by Allison Lane
Amanda shuddered. It sounded like Emily was having as little voice in choosing her husband as she’d had. “And he must also have the requisite title and wealth. Who is this paragon?”
“The Duke of Norwood.”
Surprise flooded Amanda’s face as she recalled Thorne’s fury in the library and the letter he had slammed onto his desk. He must have received it along with the note from his mother. No wonder he had been unable to control his face. Two such massive shocks in succession were too much.
“Do you know him?” Lady Thorne asked, raising a quizzical brow.
“I met him once,” Amanda admitted. “You needn’t fear that he is vacillating. His injuries are real and more than slight. He was a fellow guest at the Blue Boar the night of the fire. His valet was the man who required the surgery.”
Lady Thorne shook her head at this coincidence, though it was really not that surprising. The Blue Boar was the natural stopping place for those traveling to Thornridge Court from London. “I have never met him, though his grandmother was a close friend. She claims all virtues for the lad, but her mind has been wandering so much these last few years that it is difficult to know what to believe. Will he make a suitable husband for Emily?”
“Speculation is useless,” Amanda reminded her. “I have not seen Emily since she was eight years old. Is she like her parents?”
“She has been raised to be a dutiful daughter.”
“Then they will probably suit. He is as toplofty and arrogant a man as I have ever encountered, save for my father, though there does seem to be a softer streak buried beneath. I presume his visit will be rescheduled..” Knowing the duke’s injuries to be real, she did not for a moment believe that he would cry off.
“Emily is already talking of a shooting party when the partridge season opens in September,” admitted Lady Thorne. “They have not yet heard back from the duke.”
Amanda merely nodded, not particularly interested. Her siblings had never been close, especially the girls. Emily was the oldest female, being nine years younger than Amanda. Marianne had been only five when Amanda left. The boys had arrived between her and her sisters, but they had spent the years before her own departure at school. She had not minded. All of them followed their father’s lead and despised her, tormenting her so ceaselessly that she deliberately avoided their company. Likewise, her stepmother had disdained her, noticing her only when she wished to encourage her own children by comparing them favorably to the hoydenish Amanda.
She turned the conversation to her own affairs and spent a pleasant hour describing her plans for the cottage and her hopes that she could establish herself as a teacher of music and French. Or other languages, if there was a demand for such. She was fluent in several.
“There was quite a scandal here last week,” commented Lady Thorne when tea was over and they went outside to admire the rose garden.
“And what was that?”
“Do you remember Lord Quinn?”
“Yes, a curmudgeonly old gentleman in rather ill health.”
“That was the former viscount. He died several years ago and was succeeded by his grandson.”
“Toby?” asked Amanda in surprise.
“Yes. Toby is now married to Elkington’s eldest daughter and has two small children – both girls, to his disgust.”
“What scandal could he be involved in? I cannot imagine him changing so much. He was always one for propriety. In fact, he and Edgar shared so many ideas, they might as well have been brothers..” Edgar was Thorne’s heir, Lord Englewood.
“His cousin is visiting for the summer,” reported Lady Thorne. “Mr. Hawkins has already earned a reputation for rascally tricks, according to Lady Beatrice.”
“I’ve heard of Lady Beatrice,” admitted Amanda. “She is said to be a most knowing gossip.”
“She always was,” agreed her grandmother. “Inquisitive as a cat, even as a girl. And just as cruel. Anyway, Mr. Hawkins is acquainted with Mr. Raintree and Lord Peter Barnhard, who were guests at Thorne’s house party. They were schoolmates, I gather, before Hawkins was sent down for misconduct – some prank involving a performing bear, I believe, though it happened some years ago. Apparently the three stole away last Friday to play ghost in Sir Timothy’s stables. In the resulting chaos, one of the stable lads broke a leg.”
Amanda, who had been trying to stifle giggles, suddenly sobered. “Poor boy. Is he all right?”
“It was a clean break. But Thorne was not impressed with the scoundrels’ behavior, ordering Raintree and Barnhard to leave. Their departure caused more stir than the prank did.”
“That is understandable. Most people do not condemn such harmless pastimes, even though damage was done in this instance. What did the other guests think?”
“I only know what Emily reported when she told me of it the following day. She was upset over the giddy laughter with which her female guests greeted the news. Miss Simpson even derided Thorne as a pretentious old goat. I doubt we will see her in future. Emily’s own reaction was all that was proper. She vows to never speak to the perpetrators again as her way of showing disapproval, and she will cut them if their paths cross in town.”
“Why? Because they injured an innocent party?”
“Of course not. He was only a stable boy. But they should not have abandoned their dignity to engage in such tricks. And they certainly should not associate with servants. They must have done so, or they could not have learned of Tom’s belief in spirits.”
Amanda paused a moment, but decided that she must be herself. If her grandmother did not approve, there was nothing she could do to alter the situation. “I see nothing wrong with normal high spirits,” she declared, brushing the petals of a velvety red rose, her face half turned away. “It was unfortunate that they did not consider the potential consequences, but there is no reason to condemn them as scoundrels because of one boyish prank. They will grow up in time.”
“You sound as though you endorse such behavior,” said Lady Thorne chillingly.
“No, I do not. But I understand them. This accident will remain in their minds as an object lesson. I have seen it happen too often to doubt that they were appalled at the lad’s injury. We often saw young men who bought colors on a lark or from some romantic notion of vanquishing the evil Napoleon. Only after their first battle did they realize how serious war is, and how dangerous. Such a shock can produce a more sobering effect than any number of lectures.”
Lady Thorne snorted.
“Was Thorne satisfied to throw the lads out?” Amanda asked, not believing that the man could have changed that much.
“No, he read Quinn a loud and very public lecture on his own moral laxity after church this past Sunday, decrying the viscount’s lack of supervision, his failure to set an example of proper behavior, and his inability to control his wife – the girl laughed over the incident before services. Thorne finished by calling Quinn’s propriety into question for allowing Mr. Hawkins to continue his visit and swore to get him dismissed as a justice of the peace. It has raised quite a furor.”
“I can imagine.”
“Quinn actually cut Thorne in the village yesterday.”
“Thereby prolonging and intensifying the disagreement..” Amanda sighed. “But one can hardly blame him after such a mortifying attack.”
“Yes,” agreed Lady Thorne. “Whatever the merits of his complaint, Thorne’s choice of fields on which to wage battle was unfortunate.”
“I heard that Granny Gossich passed away recently,” Amanda commented, hoping to change the subject. Her father’s self-righteousness was too familiar to be interesting.
“The old witch who lived in the woods outside Middleford?” Lady Thorne asked, surprised. “She died last month. Why?”
“She was a close friend for many years,” admitted Amanda. “But she was no witch. Only a healer. Her skill with herbs was greater than all but the most enlightened doctors, and she knew much about treating injuries. I have often been
grateful for what she taught me.”
“How was it that Thorne allowed such an acquaintance?”
“Do you seriously believe I let him dictate my friends? I was an undutiful child – as he lost no opportunity to remind me – and often went off on my own. Sometimes it was to ride the moor or visit the tenants, but most often I went to Granny’s cottage. She accepted me for what I was rather than dictating behavior because of who I was. I didn’t think of it like that, of course. I only knew that her home was comfortable, and she cared for me.”
Lady Thorne had blanched. “We all cared for you, Amanda.”
“Speak for yourself. My father was cold and disapproving. He declared his hatred more than once. The others followed his lead. You showed warmth on occasion, but think back. There was little to choose among the lot of you for stern haughtiness. Or should I term it the Sterne Hauteur, that arbiter that not only condemns all joy, but coerces others into its mold, thus perpetuating itself for all eternity. Has Father ever smiled? Or laughed? Has he ever approved of anything that brought pleasure to life?”
“You are harsh, Amanda. He has many responsibilities.”
“I would never argue his devotion to duty. But duty and enjoyment need not be incompatible. Now, enough of this. I’ve no desire to waste a perfectly lovely day discussing the Marquess of Thorne. Do you know where Granny was laid to rest? I must pay my respects.”
“Not in the churchyard. The vicar despised her practice of witchcraft.”
“Then he was ignorant, for she was no witch. But I am not surprised. He owes his living to Thorne. Where is she?”
“I know not. Tales claim her body was spirited away by the devil.”
Amanda sighed. Granny’s friends probably feared desecration at the hands of a bigoted vicar, possibly with the approval of Lord Thorne. Perhaps John Timmonds would know. He was a tenant who had blessed Granny many times for curing his wife of a raving fever.
Their conversation was interrupted when a young lady arrived.
“Good afternoon, Emily,” said Lady Thorne. Taking the bull by the horns, she turned to Amanda. “Mrs. Morrison, this is my granddaughter, Lady Emily. Emily, my granddaughter and your sister, Amanda.”
Amanda hardly took in the fact that Lady Thorne had introduced her as a granddaughter, despite Thorne’s edict that she claim no connection to the family. Emily was a petite miss with pretty blonde ringlets. Her jonquil muslin walking dress trimmed in lime ribbons was obviously a product of a London modiste, and a charming chip-straw bonnet framed her heart-shaped face. With a smile, she would be lovely, and her position as Thorne’s daughter with a generous dowry would make her a very desirable candidate on the marriage mart. But just now she appeared dauntingly unapproachable, her brown eyes staring icily.
“What is she doing here?” demanded Emily, delivering a direct cut as she turned to her grandmother.
“I invited her. This is my home, you might recall,” Lady Thorne gently chided in return.
“You know Father repudiated her,” Emily protested.
“Your father’s edicts do not concern me..” The dowager’s voice was stern. “I will entertain all my relations whenever I choose.”
“You needn’t fear I will bother you,” commented Amanda dryly. “I have no intention of trespassing where I am not welcome. Nor will I waste my time with people who do not interest me.”
“What a taradiddle!” exclaimed Emily. “No one can ignore the Marquess of Thorne.”
“You make him sound like God. Sorry to disappoint you, Lady Emily, but I care nothing for the family. Fate has led me to make my home in Middleford, but I doubt we shall see each other to speak..” She turned to her grandmother. “Thank you for the tea.”
“You needn’t leave yet, surely,” protested Lady Thorne.
“There will be better times to chat. Good day..” Nodding silently to Emily, she departed.
* * * *
Amanda pulled herself from another nightmare and sat up. It promised to be a long night, the fourth in a row. Donning her dressing gown, she wandered over to the window.
The dreams were getting worse as well as more frequent. She should have expected it. By returning, she had breached a barricade that had been in place for nine years. Ghosts were bound to emerge.
This one recalled one of the more painful memories of her childhood. Thorne had castigated her many times for associating with the tenants, but she had refused to give in. Aside from sheer stubbornness, the tenant children were her only friends. But the year she turned twelve, Thorne had shifted tactics, inflicting his will by turning her own character against her.
“You were with Willy when he broke his ankle this afternoon,” he charged. As usual, she was standing before his desk.
“Yes..” She hadn’t understood where his words were leading. The accident had been unavoidable, her presence in no way affecting it. She had only stopped a moment to exchange greetings on her way to Granny’s cottage. Fifteen-year-old Willy had been perched high in an apple tree, thinning the buds to improve the size of the fruit. She was already moving on when the branch broke.
“You demean yourself and insult the entire family by such behavior,” he continued, his voice even icier than usual. “The distraction of being singled out by one so high can only contribute to inattention in the lower orders. Your presence caused him to fall. And now the Randalls are short a worker. I cannot allow their fields to suffer. They must leave.”
“You can’t throw them out because of Willy,” she cried, aghast.
“I can, and I have. Think about it, Amanda. Your refusal to learn proper behavior has cost the Randalls their home. Remember that next time you are tempted to overstep your position.”
Amanda had hated him that day more than at any other time in her life. She had immediately rushed to their cottage, but they were already gone. It was five years before she discovered that Thorne had not thrown them out. They had been a hard-working family that deserved more than the poor farm they rented at the Court. When a larger one opened up on one of Thorne’s other properties, he’d offered it to them. The arrangements were completed before Willy’s accident, though Mr. Randall had not yet informed the children.
Amanda shook her head. Thorne had lied, using the coincidence to impose his will. It was one of the few times she had capitulated to his edicts. Never again had she played with the tenant children, which had left Granny as her only friend.
She turned from the window and crawled back into bed. Granny was gone now. Already people were turning to her for healing and advice, rumor crediting her with all Granny’s knowledge. Some even whispered that Fate had brought her home as the reincarnation of Granny Gossich. What would Thorne do when he discovered that?
Chapter Four
Nicholas Blaire, tenth Duke of Norwood, stretched his left arm toward the ceiling, so pleased that it was finally out of the splint that he almost smiled. Unfortunately, it had been so long since that expression had broken out on his face that the muscles had forgotten how, but it felt good to move freely.
After weeks of convalescence with little to do but contemplate, it was obvious that he had been drifting for years. His life had no purpose beyond daily routine. He rarely socialized. Everyone knew him for what he was – cool, remote, and happier in his own company. Even lords with eligible daughters no longer schemed for his duchess’s rooms.
That had changed six months earlier, of course. His mother had long bewailed his neglect of duty. He needed an heir. The second cousin who would inherit if he died without a son had not been trained to the responsibilities of the dukedom, with its eight estates, dozen other properties, and thousands of dependants. He owed it to his position to marry again. It was time. He had ceased mourning Annabelle several years earlier, though he had not yet forgiven himself for his mistreatment. Older and wiser, he would not make that mistake again.
And so he had forced himself to London for the Season, back to the scene of his shame. Hiding his discomfort behind an
acceptable mask of controlled ennui, he had danced, driven in the park, pretended interest in wailing singers and hesitant pianists at boring musicales, and allowed himself to be ogled at the theater. He had visited clubs he had not seen in ten years and looked in on Parliament, finally assuming the seat he had inherited eight years before. And through it all, he had conducted a cynical analysis of every chit he met.
He had found the perfect wife, he decided, dispassionately reviewing her credentials. Lady Emily Sterne. Even her name was suitable. The daughter of a marquess, she had the breeding he required for his duchess. Barely seventeen years old, she promised to be a conformable bride. She had been well trained in the responsibilities inherent in her new position, possessing a devotion to duty that mirrored his own. Thorne was a proper fellow who was wealthy and frugal, with no vices that might affect his daughter’s marriage.
His mother approved his choice, having known Lady Emily’s mother since the latter staged her come-out. The duchess often recounted Lady Thorne’s cool propriety and adherence to strict decorum. Her eldest daughter would make a perfect duchess. Surprisingly, Norwood’s grandmother also approved, citing her own long friendship with the dowager Marchioness of Thorne. The lady’s eldest granddaughter was the best possible choice for dear Nicholas’s wife. It was the first time Norwood could recall his mother and grandmother agreeing on anything.
So why did he entertain doubts about offering for the chit? She was not in love with him, and that was good. He wanted no complications in his life. She would provide an heir and oversee his household, but not demand constant attention. His son would be properly raised by the usual sequence of nurse, tutor, and public school, needing personal attention only when he reached the age at which Norwood must sponsor him into the clubs. Everything would work for him exactly as it had for his own father. A perfect marriage of convenience.
