Good Dukes Wear Black

by Manda Collins

  “Huh,” the grizzled ex-soldier grunted. “I knowed it was coming up one of these days. Might have guessed it when she showed up at the door in a faint. In the family way is she?”

  “Damn you, Bamford, she is not,” he growled as he finally managed to tie a decent Corinthian knot. “I’ll not have you speaking of your future mistress in that way either. Show some respect, man, or I’ll toss you out on your arse.”

  Having been with Trent for long enough to know when there was steel behind his words, the valet threw up his hands in apology. “Easy, yer grace. I was just putting two and two together to make seven. You can’t blame a man for making assumptions when yesterday morning you weren’t thinking marriage but today you are.”

  “Well, next time perhaps don’t make such a miscalculation,” Trent said grudgingly. “I shall count on you to ensure that the rest of the house treats her with the respect she deserves. Especially since our marriage will likely happen quickly. Can I count on you?”

  They exchanged a look in the pier glass and Trent saw surprise in the other man’s eyes. Surely his servants had expected him to marry at some point.

  But Bamford nodded and said, “O’course, yer grace. I’ll see to it, don’t you worry.”

  Trent glanced down at his waistcoat again. It was a peacock blue with silver-threaded embroidery throughout. Against the black of his coat and the pristine white of his shirt and neck cloth, it was eye-catching. He wondered if he was perhaps overdoing it a bit.

  As if he’d spoken aloud, Bamford shook his head. “It ain’t every day a man gets betrothed, yer grace. Miss Dauntry will like a bit of dash, see if she don’t.”

  Feeling rather like a prize fool, Trent nodded his thanks.

  “I’ll be out for most of the day, Bamford. Tell cook to hold supper.”

  “Of course, yer grace,” the valet replied.

  As Trent turned to leave, he heard the man clear his throat behind him.

  “What is it?” he asked, his hand on the knob.

  When he glanced round at the man he looked more serious than he’d seen him since their days on the Continent. “I just wanted to offer my congratulations, yer grace. I’m pleased for ye.”

  Trent found himself surprisingly touched by the other man’s words. They’d been through a lot, the two of them.

  “My thanks, Bamford,” he said with a grin. “I don’t think either of us thought this day would come when we were in Belgium, did we?”

  “Psh,” the ex-soldier responded with an answering grin. “I knowed if anybody could face the frogs and live to tell the tale it would be you. Why do you think I stuck by ye for such a long stretch?”

  “Why indeed?”

  * * *

  When Trent lifted the brass knocker of the Dauntry town house some time later, it was with an oddly uplifting sense of optimism.

  While it was true he was preparing to put his bachelor days behind him, Ophelia was a beautiful, intelligent woman. And he wanted her rather badly. He might not yet feel the sort of overwhelming passion that Freddy and Mainwaring felt for their wives, but he was confident that he and Ophelia could be happy together.

  If, that is, her mother didn’t put up another obstacle before he managed to make a formal proposal. She’d appeared to accept defeat in her plan to marry Ophelia to Goring last night, but that could have been a temporary appeasement.

  He might no longer be an active soldier, but that was no reason to abandon his head for strategy.

  And Mrs. Dauntry was as wily as any general he’d ever encountered.

  But when he was ushered into Mr. Dauntry’s study, he was relieved to see the man was alone. From what Ophelia had said about him, Trent suspected Mr. Dauntry was the more reasonable of her parents.

  “Why do you want to marry my daughter, your grace?” the older man asked after greeting Trent and gesturing for him to have a seat, then taking one for himself behind his enormous desk. “What is it about her that makes you single her out for your attentions? You are quite the catch, I would imagine. And while I am quite proud of my daughter, I do not delude myself into thinking that she is the most eligible young lady in London.”

  Resisting the urge to straighten his cravat, Trent said, “I believe, sir, begging your pardon, that you quite mistake my requirements in a wife if you think I care one whit about a potential bride’s standing in the ton. I am far more concerned with her ability to carry on an intelligent conversation.”

  “And yet,” Mr. Dauntry said wryly, “it was not conversation that my wife found you engaged in last evening.”

  Trent felt a suspicious heat in his cheeks. “That is correct, sir. But let me assure you that I do not take what happened last night lightly. I know what honor demands, and I am more than willing to do my duty. But let me assure you it is no hardship. I want to marry Ophelia, and had been seriously contemplating asking for her hand before last night.”

  As he spoke, Trent saw something in the older man’s expression relax a bit.

  “I do not mind telling you, your grace,” Mr. Dauntry said with a nod, “that I was prepared to toss you out on your ear if you’d come to me with a proposal wrapped in the usual pompous nonsense. I know parents are not supposed to have favorites, but Ophelia is mine. And she is a bright girl. I would not have thought she’d look twice at a man who couldn’t keep up with her intellectually. But stranger things have happened. And if you’d been the typical young nobleman with more hair than wit, I’d have rejected you. But now I am much more sanguine about you.”

  Trent wondered idly how it was that Mr. Dauntry had allowed Mrs. Dauntry’s attempts to force Lord Goring on her for so long if Ophelia was indeed his favorite daughter. But he wasn’t prepared to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, so he bit his tongue and thanked the man instead.

  As if he had heard Trent’s thoughts aloud, Mr. Dauntry then said, “It has been my wife’s dearest wish for many years for one of her daughters to marry the son of her dearest friend. Lord Goring, to be precise. She is not best pleased at the way events have unfolded between you and my daughter. But as far as I’m concerned, you have my blessing. While Goring does not. I just thought you should know lest my wife attempt to make one last effort at bringing her plan to fruition.”

  “I am well aware of Goring’s desire to marry Ophelia, sir,” Trent said. “And I can assure you that my suit is strong enough to withstand anything your wife might attempt in order to prevent me from marrying Ophelia.”

  Mr. Dauntry nodded with approval. “Very good, your grace. Then it’s settled. All it needs is for you to speak to my daughter.”

  He stood and extended his hand to Trent. “She’s in the drawing room. Third door on the left.”

  Taking his leave of Ophelia’s father, Trent left the study and went in search of Ophelia.

  Fourteen

  Ophelia sat over her needlepoint—about which she was indifferent at best—in the drawing room of Dauntry House the next morning, feeling rather like a prisoner waiting for the executioner.

  It wasn’t that she found Trent to be repugnant in any way. Of course not. She’d kissed him quite willingly the evening before. And though she had no experience to compare it to, she was convinced he was very good at it, kissing.

  There was no denying the attraction between them. Though only last week she would not have credited it.

  She’d always found him handsome, of course. That was obvious to anyone with eyes. But the time they’d spent together these past two days had revealed him to be kind, fair, and if his pursuit of Maggie was any indication, determined.

  And he was determined, now, it seemed, to marry her.

  Her mother’s reminder at breakfast, however, that she had no choice in the matter had stoked Ophelia’s defiant streak. Given a choice between Trent and Goring, she would choose Trent of course. And she liked Trent well enough when it came down to it. It had nothing to do with the man, and everything to do with the circumstance. Willing participant though she had been.


  Looking down at the rose she was embroidering, she realized she’d just stitched using the wrong color entirely. Perhaps close work was not the best choice of an occupation this morning, she thought ruefully as she removed the stitch.

  She was threading her needle with the correct shade when a brisk knock on the drawing room door made her jump and poke herself with the needle.

  “Come in,” she called, ignoring the stinging of her thumb.

  As she stood and shook out her favorite deep blue morning gown, which made her feel both attractive and confident, she turned to the doorway.

  And froze.

  Instead of the Duke of Trent, Lord Goring crossed the room, his hands extended as if to reach for hers.

  “My dear Miss Dauntry,” he said, his face a mask of desolation. “I couldn’t sleep a wink last night for thinking of your awful predicament.”

  Taking her hands before she could offer them, he squeezed. Hard.

  “I … that is to say, thank you, my lord,” she said, trying and failing to extricate herself from his surprisingly strong grip. “But I don’t think such concern is warranted. And I wouldn’t call it a predicament.”

  “My dear,” he said, shaking his head at her, “you are far too innocent to realize the repercussions of what happened last night. But I can assure you that reputations have been decimated for far, far less. It is truly a dreadful situation. One that can be resolved if only you will say yes to my proposal.”

  Was this not the same man who all but ran from the room last night as soon as things got the least bit contentious?

  “I assure you, there is no need for you to intervene, Lord Goring,” she said with more charity for his offer than she felt. “I have an understanding with the Duke of Trent, and I am expecting him this morning.”

  But if she’d been hoping for Goring to take the hint and leave, she was sorely mistaken.

  “Let there be no mention of that brute’s name in my presence, Miss Dauntry,” Goring cried dramatically, actually clasping his hands to his breast. “I fear I am unable to answer for the consequences if you do. I find it quite unthinkable that you can consider marrying him after what he did to you.”

  Stopping herself just short of rolling her eyes, Ophelia said, “Not that it’s any of your affair, sir, but I am quite happy to marry the duke.” Instead of you, she added mentally.

  “After he left you soiled, like a handkerchief discarded in the gutter?” Goring said with a shudder. “No, it’s not to be borne. Fortunately for you, your mother has convinced me, against my natural instinct to shy away from ugliness, to offer you my hand in marriage.”

  “I’m not sure what my mother told you, Lord Goring,” Ophelia said, moving away as Goring moved closer, “but I have no need of your sacrifice. In fact, I’d be quite happy for you to leave me now. Please go.”

  But for such a thin man, Goring was surprisingly strong, and when he pulled Ophelia to him, his grip was unbreakable. “Your missishness does you proud, my dear,” he said as he attempted to kiss her.

  At that moment a brisk knock sounded on the drawing room door. Instead of leaping away, Goring only held harder.

  “Help me,” Ophelia cried, without knowing who interrupted, but desperate for escape. “Please.”

  “You have exactly one minute to let go of her, Goring,” Trent said. “Before I ask you to name your seconds.”

  Perhaps Goring wasn’t the fool Ophelia thought him, because he dropped his hands at once.

  That didn’t stop him from arguing, however. “It is laughable to me that you should be the one to threaten a duel, your grace, when it is I who am protecting Miss Dauntry’s honor.”

  Ophelia saw one of Trent’s brows rise at Goring’s hyperbole, even as he moved to stand beside her, slipping an arm around her waist as she stood rubbing her upper arms where Goring had gripped her.

  “Goring,” Trent said in a deceptively languid drawl, “I don’t know what sort of arrangement you’ve made with Mrs. Dauntry, but you may be assured that I have an agreement with Mr. Dauntry that negates yours. So, get out. Now.”

  “I’m afraid I cannot do that, your grace,” Goring persisted. “Honor demands that I remain here. If only to prevent you from further damaging Miss Dauntry’s reputation. In fact, I could not forgive myself if I were to flee now.”

  “There is no danger of Miss Dauntry’s reputation suffering a blemish,” Trent said coldly, “if you will only keep your mouth shut.”

  “You forget that I was not the only one to witness your indiscretion, your grace,” Goring said with a nasty smile. “Mrs. Dauntry was also a witness. And she has assured me that my suit has been accepted. If Ophelia is reluctant, it is only because she fears angering you.”

  “Do not put words in my mouth, sir,” Ophelia said, growing impatient with the man’s persistence. “What has my mother promised you that you refuse to be dismissed? Money? A house? What?”

  As Goring’s face turned scarlet, she realized she had the right of it. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise given how quick he’d been to make his escape previously. Even so, the knowledge did nothing to endear her mother to her.

  “I … I can assure you, Miss Dauntry,” Goring said, his Adam’s apple bobbing furiously, “that any agreement I have with your mother is strictly a business arrangement that does not concern you.”

  By this time, Trent, it seemed, had had enough. Carefully he removed his arm from around Ophelia’s waist, and walking easily up to the other man, he unceremoniously grabbed him by the cravat and all but carried him over to the door, opened it, and pushed the other man through it.

  This done, Trent closed the door and locked it.

  “I apologize for using such language in front of you, my dear Miss Dauntry,” he said with a shake of his head. “But, what an ass.”

  Unable to stop herself, Ophelia giggled. “He is, isn’t he?”

  “However,” Trent said, his face turning serious, “I did not come here to discuss Lord Goring.” He began to prowl toward her, and Ophelia felt a small shiver run through her. “I came, as you likely suspected, to speak to your father, Miss Dauntry. And, thankfully, he has given his consent.”

  Before she could respond to that, he continued, taking both her hands in his, the touch achingly gentle. “I know we spoke of it last night, but today I wish to make you a formal offer. Miss Dauntry, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife? I realize we have only truly known one another for a couple of days, but I believe during that time we have proved to be compatible. And there is no question that there is friendship between us.”

  If she’d been hoping for a romantic proposal that would sweep her off her feet, Ophelia thought wryly, then she was doomed to disappointment. It was likely not something that the practical, rational ex-soldier turned duke had in him. But there was much to appreciate in his words, not least of which was his claim of friendship between them, which she knew was not something most couples in the ton could attest to.

  Still, some imp of mischief prompted her to step even closer to him, and lifting her face to look up into his eyes, she whispered, “Do not forget, your grace, that we also have this.” And trembling with nerves at her own boldness, she brought her lips up to kiss his.

  She would have pulled away, but Trent was no fool, and slipped his hand up to cup the back of her head and hold her in place even as he waited for her to continue the kiss. Recalling last night’s embrace, she pulled back a little, then lightly scraping her teeth over his lower lip, she was rewarded when he opened for her. Fusing her open mouth over his, she tentatively stroked her tongue into his mouth and was soon losing herself in sensation as he kissed her back, met her stroke for stroke.

  When he slid his hand up to close over her left breast, she moaned, and it must have awakened something in Trent, because he drew back with a groan, and put a little distance between them.

  Both of them were breathing hard as he thrust a hand through his hair. “Zounds,” he said with a breathl
ess laugh, “I think you proved your point there.”

  “Then why did you stop?” she asked. “I wasn’t very good at it, was I?” She’d known just how untutored she was at such things, but she’d hoped her eagerness would make up for it.

  Something like tenderness shone in his eyes as he moved over to her once more. He stroked his thumb over her cheek. “You couldn’t have been better,” he said with a sweet smile that made her stomach do a little flip. “But we are under your father’s roof. And it would be disrespectful for us to do anything more than kiss here. Not to mention the fact that we aren’t wed yet.” His eyes darkened as they held hers. “When I take you, it will be in the privacy of our own bedchamber. Where I can take my time, and there will be no chance of someone disturbing us.”

  “Oh,” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he whispered back, leaning in to kiss her once on the lips before drawing away. “Oh.”

  Just then, a rattling at the door startled them both.

  “Ophelia!” Mrs. Dauntry shouted from the other side of the door. “Ophelia, open this door this instant.”

  “Let me handle her,” Trent said with a staying hand on her arm, as she’d begun to move toward the door.

  “But she’s my mother,” Ophelia said in a low voice. “My responsibility.”

  “I’m the one she’s truly angry with, however,” Trent said simply. “Let me do this for you. I may not be able to slay actual dragons, but the least I can do is handle your mother.”

  Perhaps she’d been wrong about him, Ophelia thought as he turned to walk over and unlock the door. That was perhaps the most romantic thing anyone had ever done for her.

  * * *

  After Trent had, as he’d said he would, handled Mrs. Dauntry, he left to petition the archbishop for a special license. Leaving Ophelia with an urgent need to escape the house and her mother’s ire, though Trent assured her she had nothing to worry about.