The Truth About Love and Dukes

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Why shouldn’t you, if Mama doesn’t object?”

  The duchess waved a hand airily. “Not at all. I think it a most excellent idea.”

  “No shirking, though,” the duke said, “once you’ve taken it on. Perhaps,” he added, glancing at Irene, “you might ask Miss Clara to assist you?”

  Irene looked at her sister, watching Clara’s face light up at the prospect.

  “Oh, could I?” she asked. “Unless you need me at the paper, Irene?”

  “I can manage. I may have to be there nearly every day, but you certainly don’t.”

  “My goodness, Miss Deverill,” Lady David said, “you are very much the workhorse.”

  Irene supposed that was an insult to her femininity, but with a glance at her sister, she remained silent. As Torquil had said, there was little point in talking about it now. “I soldier on, Lady David,” she said, pasting on a smile.

  “That’s very brave of you, Miss Deverill,” Sarah put in, her approval perhaps a bit forced. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “Good thing,” Torquil muttered.

  Sarah did not seem to hear. “It will be exhausting, I warn you, Miss Deverill, to work at your paper and do the season, too. Even though we’re coming to the end, there are still many events to attend. I can’t imagine how you’ll manage.”

  “I’m sure I shall find adequate time for sleep.”

  “I doubt it,” Carlotta said, overriding her young sister-in-law’s attempt to smooth things over. “We are often out past dawn. How shall you participate? Shall you go straight from the ballroom to the newsroom to lunch at Rules?” She gave a laugh and turned to the duke before Irene could reply. “It’s absurd. No one could manage such a schedule. You agree with me, Torquil, of course?”

  Carlotta was smiling as she looked at her brother-in-law, rather like a cat who’d got into the cream, and who could blame her? Irene braced herself for the duke’s inevitable disapproval.

  “Whatever Miss Deverill’s obligations may be, scheduling them is hardly within my purview,” he said, and Irene was so astonished she nearly fell out of her chair. “Either way,” he went on, meeting his sister-in-law’s gaze across the table with a hard look Irene was coming to know well, “since you spend most of your time prior to luncheon in bed, Carlotta, I cannot see that it is any of your concern.”

  Those words were like a door slamming shut. Carlotta, suitably chastened, returned her attention to her meal, and Irene, still a bit stunned by this unexpected show of support, leaned closer to her host.

  “In cases such as this,” she murmured, “I thought it was best to hold one’s tongue?”

  “There are limits, Miss Deverill,” he replied, his voice equally low. “Even for me.”

  She made a face. “If anyone tests your limits, it’s probably me.”

  “Yes,” he acknowledged and looked away, reaching for his wine. “In ways you cannot possibly imagine.”

  Chapter 9

  When dinner was over, the men remained in the dining room for port, the ladies went through to the drawing room for coffee, and the duchess gave Irene her first chance to begin the task that had been forced upon her.

  Settling on one of the ivory brocade settees, the duchess smiled at Irene and patted the seat cushion beside her. “My dear Miss Deverill, do bring your coffee and sit down by me.”

  Irene complied, but as she did, it struck her again just how difficult her undertaking was going to be. Ever since the duke had maneuvered her into this situation, Irene had been racking her brains to determine how best to save her beloved newspaper without compromising her own principles and beliefs, and also without spoiling another woman’s happiness.

  She had developed a sincere liking for the duchess during their brief correspondence, and now that she had met her, Irene liked her even more. There was a warmth and genuine friendliness in her that one couldn’t help responding to. In addition, their meeting had reinforced Irene’s opinion of her as a woman of intelligence and sophistication, who was well able to make her own decision about who to wed and how to deal with the aftermath.

  So how on earth, Irene wondered, was she supposed to change the other woman’s mind? And was it even ethical to attempt it?

  The duchess spoke again before Irene could begin to contemplate a course of action. “I am so glad you and your sister have come to us. As I said earlier, your Lady Truelove column is one of the high points of my day.”

  Beside Irene, Lady Angela wriggled as if uncomfortable with this topic.

  Her mother noticed at once. “Angela, my dear, I do believe we need some music. Will you play for us? You play so beautifully.”

  “Oh, but I—” The girl stopped, seeming to realize that her mother was not really making a request. “Of course, Mama.”

  She rose and walked to the piano where her sister and sister-in-law were leaning over various sheets of music, leaving Irene and the duchess alone on the settee. The older woman watched her daughter go, smiling a little. “She’s a darling girl, Angela.”

  Irene remembered how she’d overheard the other girl defending her and her sister before dinner, and was happy to agree. “She seems lovely.”

  “She is. Inside, as well as out. I do hope—” The older woman broke off, her smile vanishing, a thoughtful frown taking its place. “She is worried about her future now, in light of recent events. They all are.” The duchess turned to look at Irene, giving her a considering look. “You know, I’m sure, why that is so?”

  There was no point in pretending otherwise. “I believe everyone knows your situation, Duchess. I, of course—”

  She broke off, feeling as if she was groping in the dark, but after taking a moment to consider, she felt it best to be as frank and aboveboard as possible. “I have a confession to make, Duchess. Lady Truelove has . . . ahem . . . shared your correspondence with me. Lady Truelove shares all her letters with me so that I might best perform my role as editor. In telling you this, I hope you do not feel she has broken your confidence?”

  “If I wanted my situation kept a secret, Miss Deverill, I should hardly have written to a newspaper columnist, even one who pledges to keep my confidence.”

  “Why did you do it? Sorry,” she added at once. “I don’t mean to pry, but I confess, I am curious. Most of the people who write to Lady Truelove are not likely to be identified by the reading public. Even their nearest and dearest don’t usually recognize who they are. You are different. Your name has been connected with Mr. Foscarelli for some time. You must have known that upon reading your letter and the details you provided, many people would know that the ‘Lady of Society’ is you.”

  “Just so. But my reason for writing to Lady Truelove was the same as that of most people, I imagine. I was in great distress of mind, and I did not feel there was anyone in whom I could confide, at least not anyone who would listen without judging, and who could offer unbiased advice.”

  “No close friend, or relation?”

  “The life of the aristocracy, Miss Deverill, can often be superficial, and isolating, despite the fact that we are always surrounded by others. My family, understandably, wanted to stick their heads in the sand and pretend their mother did not have a young Italian lover! Discussing it with any of them would have been distressing for them and embarrassing for all of us. As for my friends, I was fully aware of what they would say had I asked their opinion: don’t be a fool, Harriet. Have your fling, if you must, but be discreet.”

  “I see.”

  “In considering marriage to Antonio, I have been fully aware of what impact it would have on my life and the lives of my children. On the other hand, I have come to realize that to continue with him at all, marriage is the only possible course.” She smiled a little. “I have always considered myself a woman of the world, Miss Deverill, but I find that an illicit love affair, however exciting, is not really my cup of tea.”

  Irene smiled back at her. “My question was not as much why you wrote to Lady Truelove for advice, but
why you agreed to have your letter published. Lady Truelove gives all her correspondents the ability to refuse publication. She would have advised you to the best of her ability either way.”

  “In the beginning, I had thought not to have my letter published, but as Lady Truelove and I exchanged correspondence, I felt more and more strongly that it would be better for all concerned if the news of my marriage came out before the fact, rather than afterward. Otherwise, the members of my family might perhaps feel I had betrayed them and harbor bitterness. By having it come out beforehand, they are able to prepare themselves in advance for what is to come and perhaps forgive more easily. And by the time it happens, society will, I hope, have got over the initial shock, and will regard my marriage as an unfortunate inevitability instead of an appalling scandal.”

  “Taking the wind out of everyone’s sails, so to speak?” When the duchess nodded, she went on, “But you did not wish to tell your family of your decision in person?”

  “No. It shall be hard on them, I know, but there are certain points in a woman’s life where she must be entitled to consider her own needs, as well as those of her children. They are all very dear to me, but they have no idea how lonely my life has been.”

  “I understand.”

  “Given that your mother made a similar decision, I think perhaps you do. Still, if I confessed to such a feeling to my family, they would be deeply distressed and see it as an indictment of their care of me. Torquil, in particular, would take it so.”

  “He does seem to possess a very strong interest in your personal affairs. Do you not sometimes chafe under such scrutiny?”

  She laughed. “I should tell him to mind his own business, you mean?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose that is what I do mean.”

  She shook her head. “It wouldn’t matter if I did. Henry takes his role as head of the family very much to heart, and it would grieve him enormously not to have the chance to persuade me against what he sees as a disastrous marriage.”

  Irene shifted in her chair, hating that she was the means by which he intended to accomplish that task. It was a most uncomfortable position to be in.

  “But once the deed is done,” the duchess went on serenely, “he will have the comfort of knowing he did all he could to stop me. As will all my children. For I expect every one of them to make various attempts to change my mind during the coming fortnight.”

  Irene pushed aside for the moment the part she was expected to play in that particular activity. “So the delay in marrying Mr. Foscarelli was deliberate on your part? I was told—that is,” she amended at once, “I thought the reason you are not yet married is that Mr. Foscarelli had not yet satisfied the two-week residency a license requires.”

  “Oh, no. I daresay that’s what Torquil thinks, for he has damned Antonio as a worthless scoundrel, whose only intent is to take advantage of me.”

  “That might be a possible interpretation of events, don’t you think?”

  The duchess merely seemed amused. “Oh, dear, my poor Antonio has even you viewing him with a jaundiced eye. What does Lady Truelove think of that, I wonder?”

  Irene resisted the impulse to squirm again. “Unlike Lady Truelove, I can see . . . ahem . . . at least a little, your son’s point of view.”

  “Torquil’s point of view has been shaped by his life and the responsibilities of his position, Miss Deverill, and he has felt it necessary to cultivate a hard, polished veneer. Underneath it, of course, he is a hopeless romantic.”

  To Irene, there was no “of course” about it. Some of her skepticism must have shown on her face, for the duchess laughed.

  “It is hard for someone outside the family to believe, I know, but it’s true nonetheless. Still, you mustn’t let on that I’ve given away his secret, for it flies straight in the face of all his efforts to be a hard and world-weary cynic.”

  “I shan’t breathe a word,” she promised. Since it’s clear you don’t know your son at all. “But in regard to Mr. Foscarelli,” she went on, “do you not ever wonder if Torquil might be right? That the man might be just a fortune-hunter?”

  She grimaced, knowing she’d just been unforgivably impertinent, but the duchess laughed again. “Well, of course he’s a fortune-hunter, my dear! What else would he be?”

  Irene blinked, a bit taken aback. Not that the duchess’s words themselves surprised her; on the contrary, they confirmed what she’d suspected all along—that Foscarelli was motivated, at least in part, by monetary concerns. Though she hadn’t seen that in itself as a reason to denounce the courtship, it was the reason she’d taken such great pains to underscore the risks and emphasize tying up the money.

  “Your silence tells me I’ve shocked you, Miss Deverill. But I am fully aware that Antonio is a fortune-hunter. Whatever else I may be, I am not a fool.”

  Irene was dismayed. “Forgive me,” she said, mortified that she might have given insult. “I never meant to imply—”

  Her apology was cut off by the other woman’s pat on her knee. “I know what you meant, and you’re a sweet child to be concerned. I love Mr. Foscarelli deeply, as you are already aware from my correspondence with Lady Truelove, but I have no illusions about his situation. If I did not have money, we would not be able to wed. It is as simple as that.”

  “I am not shocked, Duchess. It is only that most people would not be so frank with a new acquaintance.”

  “I am not, usually. But when I speak with you, it is almost as if I am speaking with Lady Truelove herself.”

  Irene felt smothered, embarrassed, and keenly uncomfortable. It was hard to force words out, but she could see only one course open to her, and she willed herself to continue. “I am aware that Lady Truelove was concerned about Mr. Foscarelli’s lack of an income.”

  “She certainly was.”

  That gave Irene no cues at all. “I take it, then, that you have drafted the—” She stopped, unable to continue, the question caught in her throat, her face growing hot, and she cursed Torquil for putting her in this impossible situation. She had met this woman less than three hours ago. Who was she to ask impertinent questions, and delve into the other woman’s motivations and reasons? What right did she have to make trouble between the duchess and the man she loved?

  “Forgive me,” she said, taking a gulp of coffee. “I don’t wish to pry.”

  The duchess, thankfully, did not seem to perceive her discomfort. “Not at all. You’ve been a keen observer of my situation through your columnist. It’s understandable you would be curious.”

  She did not, however, choose to satisfy that curiosity with any details about the enormous marriage settlement or the lack of a prenuptial agreement, and Irene could not bring herself to probe any more deeply into the other woman’s privacy. When the duchess changed the subject, inquiring what social amusements she and her sister might enjoy, she was relieved, though also keenly aware of being right back where she’d started. And when the duchess excused herself from her company a few minutes later and joined her daughters at the piano, Irene did not follow her. Instead, she stared moodily down into her coffee cup, considering what she’d learned.

  Nothing earth-shattering—well, except that the duchess, bless her mother’s heart, viewed Torquil as a romantic, a piece of information so absurd as to be laughable. As for the rest, she still felt she’d given the other woman the right advice.

  So, what was she supposed to do now?

  “Any luck?”

  Irene looked up as her sister sat down beside her on the settee. “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, I suppose you can’t expect instant success in a situation like this. Did you—” Clara broke off, glanced around to be sure none of the other ladies were within earshot. But they were all across the room, gathered around the piano, and Angela’s playing easily overrode their murmured conversation. “Did you reiterate that he might be a fortune-hunter?”

  “I did. But she doesn’t seem to care. And it’s so hard to speak plainly abou
t these things face-to-face. It was much easier to communicate with her by letter, when I hadn’t yet met her. Does that make sense?”

  Clara nodded, looking comfortingly sympathetic. “Especially since before you came here, you didn’t fully understand the effect her marriage would have upon her family. Whereas now . . .”

  “Now, I’m caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. When I first gave the duchess my opinion, I had not thought, it’s true, about the impact her decision would have upon her relations,” she said slowly. “But, even so, it is still her decision.”

  “But something troubles you, Irene. I know you too well not to know it.”

  “She didn’t tie up the money as I suggested. I wonder why.”

  “Perhaps Foscarelli didn’t want her to.”

  Irene pursed her lips, giving her sister a rueful look. “That makes me even more worried. If he was a man of good character, why wouldn’t he agree to a prenuptial agreement?”

  “Perhaps she didn’t ask him. Whatever the reason, she must be very much in love with him.”

  “I should say so, yes. Definitely.” She fell back against the settee with a sigh. “How can I talk his mother out of a course I advised her to take? Such a task forces me to inquire into things that are none of my concern.”

  “Could you write to her again as Lady Truelove?”

  “And say what? That I’ve revised my opinion and she shouldn’t marry the man after all? What excuse could I offer for this change of mind? And she’s made up her mind now, so I doubt it would matter. Besides, I still believe she is doing what she thinks is best for her own future happiness.” She made a sound of utter exasperation. “This entire situation is impossible. That man,” she added, scowling as the door opened and Torquil entered the drawing room with the other gentlemen, “wants the impossible!”

  “Goodness, Irene, he does stir you up, doesn’t he?”

  “To say the least. Oh, dear,” she added, straightening in her seat as the object of their conversation started in their direction. “I fear I am about to be called upon for an account of my progress.”