“I’d deem it an honor if you and your family, and Mr. Leadford, of course,”—that last seemed an afterthought on the duke’s part—“would join us for dinner at Ridgewood Friday next.”
Fingers crossed, she held her breath. She’d have time to finish her new gown by then. A couple of months ago, Papa had permitted Mama, Jessica, and Theadosia each four new gowns, as well as a new bonnet, gloves, and slippers. They’d never been afforded such luxuries before, and now that his grace had returned, she was even more grateful she’d not have to attend supper in one of her remade garments.
An intimate dinner with the Sutcliffes.
Oh, the marvel of it.
Her dearest friends, Nicolette Twistleton, twins Ophelia and Gabriella Breckensole, and their widowed cousin Everleigh Chatterton would demand all the details about the dinner when she and Jessica next met them for tea.
Please let Papa say yes. He must. He must.
She made her way to her father’s side, but her dratted feet refused to budge an inch farther before she heard his reply.
“It would be our pleasure, Your Grace. I shall inform Marianne.”
Papa’s attention gravitated to the grand marble marker again.
Victor—that was, Sutcliffe—had found his father that awful night. He’d cut his body loose, and carried his sire into the house. Such was his anguish, afterward, he’d hacked the willow down and burned every last branch, even setting fire to the stump.
In the days following the duke’s suicide, that topic had been on everyone’s tongue except the Brentwoods’.
“If I may be of assistance in any way, do let me know. I am always available to counsel parishioners.” Papa’s offer was genuine. He truly cared for his flock and those that were suffering.
“There is one thing, if I may?” A wry smile bent the duke’s mouth up on one side as he placed his hat atop his dark head. “I should very much appreciate you performing my wedding ceremony in August.”
Theadosia flushed hot. Then cold. Then hot again.
Moisture flooded her eyes, blurring the grass she stared at.
He’s betrothed.
That was why he’d returned. Of course he’d want to get married here. Why hadn’t she considered such a thing? His homecoming wasn’t because he’d missed Colchester at all. He’d probably leave straightaway after he exchanged vows too.
Swallowing gut-wrenching disappointment, she forced her feet to move. Stupid to have entertained fanciful hope all these years: a child’s ridiculous fantasy. Daughters of rectors couldn’t—shouldn’t—yearn for passion and adventure. That was the drivel of romance novels. No, they married men of equal station. Staid, religious fellows with nice eyes and kind faces.
But not men who leered at bosoms.
“Indeed. Congratulations.” Sincere excitement lit her father’s voice. Except for Christmastide services, he adored nothing more than performing wedding ceremonies. “Do we know your future duchess?”
Did they?
Please God, not one of my friends.
No, the girls would’ve mentioned something as monumental, and there’d not been as much as a whisper about the Duke of Sutcliffe’s upcoming nuptials.
An outsider then.
Likely some elegant, blue-blooded debutant with unblemished alabaster skin, petite feet, and a dowry so immense a team of dray horses couldn’t pull the treasure.
Theadosia’s dowry wouldn’t fill a teapot. Or a teacup, for that matter.
She couldn’t resist a last glance over her shoulder, and her gaze collided with Sutcliffe’s.
“Perhaps.” Another smile, this one humorless, hitched his grace’s mouth up a notch. He seemed to speak directly at her.
“I confess, I don’t know who she’ll be yet.”
The next afternoon, after suffering through a wretched head-pounding, stomach-churning morning thanks to his over-indulgence, Victor made his way to the sunroom.
The same gilded-framed portraits and paintings lined the walls, the same Aubusson rugs adorned the floors, and the same valuable trinkets and knickknacks topped the rosewood tables as he strode the wide corridor to the west wing.
Everything remained as it had been when he left, and yet nothing would ever be the same. He’d seen the very worst in himself as he tried to bury his grief and anger. Drinking, womanizing, and gaming—engaging in all the vices his sire had abstained from and denounced.
Rubbing his left brow with two finger pads, he closed his eyes for a moment. A niggling ache had settled there. Past experience had taught him the pain would remain with him for several hours. How many more hangovers must he endure before he forswore drunkenness?
How heartily disappointed Father would be. Mother too.
With justification, for until yesterday, Victor had intended to find the dowdiest, most biddable mousey miss to take to wife. And when he returned to London to resume his philandering lifestyle, he’d leave her at Ridgewood to keep Mama company. That plan hadn’t altered, but knowing Father had taken his life instead of letting cancer steal it from him had made a difference in how he felt about his sire.
Not enough of a difference to make him want to stay at Ridgewood, though the knowledge stripped him of the excuse to carouse to excess anymore.
Partially.
Now a new fear taunted him. Grandfather had also died of cancer, as had an uncle. Was Victor the disease’s next victim? Did that horror lurk in his future?
A smirk of self-reproach tipped his lips as he knocked softly on the doorframe of the sunroom’s open door.
“Do you have a moment, Mother?”
Pulling her spectacles from her nose and laying aside the volume she’d been reading, she smiled a warm greeting and patted the settee.
“Victor, darling. Of course I do. What is it you need, dearest?”
Two years past her fifth decade, with only a few silvery strands amongst her ebony hair, his mother was a lovely woman. He’d inherited her hair and mouth, but it was his father’s eyes that peered back at him in the mirror each morning.
His stomach tumbled.
Would he ever get the image of those bulging sightless orbs out of his mind?
He kissed her upturned cheek, the lightly powdered flesh soft and unlined. Nudging her raggedy cat, Primrose, out of the way, he settled onto the ruby brocade cushion beside his mother. Now his dark maroon jacket would be covered with orange and white cat hair.
Primrose cracked open her one citrine eye and yawned, baring her needle-sharp fangs before lazily stretching and hopping onto the floor. In the most immodest display, she proceeded to groom herself.
Why ever had he thought to have the mangy beast delivered to Mother when he’d found it lying injured beside a barrel on London’s wharf?
Because he knew his mother was lonely.
Her blue eyes brimming with happiness, she patted his cheek as she had when he was a small lad.
“I’m glad you’re home, Victor.”
She’d never complained about his neglect, which served to increase his guilt all the more.
Naturally, he’d written at least weekly and sent gifts too. His two sisters had visited regularly, their husbands and offspring in tow. Mother told him as much in her letters. But other than the dozen staff members who kept Ridgewood Court operating without a hitch, and her spoiled beyond redemption one-eyed cat, no one else resided in the house.
Thrice he’d directed the coach to be readied for the journey from London to Colchester. In the end, the grotesque image of his father’s dangling body slowing spiraling ’round and ’round sent him in search of strong drink instead.
Damn him for a selfish arse; if it weren’t for the stipulation in his father’s will that he marry by his seven-and-twentieth birthday, or everything unentailed, including Ridgewood Court, transferred to his cousin, Victor mightn’t have returned even now.
He’d never know why Father added that addendum only a few months before he died. At the reading of the will, Mother had been equally
startled about the extra provision.
But she loved Ridgewood Court. It was here she’d come as a giddy new bride and here she’d given birth to her three children. And it was here that her husband, the man she’d adored for eight-and-twenty years, had taken his own life.
Did Mother know Father had cancer?
She would suffer no more loss or pain if Victor could prevent it. For certain she would not lose her home, which meant he had just over a month to locate a suitable bride. He’d chosen to return to Colchester, to his boyhood home, hoping there or somewhere in Essex, he could find a woman content to remain at Ridgewood while he resumed his life in London.
Small likelihood of that if he wanted an heir. But did he after all, given the cancer that ran in the family line? Even less possibility he’d be anywhere near as happy as his parents had been, for theirs had been a love match.
In fact, if he stood any chance of meeting his father’s deadline, he would have to enlist Mother’s help. He shouldn’t have waited this long to come back to Ridgewood, but every time he considered returning home, the vision of his father’s lifeless body stopped him.
Even now the image tormented him.
The corpse had been warm when Victor found him.
If only he’d been a few moments sooner he might have saved his father’s life. But he hadn’t known about the cancer either. Would watching his father die a slow, agonizingly painful death truly have been better?
Mother clasped Victor’s hand and gave his fingers a tiny squeeze.
“Victor? What is it? You look troubled, and it’s only your first day home.”
“Mother, there’s something about Father’s death you might not know.”
Her blank expression revealed what he suspected. She hadn’t known either.
“He didn’t just—” He paused and covered her hand with his. “Father had stomach cancer.”
She gasped, pressing a palm to her throat as tears welled. Struggling for control, she withdrew a lacy scrap from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. At last, she collected herself and raised grief-ravaged eyes to his.
“I suspected he was ill, but when I questioned him, he said it was nothing to fret about. When and how did you find out?”
“Yesterday, at All Saint’s Church. Theadosia Brentwood told me. She overheard her father some time ago and feared speaking of it. I’m glad she did. It was the not knowing why that ate away at me.”
“Trust me, darling, I well understand that.” She gave a tremulous, fragile smile. Sniffing, she touched the handkerchief to the corner of her eye again. “Cancer.” She nodded, lips pressed tight. “Yes, he wouldn’t have wanted to die that way, the way his uncle did. It was awful.”
Hanging himself was so much better?
Victor shook off his morbid mental musings and forced a cheerful smile.
“I hope it’s not an imposition, but while visiting Father’s grave yesterday, I invited the Brentwoods and the new curate to dine with us next Friday.”
Best not tell Mama he’d been a maudlin drunk when Thea came upon him.
Thea.
He’d nearly been struck dumb upon seeing her. Her soft brown eyes, the color of lightly burnt sugar—as sweet and warm too—had lit up in delight when she recognized him. An answering joy had peeled inside his soul as well.
By God, she’d grown into a beauty.
Even soused as he had been, he noticed the glow of her ivory skin, her finely arched brows, that pert pink rosebud mouth, and those jaunty reddish-blonde curls framing her oval face.
No timid mouse there.
She most definitely did not fit into his well thought out scheme of marrying and abandoning his bride.
Now where had that thought come from? It was ridiculous, surely.
“We’ve plenty of time to prepare. It’s not an imposition at all. In fact, with your permission, I’d like to have a house party in a couple of weeks or so.” Mama’s eyes glittered, and she clapped her hands twice in excitement. “Oh, let’s do have a ball too, Victor. That is if you’re agreeable. It’s been a long while since music and gaiety filled Ridgewood. Your sisters could come stay as well.”
How could he deny her?
Relaxing against the back of the settee while hooking his ankle across his knee, he nodded.
“Yes, I think that’s a grand idea. Do invite the Brentwoods, won’t you?”
“All right darling, but I doubt they’ll attend.”
He stopped toying with the tapestry pillow. “Why?”
“I don’t think you’re aware, but the eldest Brentwood girl eloped a couple of years ago. With a traveling musician or acrobat or some such unpromising person.” She waved her hand casually. “It caused quite a stir. You should be aware the reverend won’t speak of her at all, nor will he permit others to. His daughters are rarely permitted social functions that aren’t church related. He may not allow them to attend the house party or ball.”
“That’s awfully harsh, don’t you think?”
It explained why Thea had been worried about being caught with him yesterday. It also dashed his excuse to hold her in his arms again while he waltzed her ’round the ballroom or terrace.
Mother rolled a shoulder. “He’s a man of rigid beliefs, and while I do not approve of his daughter’s scandalous behavior, I think it wiser to be merciful and slow to judge. We don’t always know what motivates someone to take extreme action.”
Sorrow turned her mouth down.
Now she spoke of Father.
Even after all this time, she grieved for him. They’d been soulmates, and when Father died, a part of Mother had too. Little chance she’d marry again. Still . . . Mayhap he’d add a name or two to the guest list. Available gentlemen of a certain age of whom he approved. No rogues or rakes, no men of his ilk, for his Mother.
He hesitated a moment. Might as well crack on and ask for her help in acquiring a bride. It might help distract her. “I’m certain you recall I must wed in August, or the unentailed property transfers to Jeffrey.”
Jeffery was a decent chap, and yet it grated to think he’d inherit simply because Victor had dawdled too long in finding a duchess.
“I know, dear.” A soft, understanding smile curved her mouth. “And I knew when you were ready, you’d come home and face that dragon. I honestly cannot fathom what possessed your father to add that stipulation.”
Neither could Victor, unless it was to guarantee the duchy an heir. “We’ll never know, but I hope you will be able to advise me in my search for a bride. You know more than I who the eligible young ladies are in the area, and you know what I require in a duchess.”
He’d no doubt that whomever he selected, the chosen lady would eagerly agree to the match. What sensible woman would turn down becoming a duchess?
Expression contemplative, her attention focused on the gardens beyond the mullioned windows, she held her chin between her thumb and bent forefinger.
“What about love, my dear? I’d much rather you waited until you found someone you love.”
Victor sighed and rubbed his fingertips across his forehead.
“I shan’t have you lose your home because of my selfishness.” He pressed his lips together. He’d cause her no more unhappiness. “I know you love Ridgewood.”
“Darling, I can live anywhere as long as my children visit. Your sisters invited me to live with them numerous times, but I’ve stayed at Ridgewood for you.” Patting his hand, she offered a gentle smile. “To give you a reason to return and face your demons.”
She’d stayed here alone when she could’ve been with one of her daughters and grandchildren? All the more reason he could not disappoint.
“And it’s because of your generosity, Mother, that I cannot ignore the codicil.”
“Victor, even the best of marriages endures many challenges, and I worry that without love . . .”
“I’ve considered that, but the most I can strive for at this late juncture is to find someone compatible. Father robbed me of
the chance for love.”
Just as well.
Not one to deceive himself, he knew there was scant risk of a shattered heart in a marriage of convenience. Mother was a far stronger person than he, because he wouldn’t take the chance of loving someone with all his being as his parents had. He’d seen what that kind of affection had done to his mother. Seen her utter devastation. No, better to not have emotions involved, most particularly since he was rushing into the blessed event, and he too might perish from cancer.
Fine lines of concern fanning the corners of her loving eyes as she searched his face, his mother seemed to come to a decision. She inhaled deeply and clasped her hands.
“All right. Let’s start with a guest list that includes all the eligible young women in Essex.”
“All of them?” Precisely how many were there? “I was thinking of a half dozen of the most quiet and acquiescent—”
Her delighted laughter rang out.
“Oh, darling, no, no.” Another trill of laughter filled the room. “You’d be utterly miserable with a biddable wife. Oh, my goodness no! You’re too intense to tolerate a compliant, submissive duchess for long. She’d bore you within months, and I fear your eye would stray. That would be unfair to her, since I know too well you are a man who will demand fidelity from your duchess. No, I think a spirited girl who gives as good as she gets is a far better choice for you.”
Hell and damnation.
She’d just thrown a huge hurdle in his plan, even if she was bloody right.
“To avoid hurt feelings, however, I shall invite all the unmarried ladies in Essex. Even the Nabity spinsters. Does that satisfy you?”
Her mouth trembled, and he grinned. Her good humor was contagious.
“Perhaps you ought to select those of childbearing age, unless you don’t want more grandchildren?”
Could he really subject his children to the same sort of pain he’d endured if this new fear of cancer became a reality? And what if his children were susceptible to the demon disease?
What choice had he?
Let Jeffery inherit the duchy too? What good would that do? They shared a grandfather and their paternal grand uncle had died from cancer.
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