Bachelor Duke

by Mary Nichols

  He sat and looked at it for several seconds before he could bring himself to undo the tape. And then he began to read…

  By the time he had finished he was smiling. It was good, very good; her descriptions of places and people were pin sharp and witty, but there was very little that could be called scandalous. But probably without her realising it, it did reveal what her life must have been like with her father. Poor Sophie, to have to look after a grown man who behaved like a child, and one with a temper to boot, and somehow find the where-withal for both of them to live, must have taken all her resources of strength and character. No wonder she was so independent! He was filled with admiration for her and remorse that he had not tried to understand her better. But he could make it up to her, would do so at the earliest opportunity.

  The last thing Sophie wanted to do was to go to Almack’s. Yet another ball was more than she could face. ‘My dear, you need not go if you do not feel up to it,’ Harriet said. She had brought Sophie’s tray up to her room herself after Sophie had stripped off her torn and stained garments and rested on her bed for an hour. She had only picked at the food before thrusting it aside. Every mouthful she owed to the Duke of Belfont and it stuck in her throat. ‘But it is an honour to be given vouchers and it will set the seal on your acceptance in society…’

  ‘I do not see that acceptance in society matters. Once I am gone from here, society will not concern itself with me.’

  ‘Gone from here. Oh, Sophie, do not be so foolish. This is your home. We do not want you to leave us. We have come to love you.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The Duke and I.’

  ‘How can you say that? I am a nuisance to him and make him angry whenever we meet.’

  ‘His anger masks his concern. He worries about you. I know he was looking forward to escorting you to the ball tonight.’ She paused, deciding on another argument. ‘And you know, if you want to be a success as a writer, being part of society will help you…’

  Sophie gave a weak laugh. ‘You mean they will furnish me with more material?’

  ‘That, too, but I meant writers need readers and it is no good looking to the illiterate poor to provide you with those.’

  She managed a wry smile. ‘Oh, you would have made a splendid advocate, Harriet. I am almost persuaded.’

  ‘Then make your peace with James and come with us.’

  Could she? Did she want the Duke to think that he had entirely defeated her, which he would if she shut herself away? Had he? Why, when she loved him so much, was she so quick to defy him? Could it be something to do with her parents? Her mother had adored her father, had given up everything, her family, friends, comfort, to follow him about the continent. Even when he was at his drunken worst, railing at his own misfortune and keeping her short of housekeeping money, Mama had made excuses for him. Though Sophie had loved her father, she had come to see him as the weak, selfish character he was and was in despair for her gentle mother. Was she simply fighting against the same thing happening to her? Was that why she must continually demonstrate her independence? But the Duke was nothing like her father, except that he did like to have his own way—in that they were very alike.

  She smiled suddenly. ‘Very well. If you are sure the Duke still wishes it.’

  ‘Of course he does. Now, do try and eat a little of that cold chicken or you will not have the strength to dance, and then I will send Rose to help you dress. Wear the blue taffeta.’

  It was weakness, not strength, that made her accept; she did not have the strength of will to turn her back on the Duke. She wanted to be with him, even when they were fighting. And sometimes, when they were not fighting, he was so thoughtful, so kind and gentle, so very much her idea of what a real man should be. When he was like that, he could make her forget her papa, Count Cariotti and Cousin Alfred; they were not men, they were muckworms.

  It was with some trepidation she went down to join Harriet and James in the withdrawing room. She had taken trouble with her appearance, but she knew she looked paler than usual and, with his usual discernment, he noticed it.

  ‘Sophie, you do not look quite the thing,’ he said gently. ‘If you would sooner not go out, then we will have a quiet evening at home amusing ourselves.’

  Why this evidence of his solicitude should make her hackles rise, she had no idea. She was being as contrary as it was possible for anyone to be. ‘I would not dream of it,’ she said. ‘I have been looking forward to this evening ever since it was first mentioned. After all, not everyone is invited to join the ladies at Almack’s and I am interested in finding out why an invitation is so prized.’

  ‘Then let us hope you are not disappointed.’ He bowed, his lips twitching a little. She was a feisty one, this cousin of his; no one could keep her down for long and his love and admiration grew until he thought his heart would burst. In view of what had happened that afternoon and the dreadful things he had said to her, he had decided not to tell her what was in his heart; she was in no mood to hear a proposal from him. And who could blame her? He had behaved like a tyrant when all he had wanted was to take her in his arms and hold her close, glad that she was safe. He could not forgive himself, so how could he expect her to forgive him? Somehow he had to reestablish himself in her good offices before he laid himself open, for that was what it amounted to: open to disappointment, to rejection, even to ridicule. He was a proud man and the thought that he had finally given his heart to a woman, offered marriage and been turned down was more than he could contemplate.

  He offered his arm and she took it, trembling a little at his nearness, but still angry. He had said some terrible things, accused her of goodness knows what and yet there was no remorse in him, no apology was forthcoming, no comment about her book, so she supposed he had not bothered to read it. And that hurt.

  ‘I could knock your heads together,’ Harriet said suddenly. ‘Are you going to spend the whole evening being coolly polite or are you going to kiss and make up?’

  They looked at her and then at each other and then he laughed. It was the first genuine laughter Sophie had heard all day and she found herself smiling. ‘What about it?’ he asked her. ‘If I apologise humbly for my excessive rudeness this afternoon, shall you forgive me?’

  ‘I forgive you.’ What else could she say?

  ‘Then let us kiss and make up.’ And with that, he bent and put his lips to her forehead in avuncular fashion, but it was enough to set her limbs on fire. Slowly she was beginning to understand her mother; loving someone meant setting aside all doubts, forgiving their faults, cherishing them for what they were, even when their love was not as strong or even nonexistent. That was how she felt about the Duke of Belfont.

  All three were smiling as they went out to the carriage and they were still smiling as they drew up at the door of Almack’s premises in King Street. It was the most exclusive club in London, where admittance was by vouchers in the gift of seven grandes dames of society, who reserved the right to refuse whom they pleased. The dress code was strictly adhered to and gentlemen were only admitted if they were wearing knee breeches. Anyone in trousers was sent on his way no matter who he was. Consequently James was dressed very formally in dark blue coat and white knee breeches with white silk stockings and black buckled shoes.

  Sophie was surprised to find herself in a large room almost devoid of furniture with a bare floor. It was well lit, which only served to highlight the poor decoration, though she was bound to admit, as the evening progressed, that the music was good. She danced twice with the Duke and once with Theodore Buskin, even more boyish in his formal wear. Lord Carstairs claimed her for another and so did Alfred.

  ‘I do hope he does not ask me to stand up with him,’ Sophie whispered when she saw him enter.

  ‘If he does, I am afraid you must not refuse. It will be noted and talked about.’

  The last thing Sophie wanted was to engender any more gossip and so, when he came to claim a dance, she curtsied and took the floor with
him.

  ‘Why did you rush off this afternoon, without waiting for me to escort you?’ he asked.

  ‘I did not want to trouble you with having to escort me. You had already complained that I was drawing unwelcome attention.’

  ‘Did you tell the Duke of our encounter?’

  ‘I saw no reason to, he was worried enough about my long absence as it was.’

  ‘But he does know where you went?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And did it not trouble him?’

  ‘Why should he be troubled by a simple travel book? I have given it to him to read.’

  ‘Have you, indeed?’ He paused. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘Nothing—why should he?’

  ‘No, he would not. And I will wager you did not tell him about your visit to the Count this afternoon.’

  ‘I felt foolish at being so easily gulled and decided not to. And if you are a gentleman you will say nothing of it.’

  ‘Then, my dear, it is our little secret.’ He smiled and added, ‘For the moment.’

  The dance came to an end, she curtsied and took the arm he offered to return to her place beside Harriet. On the way they passed several matrons sitting on the sidelines, gossiping among themselves.

  ‘My dear, I heard that Lord Colway has handed in his accounts and she is a free woman at last.’

  ‘Then no doubt his Grace of Belfont will be standing at the altar as soon as the mourning period is over.’

  ‘She might wish it, but I think not. She was married to Colway for fifteen years and never gave him a child, let alone an heir, and Belfont needs an heir. He would not risk marrying someone he thought might be barren. He might keep her as a mistress, but marry her, never. Twenty guineas says he will marry that little hoyden he brought back from Italy…’

  Alfred chuckled. ‘Did you hear that, little cousin?’

  ‘I pay no heed to gossip,’ she said stiffly, though she was considerably shaken. Why were people linking her name with the Duke’s in that fashion? In public he had never been more than a reluctant guardian. It was how he saw himself, in spite of sweet kisses in private that were far from avuncular.

  ‘Would you marry him?’

  ‘He has not asked me, nor will he, so the question does not arise.’

  ‘That is an evasive answer if ever I heard one. I think mayhap you would jump at the chance to be a duchess and put up with the mistress.’

  ‘Never! And I thank you not to pursue the subject. I am heartily sick of it.’

  He complied only because they had joined Harriet and James. James had watched the changing expressions on Sophie’s face as she talked to Alfred—the animation, the anger, the pensiveness—and wanted to ask what they had been saying to each other, but decided he could not. He had to redeem himself in her eyes and he would not do that by quizzing her all over again. He smiled and offered his hand. ‘Come, Sophie, I believe this is my dance.’

  The rest of the evening passed in a blur for Sophie. James was his most charming and considerate self and that only exacerbated the ache in her heart. Was he building up to a proposal? Was Alfred right? Would she turn a blind eye to a mistress in order to marry him, not to be a duchess, simply to be his wife? Or was he simply happy that, at last, his real love was free to marry him?

  It was not until they returned home that she learned the answer. They drove to South Audley Street in near silence, both so engrossed in their thoughts that they answered Harriet’s chatter in monosyllables, but when they entered the house he asked Sophie if he might speak to her in the drawing room. ‘There is something particular I wish to put to you,’ he said. ‘I will not keep you long.’

  Chapter Ten

  Sophie, almost in a panic, turned to Harriet for support, but she simply bade them goodnight and climbed the stairs to her room, leaving James to usher Sophie into the withdrawing room.

  ‘Sit down, Sophie, please,’ he said, indicating a sofa, and, when she obeyed, perched himself on the edge beside her, tucking his long legs under him. She clasped her hands in her lap and waited, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Sophie, my dear,’ he began, wondering why he was finding it so difficult. Never before had he declared his love for a woman earnestly with the intent to be believed. He had played at it, had had mistresses, had dallied here and there, but nothing serious. The ladies themselves had known that, had been more than ready to play his game because he was a generous lover and none, except perhaps Ellen, had minded when the affair had come to a natural end. Ellen he would have to deal with later, but now he must concentrate on making Sophie believe his sincerity. ‘We have not known each other very long, have we?’

  She gave a cracked laugh. ‘Long enough to sharpen each other up.’

  ‘True, but that might be a measure of our regard for each other.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If we did not care, we would not do it, would we?’

  ‘My lord, I wish you would not prevaricate. If you have brought me in here to ring a peal over me, then do it and have done. It will soon be dawn.’

  ‘I do not want to scold you. That was not my intention. I wish never to be at odds with you again.’

  ‘Oh, then it is to be a final roasting. I am to be a good girl and not go out alone, not ride alone, and not publish my book, then there will be nothing to be at odds over. Is that what you were going to say?’

  ‘No, it is not.’ He took her shoulders in his hands and felt her flinch. Good God! Surely she was not afraid of him? ‘My intentions were, and are, otherwise. As for the book, I am glad you showed it to me. It is exceedingly well written and I enjoyed reading it.’

  ‘Thank you. You are no doubt relieved that there is no scandal in it about you or your mistress. You may set her mind at rest.’

  ‘I never thought there was.’

  ‘She did. She threatened me. She said when she was the Duchess of Belfont, she would make sure I was never received in society.’

  ‘She will never be the Duchess of Belfont.’ He paused. The conversation was not going the way he had planned and he had to bring it back to the matter in hand and it was not that book or Ellen Colway. ‘Sophie, please listen.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You remember when I first kissed you?’

  ‘Yes.’ How could she forget when the pleasure and the pain were engraved on her heart? ‘I collect you have already apologised for that, though I have heard no apology for creeping into my room when you thought I was asleep.’

  ‘You were awake?’

  ‘Awake enough to know who held me in his arms.’

  ‘You fell asleep at your desk.’ Why, oh, why was she so determined to stop him saying what he wanted to? Surely she had guessed what he intended. Any other young lady would have put two and two together long before and would have met him halfway; she was raising barriers.

  ‘And you would not have known that if you had not entered my room. I suppose you wanted to take a look at my manuscript.’ She gave another cracked laugh. ‘All you had to do was ask and I would have shown it to you. There was no need for all that creeping about in the middle of the night.’

  He dropped his hands from her shoulders, fuming with frustration. ‘I saw your light and supposed you had fallen asleep with the lamp still alight and I feared an accident. I should perhaps not have entered myself and sent a maid instead, but everyone else had long since retired. For that I apologise. Now, can we please go back to what I was saying…’

  ‘Please do.’ She clasped her hands in the blue folds of her skirt and hoped he had not noticed how they were shaking. If he did not soon say what he wanted to say, she would scream.

  ‘On that occasion, when I kissed you, I said I had gone about it in the wrong order and that we should have talked first. Now I am trying to remedy that situation.’

  ‘I am listening.’

  ‘Sophie, do you see me as a tyrant?’

  ‘Sometimes, though I am persuaded by Harriet that it is done for my own good. Sometimes you seem
a cheerful and considerate cousin and for that I am grateful. You took me in when I had nowhere to go and I know I should be more compliant. The trouble is that I have been on my own so much, making my own decisions, that it does not come easy to play by society’s rules, especially when they seem nonsensical.’

  ‘I understand, more than ever since I read your manuscript, but I am sure the rules have evolved to make young ladies more secure.’

  She was reminded of her adventure that afternoon. It was a case in point. If she had not defied the rules of society she would not had been in such a pickle with Mr Jessop and the Count. They had frightened her, still frightened her, and she did not think Alfred would keep his word to say nothing to the Duke. ‘I will bear that in mind in future.’

  ‘It is the future I am thinking of. Young ladies need to feel safe in their choice of a husband and abiding by protocol means that parents and guardians are able to oversee the courtship. Most marriages are made that way.’

  ‘Are they any happier for that?’

  ‘As happy as those made in defiance of the rules, I do not doubt.’

  ‘Like Papa and Mama,’ she murmured wistfully. ‘They were happy at first and if their families had loved them enough to respect their choice and accept the marriage, Papa might not have turned to gambling and drink and we might not have had to leave the country. That made Mama miserable.’

  ‘Is that why you are so averse to marriage?’

  ‘It is one of the reasons.’

  ‘And is that why you rejected Count Cariotti?’

  ‘He was, and probably still is, a hundred times worse than Papa ever was.’

  ‘And do you think I come from the same mould?’

  ‘I have never seen you disguised in drink and I do not think you are a heavy gambler,’ she told him thoughtfully. Then, in an effort to bring matters to a head, added, ‘But no doubt you have your own ideas about why a man should marry.’

  ‘And what do you suppose they are?’