Marry in Scarlet

by Anne Gracie

  “All right,” she said heavily. “I’ll marry him.” She instantly felt sick and wanted to retract her statement. The duchess sank back against her pillows, her eyes closed, an otherworldly smile on her face. It was almost as if she were dead already.

  “Excellent.” Aunt Agatha rose. “Now come along, we’ve exhausted the duchess enough. She will wish to sleep now.” She bustled George from the room, and before she could blink they were out in the street, climbing into the carriage.

  “What’s the matter with her?” George asked. “Is she really so close to—”

  “It is vulgar to speculate,” Aunt Agatha said brusquely. “The duchess’s situation is not your concern. The sooner we settle this business of the wedding, the sooner her mind will be at rest. I’ll speak to Ashendon this afternoon.”

  They returned to Ashendon House and Aunt Agatha, looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary, wasted no time in informing Cal and Emm that George had agreed—promised, in fact—to marry the duke after all.

  Cal frowned. “Is this true, George?”

  George nodded.

  “You weren’t forced, were you?” Emm asked worriedly.

  “Because if you were—” Cal began.

  George sighed. “No. I wasn’t forced. I just . . . I just changed my mind.”

  “You’re sure, then?” Cal asked. “Because once this is agreed, you won’t be able to change your mind.”

  “She can always change her mind,” Emm said serenely. “But it would look very bad. So think it over, George, dear, and be sure in your heart that this is what you want.”

  George swallowed. “I’m sure.” She wasn’t, she was filled with doubts and second thoughts, but she’d given her word to the duchess, so she wasn’t going to act on them.

  “So, Ashendon, you and Everingham can begin drawing up the settlements,” Aunt Agatha said.

  “Cal, the duke and I will begin drawing up the settlements,” George corrected her. She still felt sick about the promise she’d made. Every part of her screamed to escape, but a promise was a promise.

  And if she was going to marry the wretched duke, she would make sure she got what she wanted out of the deal.

  Aunt Agatha raised her lorgnette and eyed George narrowly through it. “What nonsense! Ladies have no part in such negotiations. It would be quite unseemly.”

  “Perhaps,” George said sweetly, “but how often have you told me I’m no lady? Seemly or not, it’s my future that’s being negotiated and I’m determined to have my say.”

  * * *

  * * *

  George went upstairs and flung herself on her bed. Finn came padding up and nudged her gently, but she wasn’t in the mood to go out, not yet. She was swamped with doubt. What had she agreed to?

  Marrying the duke would put all kinds of ghastly restrictions on her. She’d have all of society watching her. Judging her. Life in a birdcage. She’d be expected to behave like a duchess, dress like a duchess, perform duchess-type duties.

  How did a duchess behave, anyway? George didn’t really know. She pictured some kind of an Aunt Agatha, only worse, more dignified, if that were possible. Pompous and autocratic. Not that the duke’s mother was like that. But she was dying.

  Downstairs she heard Cal go out on some business. She’d talk to Emm. Emm was her aunt by marriage, but their relationship was more like a maternal big sister or a friend. She was wise. And she really listened.

  George found Emm reading with her feet up in the small sitting room.

  Emm looked up as she entered. “That was quite an about-face you made today. You don’t exactly look like a radiant bride-to-be.”

  George grimaced.

  Emm put her book aside. “You haven’t been forced into this, have you, George, darling? I know Aunt Agatha is terribly keen for you to make a splendid marriage, but if you truly don’t want it, now is the time to say so.”

  “No, I’ll go ahead with it—I’ve given my word now, and I won’t back down, but . . .”

  “But you’re having second thoughts.”

  She nodded. “Oh, Emm, I don’t know how to be a duchess. You know how I hate all that formal stuff. And I don’t want to learn it.”

  Emm leaned forward and took her hand. “You will be the kind of duchess you decide to be. Duchesses come in all kinds of shapes and sizes and with all kinds of temperaments.”

  George nodded. “I know. Like the Duchess of York.”

  Frederica, the Duchess of York, was unhappily married to a royal prince. The duchess had retired to Oatlands, her country home, where she lived with dozens of dogs, monkeys and horses.

  The thought of the Duchess of York calmed her somewhat. The duke had chosen George, and if she wasn’t the kind of duchess he wanted—the kind society would expect—he’d just have to put up with the way George was. She wasn’t going to change. And she’d make sure he couldn’t squeeze her into a mold.

  And if the Duchess of York could retire to the country and live with dozens of dogs, so could George.

  “Exactly. In any case, Everingham isn’t a very political kind of duke—he sits in the Lords when Parliament is sitting, and Cal says he’s diligent in tending to his various ducal responsibilities, but he doesn’t seem to have any political ambitions. If you think he wants you to be a grand society hostess, well”—she squeezed George’s hand—“he will learn differently, but I don’t think he will expect it of you.”

  “But what if he does? What will I do?”

  Emm frowned. “George, this is not at all like you, fretting about what people expect and what people will think. Where is the girl I first met, spitting fire and brimstone, determined to forge her own way in the world? And facing problems head-on.”

  George bit her lip. That was true. It wasn’t like her to worry over what might be. She’d lived most of her life day by day, facing whatever she had to face. It had stood her in good stead, too.

  And she’d never worried about what other people thought of her—she’d always done what she thought was right and never mind the consequences.

  Her brow cleared. “You’re right, Emm. I am worrying about nothing. The duke put me in this position, and he can wear the consequences. And if he doesn’t like the kind of duchess I become, that’s his bad luck.” She stood. “I’m going to take Finn out for a walk now. Would you like me to bring you back an ice from Gunter’s?”

  Emm laughed. “You know me too well. I’d love one, thanks. I just wish I could walk with you. I don’t like being cooped up indoors, but I suppose at this stage, it’s inevitable.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Hart was dressing to go out when he received the note from Lord Ashendon. So, Lady Georgiana had decided to accept the betrothal, had she? And Ashendon would be obliged if he would call the following morning—with or without his man of business—to discuss the settlements.

  The surge of triumph he felt on reading it surprised him. Of course he’d known her objections were for form’s sake—no sane woman would turn down an offer from a duke such as he—but he had to admit to a few doubts at the time. She’d seemed so adamant in her refusal.

  He adjusted his cravat, inspected his reflection in the looking glass and snorted. As bad as Lord Towsett, indeed! She was like every other female he knew—blowing hot and cold according to whim. Saying one thing while meaning another.

  He had no idea what had finally caused her to accept the inevitability of their marriage, but he wasn’t going to question it.

  He collected his hat, gloves and cane, and headed off to his club for a quiet, convivial evening. Instead he found half the members in a fever of speculation about his betrothal: Had Lady George truly accepted? Was it really going ahead? Who had put the notice in the newspapers? And more offensively intrusive questions upon which bets had been made.

  Refusing to answer any of thei
r questions, Hart took himself off to a gambling den where he was less well-known, where he played carelessly, his mind only half on the cards. He returned home in the wee small hours with a pocketful of winnings and a very bad mood.

  “Lucky in cards, unlucky in love,” one impertinent fellow had quipped.

  Hart ignored him. Love was a delusion that women used to control men.

  * * *

  * * *

  The following morning he called on Lord Ashendon. The butler ushered him into the library, where he found Lord and Lady Ashendon sitting together on a sofa. Always in each other’s pockets, those two. Hart couldn’t understand it. Ashendon seemed like a sensible man.

  Ashendon rose, and after greetings were exchanged, said to the butler, “Fetch my secretary, will you, and ask Lady George to come down please, Burton.”

  Hart blinked. “I thought we were to discuss settlements.”

  Ashendon nodded. “Yes. George wishes to take part in the discussion.”

  Hart frowned. “The bride? Sitting in on settlement discussions? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

  “George is different.” Ashendon turned and helped his heavily pregnant wife to rise.

  Lady Ashendon paused as she passed Hart and laid a hand on his arm. “Please don’t take offense, your grace,” she said quietly. “Until my husband brought her into the family fold, George had little reason to trust the men in her life.”

  Hart stiffened at the implied criticism.

  She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You told Aunt Agatha you wanted an independent woman. In George, you have one. Do not now complain of it. George, beneath the prickly surface, is an utter darling. Whether or not you ever see that side of her will be up to you.”

  Hart made no response. Utter darling, was she? He’d seen no evidence of that. He had, however, experienced the wildcat in her, and that, to his bemusement, he rather liked.

  Lady Georgiana entered the room with that confident leggy stride that never failed to cause his body to sit up and take notice. She was dressed in a slate-colored dress that was halfway between gray and blue. Edged with claret piping and worn under a claret-colored spencer, it was plain but stylish. Not for her the frills and flourishes most young ladies affected.

  The color of her dress highlighted her eyes. The color of her spencer drew attention to her lush, ripe mouth; and the way it clung, framing her breasts . . . It was a garment meant to enhance a woman’s charms, rather than keep her warm.

  It more than warmed him.

  Hart averted his gaze. He needed all his wits about him. Settlements were far-ranging legal agreements, and Ashendon and his niece were sure to drive a hard bargain.

  George glanced at the corner where Ashendon’s secretary had settled himself unobtrusively. “You didn’t bring your secretary?” she asked.

  “No, I don’t have—” Hart broke off, remembering just in time that he was supposed to have an overeager secretary who sent notices of betrothals to newspapers. “He’s occupied on another endeavor, at one of my estates.”

  She shrugged, seated herself and pulled out a sheet of paper. “Shall we start then? I’ve made a list.”

  For some reason, that annoyed him. He tried to tell himself that it was not unreasonable for a woman to ensure her marriage settlements were adequate, but, damn it, what did she think he was? Some kind of miserly penny-pinch? He’d been more than generous when preparing to marry Lady Rose.

  Besides, settlements were men’s business. She was passing from the protection of her uncle to the protection of her husband. To challenge that was to impugn his honor. He took good care of what was his.

  She began. “I have an inheritance coming to me when I turn twenty-five. I wish it to remain mine, even after marriage.” She flung him a challenging look.

  “I agree,” he said curtly. What interest did he have in her paltry inheritance? “We will set up a trust—”

  “No, I will have sole control over it. I won’t have trustees telling me what I can and can’t do with my own money.”

  Hart glanced at Ashendon, and shrugged. If that’s how she wanted it . . .

  Ashendon made a note. In the corner, his secretary did the same, no doubt putting it into legal language.

  “You will also make me an allowance.”

  “Naturally.” His voice was icy. Did she think he intended to keep her in penury?

  She named a sum that made Hart blink. It was far too modest. Women by nature were rapacious creatures, out for all they can get. So what was she up to?

  He said nothing, however, just gave Ashendon an indifferent nod. Ashendon noted it down.

  “The duke will give me a house in the country—consulting with me as to the choice. The house is to be wholly mine—title and deed.”

  His eyes narrowed. He had a dozen country houses. What did she want a separate one for? To keep him out? To have assignations with other men?

  “You already own a house,” Ashendon reminded her. “Willowbank Farm.”

  “I want Willowbank Farm deeded to Martha Scarratt—free and clear, with her name on the title.”

  “But she already has the right to live there for as long as she lives,” Ashendon said. “As well as an allowance to live on.”

  “Yes, but this way she will be a property owner and will be able to leave the place to her sister or one of her nieces or nephews. It will give her standing in the community. And the allowance is to continue for as long as she lives.”

  Ashendon hesitated, but his niece said urgently, “It’s all I have to give—and you know what I owe her, Cal.”

  Hart frowned. Who was this Martha Scarratt person?

  Ashendon glanced at Hart, who made a gesture that indicated his supreme indifference to the arrangement. He would make it his business to find out who the woman was and what his future wife owed her. And then he would decide what to think.

  “Everingham to provide a house, with George’s agreement, and Willowbank Farm to be made over to Martha Scarratt,” Ashendon said and his secretary made a note. “Right, what’s next on that list of yours, George?”

  “Any children that result from the marriage will live with me and will not be removed from my care unless I agree.”

  There was a short silence, then Hart said coldly, “As long as you behave yourself, I see no problem with that.” He had no knowledge of children and little interest in child-rearing. As long as he had an heir, that was all that mattered.

  “Provision will be made for each child’s future, when they’re born.”

  “Naturally. As long as they’re my children.”

  She flashed him a look of indignation. “I believe the marriage service says ‘forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live.’ I, at least, have no intention of breaking my vows.”

  His brow rose cynically. “If you say so.”

  Her eyes narrowed.

  Ashendon said, “What about the duke’s fidelity—don’t you have anything to say about that?”

  The duke’s attraction was bound to blow itself out—as would hers, no doubt—and she would not, absolutely not demean herself by appearing to care what he did after that. She shrugged. “Most men are tomcats, everybody knows that.”

  Now it was Hart’s turn to be offended. He’d planned to continue with his current way of life, which meant he would probably set himself up with a mistress once his wife took to living in the country with her dogs and horses. It was unreasonable to expect otherwise. But her attitude was insulting; if she could be faithful, so could he.

  Hart waited for her next condition. She tensed and he knew this would be the big one. Women were devious—she hadn’t yet made any demand that was not laughably minor. They always left the sneakiest until last.

  “My horse, Sultan, is my property and will remain so.”

 
Hart almost laughed. He hadn’t expected that, but given her passion for the animal, he should have. “Will you allow the stallion to cover some of my mares?”

  She considered that. “If they’re of suitable quality, and Sultan likes the look of them.”

  “Agreed. What else?” He waited. He could tell by the tension in her body that it was something he wouldn’t like.

  She moistened her lips before she spoke and for a few seconds he was so focused on her mouth that he almost didn’t take in what she said. Almost. “What did you say?”

  She lifted her chin and sent him a defiant look. “I want you to promise me that there will be no hunting of foxes on any of your properties,” she repeated.

  “Out of the question,” he snapped. Never had he heard such a ridiculous proposition. He recalled the bleeding-heart speech she’d made to him over supper at the ball the other night. “Foxes are vermin.”

  “They have a right to exist as much as anyone—besides, you know as well as I do that it’s the chase all you men like—the hunt, the blood, the cruelty.”

  “Rubbish!” There was an element of truth in what she said—he did enjoy the chase—but, dammit, it was a tradition. A grand sport. And one he enjoyed.

  “Whatever your reasons—or what you claim as your reasons—will you agree to cease all foxhunting on your properties?”

  “I will not—and this is not the kind of subject that’s appropriate when drawing up settlements.”

  “It is for me.” She sat back in her chair and folded her arms. Her mouth compressed in a stubborn line. Hart’s did much the same. There was a long tense silence.

  The silence stretched, and Hart had to tamp down his growing anger. Was his marriage really going to founder over such a ridiculous condition? Was it some kind of indirect attempt to get out of it at the last minute? Foxhunting was a fine sport, and it helped rid the country of vermin. He wouldn’t be blackmailed into giving it up.

  After a while Ashendon coughed. “Perhaps we can reach a compromise.”