr. Prestwick said somewhat comically.
Miss Prestwick did not look at all amused, which was somewhat delightful. Such a stiff sort of girl. One could not but wonder what it would take to unbend her.
“Of course we do, George,” she said tightly, rearranging her perfectly arranged shawl. Did Miss Prestwick fidget when her plans were questioned? “And we must hurry.”
“Excuse us,” Mr. Prestwick said amiably, “we must hurry.”
And with only the barest of cordial formalities, the two were out the door and back onto Piccadilly. Cranleigh looked nearly as befuddled as Iveston felt.
“Remarkable girl,” Cranleigh said. “I never thought to see one like her.”
“Remarkable? How?” Iveston said as Ponsonby arranged for their coats to be brought down.
“She’s the only unmarried woman I’ve yet to see who didn’t fall all over herself in trying to gain your attention. She had it, by all appearances, and she threw it right back at your feet.”
“She did not have my attention,” Iveston said curtly, taking his hat from Ponsonby.
“No?” Cranleigh said, his hands full with his mysterious gift for Sophia Dalby. “Then I suppose it doesn’t matter.”
“No, I’m quite certain it doesn’t,” Iveston said as they walked out onto Piccadilly.
And it didn’t. Though Cranleigh found it all very amusing, to judge by his laugh.
Four
THE Duke of Edenham entered Dalby House fully ten minutes before his appointed time. He was no fool. A man who wished to remain on Sophia Dalby’s good side paid attention to details of that sort.
