Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  ‘Did you sleep well?’ Harriet asked her, pouring her a cup of coffee from the pot at her elbow.

  ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I had such a strange dream…’

  ‘A nightmare? Something frightened you?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. I felt so easy, comfortable and protected. Someone was holding me. It must have been my father. I know I felt safe.’ She stopped suddenly when she heard the Duke gave a quick grunt, as if he did not believe her. ‘There is no call for you to be so disparaging,’ she said hotly. ‘He was a very kind papa until his affliction got the better of him.’

  Affliction! James longed to tell her the truth, to denounce her father as a wastrel and toadeater, who cared little for his daughter, but he could neither destroy her illusions about her father, nor admit that he had been in her bedchamber in the middle of the night and carried her in his arms. It had been a despicable thing to do. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘If I sounded disparaging, then I beg your pardon.’

  ‘I have been talking to James about our ball,’ Harriet said, quick to intervene. ‘And he agrees you should have a come-out.’

  ‘Do you?’ she asked him. ‘Or have you been bullocked into it?’

  He laughed. ‘Do you think me so weak that I let a woman bullock me into anything?’

  ‘I think you are very fond of your sister and would do anything to please her.’

  ‘So I would, but I would draw the line at going against my own better judgement. On this occasion, I think she is right. If you are given a come-out and introduced into Society in the accepted manner, then I do not doubt you will take. A husband is what you need.’ Even as he spoke, he realised that if some young buck offered for her and she accepted, he would not be happy about it. He did not want to her to leave his protection for someone else’s. He pulled himself up short. Whatever was he thinking? He had made himself her guardian and one did not have wayward thoughts and feelings for those one is supposed to protect.

  ‘I am not looking for a husband,’ she said, annoyance making her cheeks flush. ‘I have vowed never to marry.’

  ‘Oh, Sophie, you are too young to make vows like that,’ Harriet said, reaching out and putting a hand on her arm. ‘And giving you a ball does not mean that we expect you to accept the first offer that is made. Do we, James?’

  He smiled. Sophie angry, Sophie with that heightened colour and those brown eyes flashing amber fire was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, with the exception of Sophie asleep in his arms, soft and pliant. ‘No, we do not. Sophie, you will have your come-out ball, and if you do not receive a dozen offers I shall be surprised, but whether you accept one of them or not will be your decision. I do not believe in pushing unwilling girls into marriage.’

  ‘But you would be glad to be rid of me. I am an embarrassment to you.’

  ‘When have I said that?’

  ‘You do not need to. I know it. Yesterday—’

  ‘I have told James about our aunt’s visit,’ Harriet said. ‘He agrees with me that she has simply made herself look foolish and giving you this ball will make everyone realise that her suspicions are groundless.’

  ‘Especially if I accept an offer of marriage,’ she said bitterly. ‘But who would want to marry me, unless…?’ She glanced across at the Duke, who was looking uncomfortable. She had hit the nail on the head! ‘Unless you paid him to.’ Her eyes filled with tears, but she scrubbed angrily at them with the back of her hand. She would not cry. She had ceased being a watering pot when her mama died. ‘I will leave at once.’ She pushed back her chair and almost ran from the room.

  He rose and followed her. She was clambering up the stairs, falling over her dress in her haste. ‘Wait, you foolish child. I want to talk to you.’ She ignored him and he took the stairs two at a time to catch up with her before she reached her room. She had her hand on the doorknob, ready to open it, when he covered it with his own. ‘Sophie, why must you fly into the boughs over every little thing? I never met such an independent article in my whole life.’

  She ignored the warmth of his hand on hers, though it was having a very strange effect on her body. She was curling up inside, growing warm and moist, wanting to snatch her hand away and at the same time fling her arms about his neck and beg him to hold her close. She felt as if she was drowning and that the only thing keeping her above water was her anger. ‘I am independent because I have had to be,’ she said. Even as she spoke she remembered her dream, the feeling of being loved and protected. That was not the dream of an independent woman, nor even of one who wished to be. It was the dream of someone who longed to be loved, a manifestation of her true feelings.

  ‘I know,’ he said softly, and she heard again the gentle voice of her dream. So that was it! In her dream he had been her hero, her protector, and that could only be because he had been kind to her and offered her a home. Her unconscious self had made it seem like reality. ‘I understand,’ he went on, watching her expression change, the puzzlement and then the enlightenment in her eyes as they lit up and then darkened; she had the most expressive eyes of anyone he knew. But he still could not tell what was going on in her head. ‘Be assured, nothing on earth would induce me to pay someone to marry you. Nothing. If you find someone you wish to marry, then I will give you my blessing and a small dowry.’ He stopped, putting a finger on her lips, silencing the protest she had on her tongue. ‘Oh, not so much as to attract fortune-hunters, but enough so that you may pick and choose. Do you understand?’

  She nodded, knowing with a sudden insight into her own heart that the only person she would ever wish to marry was the Duke of Belfont himself. It was a revelation that shook her to the core, but one she must never acknowledge, not even to herself, because it was plain as day he wanted to be rid of her. ‘Thank you.’ It was a whisper.

  ‘Do you ride?’ he asked suddenly, making her realise that as far as he was concerned that was the end of the matter. He would have his own way and she wondered why she had ever doubted that he would.

  ‘I did when I was young.’ She stopped when she saw his mouth curl in a wide grin. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  ‘Sophie, you talk like a grandmother. When I was young, indeed! How old are you?’

  ‘One and twenty.’

  ‘Then what do you call young? When were you last on a horse?’

  ‘When we lived in Austria. They have beautiful horses there and some wonderful places to ride.’

  ‘Hyde Park will be a little dull after that, I think, but, if you would care to, I will take you riding in the park. Do you have a habit?’

  ‘Yes. Harriet insisted on buying me one. I told her it was not in the least necessary, but she would not listen.’

  ‘Good for Harriet. How long will it take you to change?’

  ‘What, now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’

  ‘I have no mount.’

  He laughed. ‘I have a stable full. Why do you think Harriet wanted you to have the habit?’

  She gave a delighted laugh. ‘Then I shall be ready in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Make it fifteen. I will be waiting in the hall.’

  She rushed into her room and pulled out the new habit. It was in a dark blue kerseymere, cut like a military tunic and frogged in silver. The matching skirt was plain and fell in soft folds about her booted feet. The hat was a black beaver with a high crown and a stiff brim swathed in blue satin ribbon.

  Inside fifteen minutes she was stepping out of the front door, the skirt over one arm so that she did not trip over it, and his hand under her elbow.

  On the street a groom stood holding two horses, one a huge black stallion and the other a small bay mare. ‘This is Hotspur,’ James said, indicating the stallion. He nodded towards the mare. ‘And that little beauty is Amber.’

  The groom held his cupped hands to help her mount while James jumped lithely into his own saddle. They walked the horses to the park. It was wonderful to be in the saddle again after so long. She remembered as a ten-year-old rid
ing beside her parents at their country home, happy and unaware of the shadow that hung over them. But within a year, the horses were gone and most of the servants.

  Her mother had tried to keep the truth from her, but she had known there was something wrong. She had heard raised voices and Mama cried a lot and then they had left England for France. ‘A little holiday,’ Mama had said. At first she had believed it; she did not go short of food or clothes and they went out and about with other expatriates, but when there was no sign of them returning home, Sophie had begun to realise that they could not return. Oh, Papa was sometimes in funds and, when he was, the life they led was fun. Riding in Austria had been the last time her mother had been anything like happy. After that matters went from bad to worse and they didn’t go riding any more.

  ‘You are quiet, Sophie,’ he said as they turned to go into the park and were able to ride side by side. ‘What were you thinking of?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ she said airily. ‘I am enjoying the ride.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned to look at her. She had a natural grace, a straight back and a good seat. She had been well taught. And that habit was magnificent. Harriet had given him an account of everything she had bought, even though he had told her there was no need to stint. If he was going to set himself up as Sophie’s guardian, he did not want people to think he was a pinch-penny, he had told his sister. He did not want to be ashamed of her as he had been when she had first entered his drawing room in that dowdy lilac dress she must have had two or three years. He was not ashamed of her—he was proud of her. Proud as a peacock! He smiled at his own foolishness.

  ‘Your Grace, we are well met,’ called a familiar voice, forcing him out of his reverie.

  Ellen was riding towards them, accompanied by Alfred. He cursed under his breath, but doffed his hat as they drew level and pulled up. ‘Lady Colway. Alfred.’

  ‘James.’ Alfred bowed his head. ‘Miss Langford.’

  Sophie inclined her head, watching him, wondering if he were about to make another scene, but he seemed content to stay in the lady’s shadow. She was magnificent, from the long feather curling round the brim of her hat, down to the mulberry velvet riding coat and spreading habit, to her polished boots and the harness of the white-socked bay she rode.

  ‘So this is the chit, is it?’ she said, as she eyed Sophie up and down.

  ‘Lady Colway,’ he said, though there was little warmth in his voice. ‘May I present my cousin and ward, Miss Sophie Langford.’

  ‘How do you do, Miss Langford,’ her ladyship said, smiling as if she were enjoying a private joke. Sophie did not like that smile; there was something tigerish about it. ‘We are well met. James, do bring your little cousin to my next rout. Wednesday, eight o’clock.’

  ‘I am afraid we shall be otherwise occupied,’ he said coldly. ‘Good day to you, my lady. Alfred. Come, Sophie.’

  He walked his horse on and Sophie had perforce to follow. She heard the woman chuckle behind her. ‘Afraid I will tell her a few home truths, are you, James?’

  ‘What does she mean?’ she asked him.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  She knew he did, but his face was set and she was wise enough not to press him. But she was curious. What home truths? Something not to the Duke’s credit, she guessed. A love affair, perhaps. Why did that idea make her want to weep? He was thirty-four years old and it was inconceivable that he had never had a mistress; there had probably been more than one. Alfred had hinted as much when he had warned her off. Was there more to it than that? Why had the sun suddenly gone behind a cloud and spoiled her day?

  Chapter Five

  At the beginning of June, Tsar Alexander, Prince Platoff, King Frederick of Prussia, Prince Metternich of Austria and Marshal Blücher, all arrived in London with their respective entourages for three weeks of celebrations. In the absence of Wellington, who was still in France, Blücher, the allied commander who had taken Paris, had become the people’s hero and was cheered wherever he went, much to the chagrin of the Regent, who was more likely to be jeered. To make matters worse, the Tsar angered the Regent when he insisted on staying at the Pulteney Hotel with his sister, the Grand Duchess, instead of at Carlton House. It made James’s task of protecting the royal visitors even more difficult. Because he was so busy Sophie saw little of him; he came home sometimes, but only to change his linen or pick up his correspondence. Occasionally he managed to take nuncheon with them, but he did not stay longer than to ask her how she did, to which she always replied, ‘Very well, your Grace.’

  She spent the rest of her time writing or going out and about with Harriet, being introduced to other young people, most of whom viewed her as some kind of exotic animal who had been captured and brought to the confining atmosphere of London in the Season to see how she would behave in civilised company. For the most part she behaved very properly, but occasionally when her inquisitors were being particularly puerile, she could not help saying or doing something outrageous.

  On one occasion, they attended a soirée being given by Mrs Jefferson, a friend of Harriet, whose daughter, Ariadne, was enjoying her first Season. Theodore Buskin, another of the guests, had been boasting all evening of his exploits: he had met one of Frederick’s aides while out hunting and the man had been excessively polite to him; he had been sparring with Gentleman Jackson, who had said he was a natural; he had danced a waltz with the Tsar’s sister’s lady in waiting at Almack’s and the Grand Duchess, who had been watching proceedings, had bowed towards him.

  ‘I am sure her Highness can never have seen such an elegant dancer in Russia,’ Peter Poundell said. He was a thin youth, whose cravat was so high and stiff his chin was perpetually in the air. ‘Unless it be a bear.’

  Everyone laughed and Theodore’s face turned bright pink. Sophie felt sorry for him, even though she thought he was something of a macaroni. ‘I believe Russia is renowned for its dancers,’ she said, smiling at him. ‘You would be in good company.’

  ‘Have you been to Russia?’ he asked, glowing with gratitude for her support.

  ‘No, Russia was never on our itinerary.’

  ‘But you have travelled a great deal, have you not?’

  ‘Indeed, I have. Most of my life has been spent travelling.’

  ‘Oh, how I envy you.’ Dorothy Fidgett, who had come out the year before, but had not been lucky enough to secure a husband on account of a pronounced squint, sighed heavily. ‘If one must stay single, then I would rather it was because one was doing something exciting.’

  ‘It was not always exciting. Sometimes I longed to be settled.’

  ‘Did you not have offers?’

  ‘Not any I would seriously consider. There was one from an artist and another from an Italian count, but I rejected them both.’

  ‘A count! Why? Was he low in the stirrups? Or old? Or ugly?’

  ‘Not at all. I simply did not like him enough to link my life to his.’ She did not add that it was her father who had arranged for them to meet and he had been particularly annoyed when he learned she had rejected the offer.

  ‘What did he say when you rejected him? Did he swear undying love? Did he go into a decline?’ Ariadne asked.

  ‘No. He left for France and I never saw him again.’

  ‘Oh, how romantic. London must seem very dull after that.’

  ‘Not at all. There are so many interesting people to meet and things to see, especially now.’

  ‘And do you think you will find a husband this Season?’

  ‘I am not looking for one. Marriage does not interest me.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ Ariadne asked. ‘Every young lady needs a husband or how is she to go on?’ She was a pretty girl who did not have a serious thought in her head. Sophie wondered if the Duke might be attracted to someone like that, someone compliant, who would be decorative and cause no contention. Somehow she did not think so, but even thinking about the Duke marrying gave her a heaviness around the heart that she would not allow h
erself to dwell upon.

  ‘Not me. I had as lief remain single and earn my own living.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Theodore exclaimed. ‘How will you do that?’

  ‘I am writing a book of my travels, the interesting things I have seen, the beautiful scenery and buildings and the people I have met. You would be surprised at the strange characters I came across. So, you see, I will be too busy to think about a husband.’

  ‘The Duke will never allow it.’

  ‘The Duke does not rule me.’

  ‘He is known to be looking for a wife…’ Ariadne said with a heavy sigh.

  ‘Then I wish him happy,’ she said, determined to squash any rumours that might be circulating. It would be mortifying if they thought she was heartbroken when he decided to marry someone else. ‘I shall write my book.’

  ‘And will your count be in it?’

  ‘Naturally he will, along with dozens more, high and low, though I shall not name names.’

  ‘Oh, scandalous doings in the courts of Europe,’ Peter Poundell said with a laugh. ‘I shall look forward to reading it.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of none other than the Duke himself. He stood in the doorway, surveying the assembled company, while their hostess left Harriet, with whom she had been conversing, and hurried forward to greet him. ‘Your Grace, you honour us…’

  He bowed and smiled, noticing Sophie in the centre of a group of young people. They were fashionably dressed, perfectly acceptable in society, but Sophie stood out like a flame. He did not know why. She was dressed in a pale lemon gown trimmed with matching silk roses round the high waist and down the centre of the front. Perhaps it was its simplicity, contrasting with the fuss and frills of the other ladies, or the straight-backed way she held herself, perhaps it was her perfect complexion or the smile she gave him, which warmed his heart. ‘I came to bear my sister and ward company on the way home. The streets are swarming with people chasing all over town for a glimpse of some important personage. I was cheered to the echo though I am certain they had no idea who I was.’