Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  A dance was in progress as they entered the ballroom and they made their way on to the floor without speaking. He was aware of the glances made towards them and could almost hear the gossip: they had been out in the garden unchaperoned, something must have happened out there, she was looking flustered and even he was not behaving with his usual aplomb. He endeavoured to engage her in conversation, though the dance was a little too quick to make that easy. ‘Sophie, smile, please, pretend to enjoy my company, even if you do not.’

  She gave him a smile that was so false he almost cringed. ‘Oh, I forgot, your Grace, we are the best of friends.’

  ‘Is that not possible?’

  ‘No.’ How could he talk of friendship? How could he be so urbane about it?

  ‘I am indeed sorry to hear that. I had hoped we might begin again, forget our differences and live in harmony…’

  ‘So long as I do as I am told and do not embarrass you by talking about my book or revealing that I can read and write and have a brain which can think beyond trivialities.’

  ‘I never said that. Now you are the one twisting words.’

  ‘Words can hurt, my lord, more than blows.’

  ‘I know that, and if any of mine have hurt you, then I beg pardon.’ He paused, smiling at her in a way that turned her heart over and made it beat as if she had been running for her life. ‘And if any other action of mine has hurt you, I apologise for that as well, and beg your forgiveness.’

  He was talking about that kiss, she knew, and how could she hold that against him, when all she wanted was more of the same? ‘I forgive you.’ It was said in a whisper.

  ‘Then are we friends again?’

  ‘If that is your wish.’

  ‘Of course it is.’ His wish was that it could be more than friendship, much more, but he refrained from saying so. He had made a little headway; it would not do to spoil it by being too precipitate. And there was all the time in the world to court her, to make sure she understood his true feelings before he offered. He would offer; he had made up his mind to that.

  The dance ended and they made their way back to where Harriet was sitting with Mrs Jessop and Alfred. ‘I think Harriet needs rescuing, don’t you?’ she said, laughing up at him, something that was noted by all and sundry.

  They had almost reached her when a tall figure interposed himself between them and executed a flourishing bow. ‘Miss Langford. Sophie. It seems we were destined to meet again.’

  Sophie gasped; in all the excitement, she had forgotten about the Count. He stood before her now, tall, older looking than she remembered, but still darkly handsome. ‘Count Cariotti, how do you do?’

  ‘I do well enough,’ he said in perfect English. ‘And you seem to have fallen on your feet.’ He looked at James, apparently at ease in a situation she found disturbing, though she could not have explained why. ‘Will you not present me?’

  She turned to the Duke. ‘Your Grace, may I present Count Antonio Cariotti. You remember, I told you he was a friend of Papa’s. Count, the Duke of Belfont.’

  The two men bowed warily to each other and murmured, ‘How do you do.’ James was prepared to end the encounter, but the Count had other ideas. He turned to smile at Harriet. ‘And this must be Lady Harley.’

  ‘Allow me to present my sister, Lady Harley,’ James said. ‘And Mrs Jessop, our aunt.’

  ‘I have already made the acquaintance of Mrs Jessop,’ he said, smiling at the lady in a way that worried Sophie. It was almost conspiratorial. ‘My friend, Alfred, has already made me known to his charming mother.’

  Mrs Jessop smiled back and nodded her plumed head. ‘So kind,’ she murmured.

  Another dance was starting. The Count bowed and offered Sophie his hand. ‘Will you do me the honour of standing up with me?’

  She glanced at her card where Alfred’s name was written neatly against the number of the dance. She looked towards him, but he simply smiled and nodded. ‘I bow to the superior claim,’ he said.

  There was nothing for it but to comply. She took the hand offered to her and stepped back on to the floor.

  James watched them until they were swallowed in the crowd of other dancers, then he turned back to Alfred. ‘Superior claim?’ he queried, one eyebrow raised.

  ‘Yes, did you not know? The Count and Miss Langford were in love and he once offered for her, but her father thought she was a little too young and they ought to wait, and then the circumstances of the war separated them, but now he is here and the war is over, he will resume his courtship. He considers himself as good as betrothed to her already.’

  ‘I was told she rejected him.’

  ‘Oh, she said that to save her pride. He had gone away and she did not know the true reason. No doubt he will be explaining that to her now.’

  James looked at the couple as they danced; they were in animated conversation and he began to wonder…

  ‘Why have you come to London?’ Sophie demanded.

  ‘Why should I not? My mother was English.’

  ‘But you fought with the French.’

  ‘The war is over. And Italy was only ever an unwilling partner of Napoleon, not a staunch ally.’

  ‘Then why did you go to France?’

  ‘Can you believe I was heartbroken at your rejection of me?’

  ‘No. I do not believe you have a heart. You pauperised Papa with your gambling and I find it difficult to believe he was always so unlucky…’

  ‘Are you accusing me of cheating?’

  ‘If the cap fits…’

  ‘If you were a man, I would call you out for that.’ It was said with a charming smile. ‘But as you are undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in the room, I will forgive you.’

  ‘You will not put me off with silken words,’ she said. ‘You have not answered my question. Why are you here?’

  ‘I came to claim you.’

  ‘Gammon!’

  ‘You have certainly learned some strange expressions since returning to England. What does gammon mean?’

  ‘Rubbish. Nonsense. It means you are roasting me and, before you ask, that means teasing, not sincere.’

  ‘Oh, but, my dear, I am perfectly sincere. Your father gave you to me.’

  She looked up into his face. He was wearing a self-satisfied smile that she longed to wipe from his face with the back of her hand. ‘For what consideration?’

  ‘Why should there be any consideration? He and I were friends; we spent a great deal of time in each other’s company. I came to know him through and through, learned that he would promise anything for money, but he did not always keep his promises. It was a very bad trait he had.’

  ‘You bought me!’ She stumbled and he put out a hand to steady her, though she shrugged it off.

  ‘No money changed hands, I do assure you.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Nothing. He promised information for the return of his vowels, but then he failed to deliver…’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘Yes, sweetheart, he died.’ He paused. ‘But you are alive.’

  Suddenly she remembered the circumstances of her father’s death, so sudden and violent. He had been out playing cards as usual and had been making his way home, when he had fallen down in a drunken stupor and been set upon by thieves, who took the money he had won and left him for dead. Or so those who found him told her. Was he killed because he could name names and not for the money he carried? The Count had gone to France almost immediately afterwards. She was silent for a moment, trying to pull herself together, to retain her presence of mind and not accuse him. ‘I know nothing.’

  ‘Oh, I think you might. Your cousin, the inestimable Alfred Jessop, tells me you are writing a book and I think, maybe, you know more than you think you do.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, what about?’

  ‘Places, people, things done, things said, all very innocent, of course, but lethal in the wrong hands.’

  So the Duke had been right; her book was a source
of danger. And yet there was nothing in what she had written so far that could be construed as a state secret, either English or French. ‘That is ridiculous nonsense.’

  ‘Then why is the Duke so anxious to shut you up? He will go to any lengths to find out what you have written, you know. I do believe he might even consider marrying you.’

  Suddenly she was back in her bedroom, drowsing over her desk, and the Duke was creeping across the carpet. How surprised he must have been to find her there and not in her bed. He had carried her to her bed, but had he afterwards read what she had written? What had she been writing that evening? Something about Napoleon’s visit to Dresden, the people who were there, his affability when all the time he was planning to invade Russia. And the discomfort of his host and hostess, his wife’s parents. She remembered writing that her father had said Napoleon had only married Marie-Louise to make sure of Austria as an ally, but it would not be enough; Austria would, in the end, defy him. And Papa had been right. But surely there was nothing subversive about that?

  ‘Everyone is uncommonly interested in my book,’ she said levelly, though her head was whirling with other possibilities. Had the Duke been intending to try to see more when he knocked on her door and ended kissing her? Was his present affability, his apology and offer of friendship, a ruse to learn more? Could she trust him an inch? ‘I hope that means it will sell well and I shall become rich by it.’ She was surprised how light her voice sounded.

  ‘You would do well to abandon it.’

  She knew he was right. If she publicly announced she had given up the idea and destroyed the offending manuscript, then she might be left in peace. But what peace? What other means of earning a living could she use, for earn a living she must? Another consideration was that she had yet to show it to a publisher and his decision could very well make up her mind for her. As soon as she had something worth submitting, she would do something about that.

  ‘You are thinking about what I have said,’ he murmured, misconstruing her silence. ‘That is good. And think of this too: I consider myself betrothed to you, have done so ever since your father gave me his blessing. You do not need to be independent. I will take care of you. Being Countess Cariotti will give you a position in society you could never otherwise have.’

  ‘In Italy.’

  ‘Wherever you like. We will stay in England if that is your wish.’

  She felt numb, as if all emotion had been driven from her body, leaving her a shell of flesh and bone with a heart that could beat but could not feel. It was not his statement that he considered them betrothed—she could easily refute that—but the knowledge that the Duke was not all he seemed. ‘Why do you want to marry me?’ she asked dully.

  ‘Why do most men propose? You are comely, far more so than when I first proposed. You are sensible and not given to frivolity, and I think you will make an excellent wife and mother to my children.’

  ‘But you do not love me.’

  ‘What a droll idea. Is it necessary to love one’s wife?’

  ‘For me it is.’

  ‘Then I love you.’

  The statement was so patently insincere, it was comical. She threw back her head and laughed. He looked puzzled and then slowly smiled.

  James saw it though he was not near enough to see the lack of humour in her eyes, the blankness in them as if a lamp had gone out inside her. He saw only a laughing girl and a handsome man looking decidedly pleased with himself. His heart dropped like a stone to depths he had never plumbed before. He turned on his heel and left the room, making for the card room where he involved himself in serious play until it was time to escort the ladies home. As soon as he had done that, he went out again and sought relief and solace in the arms of Ellen Colway.

  Ellen, estranged from her sick husband, who preferred to remain at his country home, lived during the Season in their London house in Clarges Street, where she held court, entertained and generally amused herself. James had once been her most frequent visitor. He knew, because she had told him so, that she was only waiting for her husband to die to become the Duchess of Belfont. It was an idea that had never appealed to him, but as her husband’s malady seemed not to be serious, he had not bothered to disillusion her. She was a talented and amusing lover and, until he had found her in bed with his cousin, that was all he required.

  ‘James, dear heart, I knew you would return to me,’ she said, coming forward in a diaphanous undress robe that concealed nothing of her voluptuous figure. Her maid, who had answered the door to him, was used to his coming and going and had withdrawn to allow him to make his own way to her boudoir. ‘But why have you kept me waiting so long?’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘Alfred. Pooh, he is nothing. A nobody. I amuse myself with him, nothing more. But now, I think, you have forgiven me.’ She took his hand and led him to the adjoining room and her huge four-poster bed.

  He was still smarting from seeing Sophie with the Count, still angry that she had never told him the extent of their relationship or he would never have come, would never have been drawn into re-igniting their affair. He looked from her to the rumpled bed, his nostrils filled with her heady perfume, and knew he could not do it. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘But I do not think I forgive you, after all. I am sorry I wakened you.’ And with that he turned and left, but not before he had heard her rejoinder.

  ‘You will be far sorrier, James Dersingham.’

  Dawn was breaking as he found himself in the street, too late to go to bed, too early to begin his duties at Carlton House. He went home only long enough to change into riding clothes, then made his way to the mews where he kept his horses and asked for Hotspur to be saddled. It was while he was waiting that he noticed Amber was not in her stall. ‘Where is she?’ he asked the groom, nodding at the empty stall.

  ‘Miss Langford took her out, your Grace, half an hour since. Tom accompanied her on the roan.’ Tom was his son, a young lad of nineteen who was an exceptionally good rider; the Duke had often used him as a jockey when he entered horses at the races. ‘Was I wrong to allow it?’

  ‘No, if Tom is with her, I doubt she will come to harm.’

  He mounted and trotted off towards Hyde Park, keeping a sharp look out for her, though why he bothered he did not know. She did not appreciate his care of her, was determined to go to the devil in her own way. So be it.

  ‘Miss Langford, good morning.’

  She smiled at Theodore, who had pulled up beside her as she drew up from a canter across the grass and rejoined the Row. It would have been an enjoyable ride, out in the early morning air before anyone was about, if it had not been for the heaviness that weighed about her heart. The Duke was an ogre, a petty dictator, a philanderer who was exactly as Alfred Jessop had painted him. He used people. Last night in the carriage going home he had not spoken a word, had sat stiffly correct and escorted them into the house, saying only a brief goodnight.

  She had heard him go out again almost immediately and guessed there was only one place he would go at that hour. She had flung herself face down on to her bed and thumped her clenched fists into the pillow over and over again, wishing it was his body she was hammering. At dawn, unable to lie still or stay in the house, she had gone to the mews and asked for Amber to be saddled. She managed a smile for Theodore as Peter Poundell rode up to join them. ‘As you see.’

  ‘Then allow us to escort you.’

  ‘I do not wish to keep you from your ride.’

  ‘Oh, we do not mind in the least, do we, Peter?’

  ‘Not at all,’ the young man said, bringing his horse up to her other side so that she was flanked by the two men. They walked their horses, talking as they went.

  ‘Miss Langford, the latest on dit is that you were once betrothed to Count Cariotti,’ Theodore said after they had remarked upon the weather and the young men had praised her mount and her handling of the mare.

  ‘The gossip, as usual, is mistaken.’

  ‘Is he not the count you
told us of, the one who proposed and went to France?’

  ‘He is, but I never accepted him.’

  ‘He is a handsome fellow. Can’t hold a candle to the Duke, of course…’

  She pulled up sharply, making Amber dance a little so that the young men were obliged to give her a little more room. ‘Gentlemen, you cannot have been paying attention when I said I intended never to marry.’

  ‘Oh, we did not think you meant it,’ Theodore said. ‘Every young lady wishes to marry. What else is there for her to do?’

  ‘Only write books,’ Peter put in. ‘But we know the Duke will never allow that. He has said the book is for your amusement only.’

  ‘The Duke, like the gossips, is wrong.’ She was relieved to see Ariadne and Dorothy approaching on two ponies, sitting stiffly, walking their mounts as if they were on parade, which she supposed they were. They were in almost identical dark green riding habits and tall hats with tiny veils. ‘I see Miss Jefferson and Miss Fidgett approaching us. Shall we join them?’

  The five young people stopped a little to one side of the ride so that they did not impede other riders. The conversation revolved around the weather; gossip about the Regent, who, it was said, intended to pack his wife off to live abroad so that he never had to set eyes on her again; and the fact that Princess Charlotte had disappointed her father in breaking off her engagement to William of Orange when she learned she would have to leave England. As an exile herself Sophie could understand that. The ladies were interested in the gossip, but the men were more interested in boasting.

  ‘Nothing can beat driving a coach and four over Finchley Common and foiling a High Toby,’ Peter was saying.

  ‘Have you done that?’ Sophie asked him.

  ‘Yes. Last week, I took The High Flyer from Whetstone to Highgate.’

  ‘I am surprised the coachman allowed it.’