by Erica Ridley
Miss Wynchester was interesting, surprising…and not meant for Lawrence. He must put her out of his mind and remember his duty to his title. This little favor meant nothing. Miss York was the quarry. With his proper, respectable new wife at his side, Lawrence wouldn’t even notice Miss Wynchester’s presence at his end-of-season gala.
He hoped.
“I am delighted to have you for tea,” Mrs. York cooed. “Don’t worry about the blanket.”
Yes. Lawrence supposed Miss Wynchester was both to blame and to thank for that.
If it weren’t for being honor-bound to fulfill their bargain, he would not have attended an event called Blankets for Babes. Lawrence was a champion for the poor, but in the House of Lords. He hated not being in control, and he was unquestionably out of his element at this inspirational needlework symposium.
Then again, strategy was everything. Miss Wynchester had given him the perfect opportunity to present himself as more than a hard, standoffish duke. Perhaps his presence here today would warm Miss York’s affections.
Not that she glanced in his direction.
“You’re all invited to my June gala,” he announced.
Several of the young ladies cheered.
“Thank you,” gushed Mrs. York. “You are everything that is gracious and kind.”
Miss York did not stifle her yawn.
“I spied His Grace last week in his theatre box,” whispered one of her friends.
“He never misses a performance,” said another with great authority.
“He’s always alone.”
“I suppose someone in this room will be his first guest…” said another slyly.
Even before the passing of Lawrence’s father, the Faircliffe private opera box had been exclusively Lawrence’s domain. Father had never attended. Lawrence, as this impertinent chit had pointed out, could not keep away.
Attending a performance felt like stepping into one of his paintings, into a life full of music and daring and love. He couldn’t afford the extravagance, but neither could he give it up. The private box was his haven. He didn’t want anyone close enough to watch him grip the sides of his seat during reckless acrobatics onstage or see him swallow hard to hide his emotion during plaintive ballads of heartbreak.
The unmarried ladies of the ton had taken one look at an eligible duke seated all alone in a theatre box and determined the first female to be invited within those hallowed half walls would undoubtedly become his bride.
They were almost right.
Lawrence would never refuse his duchess her rightful place… But he would not relinquish this innocent private pleasure until then.
Yet, the ladies made a fair point. If attendance by his side in a theatre box was tantamount to a public proposal, some level of private conversation with Miss York was long overdue.
He turned toward Mrs. York. “What interesting craftsmanship on that tall case clock across the room. Might I inspect it closer?”
“Straightaway. Philippa would love to escort you.” She sent her daughter a speaking look. “Darling, please show His Grace our clock.”
Miss York did not appear enthusiastic, but she inclined her head in assent. “As you please.”
The back of Lawrence’s neck crawled. What would Miss Wynchester think when he and Miss York engaged in a tête-à-tête on the other side of the tea cakes? As he rose to his feet, his gaze flicked in her direction.
She wasn’t even looking. Tiglet had climbed up her bodice and was trying to lick her face. Miss Wynchester twisted this way and that, making droll faces as though the kitten’s little tongue tickled. The effect was endearing. He could hardly look away.
And…perhaps the Duke of Faircliffe was paying too much attention to the wrong woman.
He immediately offered Miss York his arm and forced an awkward smile.
She took his arm but did not return the smile. They walked to the ornate Chippendale tall case clock in silence.
He liked silence, Lawrence told himself. His reputation for reticence was unfeigned. There was no reason to blather about nothing. A wife with whom he could share the occasional companionable silence would be a treasure.
If his moments in Miss York’s company had thus far failed to seem companionable…well, this was his opportunity to correct that.
“Do you want to look at the clock?” she asked. “Here it is. Shall I point out how numerical and clocklike it is?”
His lips tightened at her jibe. Perhaps she felt as uncomfortable as he did. Lawrence had never learned to be flirtatious and rakish. He’d been too busy studying to be a better man than his father. Moments like these weren’t easy.
As a child, he’d been shunned for so long, solitude had become normal. He’d longed to connect meaningfully with others but hadn’t known how. He still didn’t know. He hoped his wife would be the person he could be genuine with, without judgment. He wanted a relationship based on mutual trust and respect. Safety and comfort. Not duty.
“I don’t want you to do anything,” he assured her.
Except that wasn’t true, was it? He wanted her to want to marry him.
“That is,” he clarified, “I don’t want you to do anything you don’t wish to. May I be frank?”
“As you wish, Your Grace.”
“Shall we dispense with ‘Your Grace’? You have my permission to call me Faircliffe.”
Miss York studied the base of the clock without saying anything at all.
Lawrence tried not to be frustrated. This was no love match; therefore, he could not expect passion. He’d just hoped for…more.
Like him, Miss York was an only child. The only hope for a large, happy family would be to pray for many healthy children. Lawrence would be as devoted to them as he would be to his wife.
Was Miss York hesitant because he’d given her cause to doubt his intentions? His neck heated. He should not have allowed his gaze to wander toward Miss Wynchester. And he should do his best to dispel any fears that he’d fallen victim to any of the other guests’ overeager charms.
“If you’ve noticed others making flirtatious comments to me, I want you know I am not interested in any of those young ladies.”
“They’re lovely young ladies.” Miss York glared at him. “That’s why they’re my friends.”
“Er…yes. I didn’t mean…” Good God, this conversation was going worse than he’d feared. “Let me be honest, Miss York. Perhaps it is gauche to be forthcoming about my motives, but I dislike prevarication and cannot countenance any sort of relationship built on lies.”
“Do we have any sort of relationship?”
“I am working on it.” His spine was rigid. “I’m working on many things. I’ve spent a lifetime elevating my reputation above my father’s. I keep a town house and an entailed country estate in the best condition my limited finances can provide. An investment opportunity in June will further secure the dukedom, if I have the means to take advantage of it. My greatest advantage is my rank, which I will share with my wife and pass along to future generations.”
“It sounds like you have everything.”
“I haven’t a duchess.” Making such a bald statement was a risk, but he needed her to understand what he was offering and asking. A dowry for a duchy, so to speak. “I hope that over the next few weeks you may wish to take that role.”
Her brow creased. “Why wait weeks? All you need is a moment alone with my father. He’s itching to sign a marriage contract.”
“That may be.” Indeed, Lawrence hoped it was true. “But I will not ask you or your father to agree to a union that goes against your will. If he signs a marriage contract, it must be because both you and I wish to wed.”
She tilted her head. “You are an odd duke. I think I like you more than I thought I did.”
Not quite the Yes, yes, please let me be your duchess a man of his status might expect, but a step in the right direction. He could certainly appreciate candor.
Perhaps one day it could blossom int
o something resembling love.
A movement on the opposite side of the crowded room caught his eye. Miss Wynchester cradled Tiglet in her lap and was stroking his soft fur. Anyone would purr to be touched as sweetly and as adoringly as that.
“A friend of yours?” Miss York asked.
“No.” He thought it over. Were they? “No, definitely not.”
Miss York pursed her lips.
Clearly this required more explanation. Lawrence straightened. There was no reason to hide his association with Miss Wynchester; indeed, the terms of their agreement would make it public knowledge. Besides, if all went well, Miss York would be right there at Lawrence’s side when he…
“I’ve promised to acknowledge her a few times this Season,” he explained. “As a personal favor to improve her standing.”
“Astonishing.” Miss York’s gaze was flat and her tone sardonic. “You will valiantly refrain from publicly humiliating a young lady with a direct cut, at least for the moment. How generous.”
He shifted his weight. “Er…”
“Wait.” Miss York tilted her head. “You are aware she’s a Wynchester?”
“Were you aware?” he countered. “To be frank, I never dreamed your mother would open her doors to—”
“She did not.” Miss York’s smile was brittle. “Mother remains the pinnacle of respectability you dreamed she would be. There was apparently some confusion with the guest list.”
“There’s always confusion where the Wynchesters are concerned.” His gaze flicked back across the room. “That’s why I stay away.”
“Hmm.” She arched a brow.
Lawrence remembered her insinuation that he had been the one to behave poorly, not Miss Wynchester.
What must it be like to have to manipulate others into performing ordinary acts of kindness?
Miss York gestured at the clock. “Gaze upon the infinite vastness of time for as long as you please. I must return to my mother. Guests will soon be departing.”
“I’ll take you to her,” he offered.
But he would not be so forward as to stand by her side as the guests took their leave. There would be plenty of time for that once they were duke and duchess.
Instead, he made his way toward Miss Wynchester.
What was this pull she had over him? His limbs were his to control, yet the only direction they turned in was hers. He felt taller, more powerful, and more exposed all at once.
She tucked Tiglet into her basket and rested her chin in her hand, her fingertips tapping lightly at her cheek. He wondered what she would taste like there, if he were to kiss the soft skin beneath her cheekbone, all the way to the sensitive crease at the lobe of her ear. He would run his finger along the edge of that perfect shell, then his tongue, then perhaps nip lightly before moving down to the pulse just beneath.
Ignoring her was impossible.
With their chins high and noses pinched, some said the Wynchesters were as common as flies. Lawrence rather suspected that if Miss Wynchester was wild and common, she was more like a dandelion. Strong and beautiful, able to spring back taller than before no matter how hard one tried to cut her down.
11
Although several peers and statesmen went straight from Parliament to Lady Quarrington’s soirée, Lawrence was the only man who had been counting down the minutes because he could not cease worrying about a Wynchester.
There were many reasons her evening might not have gone as desired: for example, not knowing how to dress or comport herself, having never received such an invitation before.
Simply because one’s name was Wynchester.
But Lawrence was not here for her, he assured himself as a footman whisked away his coat and hat. He had a future duchess to woo.
The butler accompanied him to the door of the ballroom and announced Lawrence’s arrival.
As hundreds of faces tilted his way, he could not help but wonder what the reaction had been to Miss Wynchester’s name.
Had she been allowed to cross the threshold? Was her cat peeking from a wicker basket? Had she found a more suitable gown? What if the prospect had proved too daunting, and she hadn’t come at all?
He could not blame her if that was the case. He’d been born to this world, and it still overwhelmed him.
From the moment Lawrence’s feet touched the ballroom floor, he greeted a never-ending current of acquaintances. Some calculating faces looked at him and saw an unclaimed title for their daughters. Some saw a potential vote in the House of Lords.
All that others saw was his father.
Soon there would be no more vowels to pay. The gossip could finally turn from the misdeeds of his father to the question of when Lawrence and his bride might expect an heir.
He would do everything in his power to ensure his children needn’t cringe whenever someone mentioned their father.
“But enough about auld lang syne,” droned the Marquess of Rosbotham, a well-respected statesman who had attended Eton with Lawrence’s father. “What is the meaning of that speech you gave yesterday? You’re as Tory as I am, of course you must be, but some of your wild ideas sound perilously close to the nonsense spouted by those liberal Whigs!”
“Nonsense” like social reform and caring for the plight of the common man, who had no entailed house to sleep in nor family treasures to fund his every desire.
“I believe in the sovereignty of king and church,” Lawrence assured the marquess. “But if ladies can support their little charities, should not gentlemen perform good works using the superior resources we possess?”
“Mmm.” Rosbotham’s eyes were suspicious, but as Lawrence had framed his point as a question of manliness and rank, the marquess found himself without an easy retort.
This was why Miss York’s father would be such a critical ally. They needed each other. Lawrence could sway votes in the House of Lords, and Mr. York was a favorite to be the next Speaker for the House of Commons.
“What about—” Rosbotham began, but Lawrence did not hear the rest of the marquess’s question.
His eyes had locked on Miss Wynchester along the far wall.
For once she was not dressed in shades of gray but wore a gown the color of fresh cream with a bodice of seafoam green and embroidery to match along the hem. Her soft brown hair was swept up in a simple coil, drawing one’s attention to her lively brown eyes and rosy lips. He wanted to taste the dip at the top, run his tongue along the seam until she allowed him access…
She did not seem at all the sort of woman who needed to ask to be kissed. He could imagine begging for the pleasure, the seductive feel of a victorious smile tugging at her lips even as she pressed them against his.
Miss Wynchester was no peacock of fashion, but she played her part with astonishing precision. She mixed well with wealthy, cultured wallflowers who had been coming to these events their entire lives. If the butler had not read her name too loudly, the current company would have no reason to suspect a Wynchester was in their midst.
Lawrence noticed every sparkle in her eye and stray curl of hair. He had the nape of her neck and the curve of her cheek memorized, yet watched her helplessly all the same. Miss Wynchester was like air. He could not help but breathe her in.
“What’s caught your attention?” Lord Rosbotham asked.
The back of Lawrence’s neck began to sweat. He could not possibly respond with A Wynchester.
Could he? She was here to make the best match she could. No one would believe he’d extended an invitation to his end-of-season gala if he didn’t acknowledge he knew her.
Perhaps more to the point, she needn’t attend his gala in search of leg shackles if she happened upon an interested gentleman beforehand. Anything Lawrence could do to speed things along would do them both a favor.
And the Marquess of Rosbotham had three unmarried sons.
“If I’m not mistaken,” Lawrence said as casually as he could, “the pretty girl in the celery-hued gown is Miss Chloe Wynchester.”
/> “Wynchester?” Rosbotham snorted in derision. “God save us all. Baron Vanderbean might have been allowed into less discerning households, but that is no reason for his collection of strays to be afforded the same luxury.”
Lawrence’s cold fingers curled into fists. Despite having felt much the same way less than a fortnight earlier, there was little more he wished to do now than plant the Marquess of Rosbotham a dizzying facer.
“Parentage is not one’s only trait,” he pointed out. “Besides, I can think of several by-blows who move quite freely in society.”
“Whose by-blow is she?” Rosbotham spat. “Some harlot who discarded her own spawn? Why should we feel obligated to bow and scrape to the likes of—”
Lawrence did not wait to hear the rest of Lord Rosbotham’s diatribe. He was not so foolish as to punch a marquess in a crowded ballroom; neither could Lawrence stand passively by while an innocent young lady was disparaged. Heritage was never a child’s fault. One’s actions, however—those defined the man.
Without begging his leave, he stepped around the marquess and headed straight toward Chloe Wynchester. At least she hadn’t brought her cat or her basket—unless Tiglet had already escaped.
An elderly woman with wiry gray hair and sharp, narrowed eyes stopped him less than a foot away.
“Have you been properly introduced to my great-niece, young man?” Her thin voice quavered as she swayed unevenly to block his path.
“Yes, Aunt.” Miss Wynchester gave the older woman’s pale hand a reassuring pat. A thin ring encircled one of the aunt’s narrow fingers. “That’s no ne’er-do-well. That’s the Duke of Faircliffe.” Her brown eyes sparkled up at Lawrence. “Your Grace, my great-aunt Wynchester.”
Her great-aunt stared at Lawrence with enough suspicion that he dipped an involuntary bow to prove himself harmless.
“A duke, you say?” Mrs. Wynchester sniffed with obvious resignation, as though she’d been holding out hope some unfettered king or prince would fall madly for her great-niece, and Lawrence stood in that royal hero’s way. “Humph. I’ll get the ratafia.”
