by Allison Lane
Norwood might also be hiding behind arrogance, not that she could imagine from what. Interest piqued, she decided to learn more about the haughty duke. Lady Thorne was acquainted with his grandmother.
* * * *
Norwood stood rigidly before the chimneypiece in the vacant morning room, waiting for Lady Emily. There was no reason to feel nervous, he reminded himself. Thorne had no vices that needed a wealthy, high-ranking son-in-law to rectify. Emily should be under no pressure. There was also no reason to think about his inappropriate chat with Mrs. Morrison. The widow was a minuscule snag in the fabric of his life and would disappear entirely when he moved on. He stifled the thought that he would continue to run into her whenever he visited Thornridge Court.
To deflect his attention, he examined the room in which he stood. Located on the east side of the Court, it was always bright and cheerful on sunny mornings. But in late afternoon, like now, it was gloomy – not the most auspicious location for proposing. But perhaps it was an appropriate setting for initiating a marriage of convenience. Clouds eclipsed the setting sun, throwing his surroundings into deeper shadow.
“You wished to speak with me, your grace?” said Lady Emily coolly.
“Yes, I did,” he replied. “We both know why we are here. I will be blunt, my lady, for I want there to be no pretense between us. I am in need of an heir. To get one, I must marry. You are a comely young lady of good family whose training accords with my own. I cannot claim to love you, nor do I believe you love me, but I think we could rub along quite well together if we choose to do so. I shall expect you to behave with all propriety and to conform to my wishes. In return, you will have my respect and a free rein to run the household as you see fit, though I expect to be consulted about large expenditures. There would be limited entertaining necessary when we are in London for Parliament. Beyond that, I have no interest in the giddy social whirl, but you are welcome to participate when we are in town. I make the rounds of my estates once a year. You would be free to accompany me or not. Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”
“You have stated the situation very well, your grace,” she responded calmly. “And your offer is most generous. I accept.”
“Thank you. You have made me the happiest of men,” he intoned dutifully, placing a chaste kiss on her gloved hand. “Shall we join your guests for dinner?”
Chapter Eight
The Marquess of Thorne looked up in surprise when Jameson appeared in the library doorway.
“The Duke of Wellington to see you, my lord,” the butler announced woodenly.
“What brings you to Thornridge Court, your grace?” Thorne asked several minutes later when the two men were sipping excellent brandy, seated on either side of the window that overlooked the formal gardens.
“I was in the neighborhood and thought to sound you out about some bills that will be coming up before Parliament next session. One would provide pensions for the lads who fought so well on the Peninsula. But even more important, the Whigs are pushing harder than ever to scrap a system that has stood us in good stead for centuries.”
“Not another reform measure,” groaned Thorne.
They settled in for a lengthy discussion of politics.
* * * *
Wellington’s arrival caused a stir throughout the district. Major Humphries immediately scheduled a dinner party that would include all of Thorne’s guests. He also coerced Amanda into attending.
“I cannot put myself forward in such exalted company,” she demurred when he first tendered the invitation.
“Fustian, Mrs. Morrison,” he countered. “You know very well Old Hooky will be upset that you declined to join him for dinner. What would Jack have said?”
She knew very well what Jack would have said, and not just about the duke. He would have castigated her roundly for allowing Thorne to dictate either her friends or her social calendar. She had done so once already by crying off the squire’s party. A second time would establish a pattern that would give Thorne control of her life. Impossible.
And so she had accepted, using the occasion to put off mourning. It had been well over a year since Jack’s death, and society no longer demanded the outward show. Not that she had ceased to miss him. A dozen times a day she wished she could share something with him, or longed to feel his arms around her. But he’d had little patience with pious affectations. What one wore was irrelevant. It was the contents of the heart that mattered. And so he would understand. She had nothing in mourning that was suitable for a formal dinner party.
Sighing, she pulled out the nicest of her evening gowns, a favorite creation in Brussels lace over a deep rose slip that she had purchased in Paris. What matter if she dressed in the fashion of two years earlier? She had no aspirations to society, but Wellington deserved her best efforts. With it she wore her mother’s pearls, which she had managed to keep through all the years of tenuous living. They had often been her solace. No matter how bad things were, there was one last option before they must starve.
She shuddered with nervous fear as she completed her toilette. What would Thorne say to find her rubbing elbows with the area gentry? There was every possibility that he would explode in anger. Not even his very stiff-rumped propriety could be counted on to contain his fury. No one had dared counter his wishes in the years she had been away. With no reason to control his countenance, he had forgotten how. Or perhaps he had merely grown testier with age. But the upcoming confrontation promised embarrassment, if not outright mortification.
Setting aside the problem of her father, she considered the other guests. She had not seen the Cravens since her sixth year, so they were unlikely to recognize her. The Bradfords might, though she had been kept firmly in the schoolroom during their visits, even when her half-siblings were presented to their aunt and uncle. Lady Thorne would welcome her attendance without mentioning their relationship. Emily was another question mark. Would her continuing antagonism raise questions from the other guests? She hoped not. Everyone else either accepted her as Mrs. Morrison or was a stranger.
Wellington was one who knew her, of course. They had first met in Portugal after Vimeiro. She shook her head, recalling the last time she had seen him. Whatever else happened, the evening was going to reopen a lot of wounds.
Brussels. He had found her in a makeshift hospital, nearly dropping from exhaustion after two days of continuous nursing.
“I might have known you would be here,” he commented softly as he drew her into the only corner that was not littered with casualties.
“Life must go on.”
“Yes, it must. But I will miss Jack,” he said steadily.
It was too much. She burst into tears which he muffled against his shoulder. They were the first she had been able to shed and seemed unstoppable, great rending sobs that threatened to tear her apart. Even the embarrassment of place and company made no difference. Not until tremors ran through Wellington’s arms was she able to regain her control. If she caused the Iron Duke to lose his composure, she would never forgive herself. Especially in front of so many of his troops.
“I heard Morgan is also gone,” she murmured. “How is Somerset?”
“Learning to write left-handed. He will rejoin me as soon as possible. I leave for Paris at dawn.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to come then.”
“My condolences, my dear,” he replied, “but you will manage. There is nothing you cannot do. You have suffered a great personal loss, but I want to leave you with something to think about in the days ahead: How would Jack have adjusted to peace?”
Recalling that meeting, Amanda for the first time considered Wellington’s parting words. How would Jack have adjusted to peace? He had always been brave to the point of recklessness, and she had to admit that perhaps it was due to a love of danger rather than the heedlessness she had always assumed. Would he have been happy living in tranquility?
But there was no time to explore the question. Sh
e must leave.
* * * *
She was sipping sherry in Major Humphries’s drawing room, chatting quietly with Mrs. Edwards, when the party from the Court arrived. The first to enter was Thorne himself. His face turned white.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed the moment he had frowned Mrs. Edwards away. “And dressed like that!”
“I admit the gown is two years old,” she replied calmly. “But it is not unsuitable to the occasion.”
“You look just like your mother. I might have known you would flaunt yourself all over the neighborhood.”
“I was invited, my lord. Even the great Marquess of Thorne cannot dictate other people’s guest lists.
“You vowed not to trade on your connection,” he reminded her with a sneer. “But I suppose I can expect no less from so unnatural a child. I was a fool to allow you to stay here.”
“Enough!” she snapped. “You are a fool indeed to twist your own dictatorial demands. Save your accusations for someone deserving of them. I would not dream of presuming on any connection to so unfeeling a man, but I met Major Humphries in Spain, and Wellington as well. His grace would be appalled if I refused an invitation to dine with him.”
Thorne’s response was forestalled when Wellington himself appeared in the doorway, his face lighting as he strode across the room.
Anyone not knowing him could be forgiven for initially overlooking the man. He was neither tall nor handsome, possessing mousy hair and a high-boned, hooked nose. But one look into his chilly blue eyes, and no man could ever forget him. He exuded a presence that dominated any gathering he graced.
“My dear Amanda,” he exclaimed in his battlefield voice. “I had no idea you lived in this area. You are looking lovelier than ever.”
Amanda ignored her father, who appeared on the verge of apoplexy. “Thank you, your grace. Peace seems to be agreeing with you. I’ve never seen you look so distinguished. Or so relaxed.”
“If true, it is of very recent origin.”
“Did the talks not go well?” she asked. “I thought nearly everything had been settled at the Congress..” She watched the barest hint of a shudder cross his face.
“I wish you had been there,” he said. “Much as I applaud your accomplishments in Brussels, I should have dragged you off to Paris with me. Plots and counter-plots for months. It was almost as bad as Vienna what with the Prussians baying for revenge, the Poles demanding new borders, the Russians scurrying around in ineffectual diplomacy, and every other faction in Europe pushing its own interests at the expense of the common good.”
“But the treaties were signed in the end,” she commented.
Thorne had been fighting to control his temper, finally turning to the duke. “You know each other?”
“Of course,” replied Wellington. “Colonel Morrison was one of my best staff officers. I never saw a better soldier, not only because of his own brilliance, but because he inspired similar efforts from those around him. His loss was tragic. And Mrs. Morrison has been of invaluable assistance over the years. In addition to patching up so many of my men, she proved to have an uncanny ability to unearth conspiracies while we were in Vienna. I wish there was some way to honor your service, my dear,” he finished, turning back to Amanda.
“Fustian,” she demurred. “You must cease this ridiculous flummery, else you will put me to the blush. Besides, you know very well that spying is not considered an acceptable profession, no matter how much we needed the information.”
“I had no idea you had worked as a spy,” exclaimed the major, overhearing the end of this exchange as he approached the group. “Is there anything you cannot do, my dear?”
“It is not something one advertises,” Wellington reminded him. “Even Jack did not know about it.”
“And here I thought your calm good sense and timely advice were your greatest contributions,” joked the major.
“Not to demean her career as a confidante, but her highest achievements are a toss-up between spying and nursing. I swear she treated more wounds than some of the surgeons.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” begged Amanda with a laugh. “Your accolades threaten to turn me into an overweening prig. I pray you, let us discuss something more interesting. Is it true, your grace, that a bill might soon pass to provide pensions for those who served with us?”
They lapsed into politics.
* * * *
Norwood and Emily were the last to enter the drawing room.
“How dare she show up here?” hissed a seething Emily.
“Who?”
“Amanda. Papa ordered her to stay away from decent folk when he kicked her out of the family,” she replied without considering the effect of her words.
Norwood examined the group across the room. Mrs. Morrison was a surprisingly beautiful woman when out of mourning. The face that had always looked wan now glowed like ivory above the rose silk and lace of her gown. And the combination of low bodice and high-dressed hair bared a slender neck and delightfully soft shoulders. She and Wellington seemed on the best of terms. Major Humphries’s face wore a look of surprise. Thorne appeared on the verge of explosion, as though only Wellington’s presence kept him in check. Was the enigmatic Mrs. Morrison really one of his relatives? There was one easy way to find out.
He joined the group by the fireplace, waiting until a lively discussion of a proposed pension bill reached a conclusion. “I have not yet had the opportunity to thank you for rescuing me last week,” he lied, raising Mrs. Morrison’s hand to his lips.
“What was that?” demanded Thorne.
“The day I was injured, it was Mrs. Morrison who discovered me.”
“As caring as always,” commented Wellington. “Many a man made it home from Waterloo only because of her ministrations. Dr. Hume sang her praises for weeks afterward..” He smiled at Amanda.
“You’re doing it again, your grace. I never thought to hear such careless exaggeration from the lips of so cautious a commander.”
Wellington’s neighing laugh blanketed the drawing room.
“What is this that Lady Emily tells me?” Norwood turned to Thorne. “Is Mrs. Morrison really related to you?”
Wellington raised his brows at Amanda. “You never mentioned high connections. I thought Jack was the aristocrat of your family.”
Amanda saw the shock in Thorne’s eyes. He must not have looked up her husband even after she revealed his name. At the very least, he should know that Wellington’s protégés always had noble connections. What would he do now? She had never seen him less sure of himself.
A noticeable shudder traversed the marquess’s face as he inhaled deeply, his expression set in resignation. “Your grace of Norwood, your grace of Wellington, may I present my eldest daughter, Lady Amanda?”
Gasps filled the drawing room. Wellington recovered first.
“That explains how you fit into every circle I introduced you to..” He chuckled. “How could you tolerate that obnoxious Lady Tidwell? She was constantly lording it over you because her husband was a baronet and yours was merely the grandson of a viscount.”
“But one can hardly blame her for trying to build up her credit,” she countered, eyes twinkling. “Her own father was a butcher.”
He laughed and Amanda found herself relaxing in the familiar atmosphere, as she had not done since Jack’s death.
“I never knew that,” Wellington admitted. “No wonder you were so marvelous a spy.”
Emily had turned sharply away as soon as Norwood joined Amanda’s group, and was pointedly conversing with Mr. Stevens. She heard the duke’s comment and sniffed. “I might have known someone so disgraceful would stoop to such low behavior.”
“Show a little charity,” urged Oliver. “I see nothing to condemn in the lady. And it would seem that she is your sister.”
“Half-sister,” snorted Emily. “Even Father deplores the necessity of claiming her.”
“What did she do to draw such censure?”
&
nbsp; “Her behavior has always been unseemly, though I recall few details as I was only eight when she eloped. But she spent much of her time with the lower orders. My parents were appalled.”
“What do you think constitutes improper behavior with those lower than yourself?” Oliver asked stonily. “Granted I do not know Lady Amanda, but she seems to be all that is proper.”
“Why, she laughs and jokes with them, caring for their illnesses with her own hands, and giving them food and clothing and blankets good enough to grace her own home. How can she lower herself to sit down at filthy tables and touch pest-infested bodies?”
“You are higher in the instep than I ever suspected,” he countered sharply. “You describe a loving, caring lady who pursues the duties of a landowner in the same way that any progressive person does in these enlightened times. I suggest that you take a close look at yourself, Lady Emily. You sound like the most odious of prigs.”
Wellington and Thorne had drawn aside to talk, leaving Amanda and Norwood facing each other.
“Why did you never mention your relationship to Thorne?” he asked in amazement.
“Why should I? It is not necessary to have noble connections in order to be a worthwhile person. I severed all ties when I left home.”
“You did or he did?”
“It was mutual. I chose the life I wanted to lead and have never regretted it.”
“Then why did you return to live so close at hand?”
“That was Father’s idea. He wanted me where he could keep an eye on me.”
“I don’t understand,” he murmured.
“There is no need for you to do so, your grace. I trust you are enjoying your visit,” she continued, deliberately changing the subject.
“As much as I enjoy anything..” He shrugged. “I have offered for Lady Emily, who I now gather is your sister.”
