Scandalous Lords and Courtship

by Mary Lancaster

  “Oh, quite right.” His grandmother trailed him, carrying on like a Drury Lane actress.

  The irony of her antics, considering her long-held disapproval of his mother, made his lips tug into a smile just as a young lady on the arm of an older gentleman entered the store.

  “Oh my,” the unknown lady said and returned his smile.

  The older gentleman looked Douglas over and tugged the woman. “Come along, Adeline.”

  Douglas left the store and Grandmama raced forward to whisper, “That was Lady Adeline Randolph-Stuart. She would make a superb wife. Her fortune is forty thousand pounds, and she is the daughter of an earl. A cousin, even.”

  “And a snob. Pray tell, which of your well-bred ladies would be happy with a husband raised on the streets?”

  “Keep your voice down,” Grandmama hissed. “That is not well-known. In a marriage, who cares if you are happy, or like one another? Do you know nothing about Society?”

  “I know enough,” he sneered, “to know I want nothing to do with it. Why should I sire an heir? A legitimate one, that is.” He winked at a female shop worker adjusting a window display.

  “You would not,” Grandmama gasped.

  “Wouldn’t I? I dinnae know better, after all.”

  “I see that I have gone about it the wrong way with you. Do not think of advantage, then. What about a happy home with a sweet wife and loving children? Adeline was taken with you. It was her father who judged by your appearance.”

  “And, I suppose, once I am presented as the Duke, he will happily approve?”

  “He would be a fool not to, and Lord Randolph-Stuart is no fool.”

  Douglas did not reply, and they walked in silent for a moment.

  “Good heavens, how far are we walking? Where is your carriage? I shall freeze.” She rubbed her hands.

  “I took no carriage. I prefer to walk.”

  “Prefer to walk,” Grandmama said in a scandalized tone as she tip-toed around horse excrement. Her face contorted in disgust.

  “Yes.” Douglas looked over his shoulder. “Your obedient coachman has followed us, see?” Grandmama turned as well. “There is no need to accompany me.”

  “But you may give a poor impression—”

  “Madam, do you not recall how little my brother, father, and uncle thought of your intrusiveness?”

  Beside him, the woman’s frown deepened. “Very well, but do take care of yourself.”

  She signaled for the coachman to stop, and Douglas held a hand out to assist her inside.

  “Thank you, Dougie,” she whispered before shutting the door and calling for the coachman to proceed.

  Dougie. He had not been called that in many years. How had his grandmother even known of the endearment his mother used? Douglas began walking. He would return to the bookshop and his planned trip to the tailor later. He used the time to make sense of his disordered thoughts.

  In the deepest recesses of his heart, Grandmama’s image of a happy wife and children fueled his greatest fantasies. He was no stranger to the carnal delights women could provide, but had never met a woman he wished to have a conversation with. None of the beguiling ladies who had shared his bed had inspired trust. Selecting a spouse from such a different background as he was madness. That left…

  Marigold’s strawberry hair and green eyes. She was too good. Too pure. What would she ever want with him? He kicked a rock, sighed, and returned to town.

  After being fussed over and forced into fashionable clothing that was far too tight for actual movement, Douglas returned to the mansion he had inherited on the edge of Inverness. He could not call it home. Regrets of that nature would need to wait. He had a letter to write.

  Sitting at the desk where his forefathers had done business for decades, he opened a drawer, pulled out writing supplies, and set to work. When finished, he snatched up the family signet ring and dipped it into the hot wax. Douglas allowed himself one moment to close his eyes as a sea of unwanted emotion crashed over him. Then, sliding the ring onto his little finger, he stood and called for the butler. The missive and package must be delivered without delay.

  ***

  “You were almost seen,” Old Tom said to Marigold as she clambered onto the ledge of the coach.

  She cast her eyes in the direction of the dressmaker’s. Her cousins walked down the street, stopping now and then to speak with passers-by. Priscilla preened as she pushed her younger daughter forward. Edith executed her curtsy’s to perfection, but Marigold could see the girl’s nervousness.

  Her heart still pounded from Mr. Randolph’s near-kiss. What on earth had gotten into her? Despite Priscilla and Nicholas’s frequent complaints, she had always been an obedient and good girl. She did not dally with stable boys or footmen. She must be temporarily mad to let a man she barely knew kiss her in public.

  However, something about Mr. Randolph made her feel as though she had known him forever. He did not feel like a stranger. They were kindred souls. All he wanted from Nicholas was his due. Marigold could relate to that.

  Randolph had seemed so surprised that she believed he was not a thief. She understood that as well. So many people judged another merely by their clothing and appearance. In another world, Marigold would have been as coddled as Edith and Augusta. She would have been escorted to fancy balls and worn gowns worth more than a servant’s yearly income. She would dance until her slippers wore out and then await suitors in the drawing room the next morning.

  Yes, she could be as genteel as any of them. She had never wanted it, though. The things she wanted most in life could not be bought. She longed for affection and a family. Marigold supposed there was nothing unique about that. Most orphans would feel similarly. While she was never allowed to forget her pitiable state, she knew Priscilla and Nicholas had been as kind as they could be.

  Not everyone’s vessel of kindness could be as deep as others. Her cousins had known more people and had experienced more in life. Perhaps they had encountered such hatred and hurt that they could not contain more love for others. Marigold could bear with their treatment. The fact that Edith and Augusta were loved by their parents warmed Marigold’s heart. The maids assured her some children did not have the love of their parents. Some parents only saw children as a means to additional income. Too many children were packed off for service without so much as an embrace. Still others ran away from home to escape abuse. Marigold was clothed, fed, housed, and rarely physically disciplined. On the whole, her relations could be worse. Compared with what her friends had overcome, Marigold’s forbearance was nothing to marvel at.

  After the shopping excursion, her cousins rushed away to try on jewelry and debate hairstyles. Marigold happily left them for her chores. Having missed two hours of work, and the other maids otherwise occupied, meant Marigold had to work harder than usual. She welcomed the distraction.

  The bustle of activity settled down once the family was served dinner. The servants of the house gathered around the worn kitchen table and ate. Dottie’s warm soup was welcome on a cold day.

  “Such a fuss!” Becky moaned. “As if the Duke is going to consider either one of those girls.”

  “Mind your tongue,” Ruth scolded and nervously watched the door.

  “La! The mistress has never come down here and never will.”

  “I should hope not,” Dottie said. “I don’t need her snoopin’ down here like I don’t know my work.”

  “How did you like going to town, Marigold?” Jack asked. “Tom said you spent a long time away from the carriage.”

  Marigold blushed at the reminder but didn’t have time to reply before the others chattered around her.

  “She is crazy about those books.” Becky laughed.

  “I ain’t never seen no one in such a state of distraction from reading.” Tom winked. “I think she met a beau.”

  “She would not,” Jack exclaimed over the laughter of the others. Turning to Marigold, he said again, sounding inexplicably hurt, “You w
ould not. Say you did not.”

  “No, of course not,” Marigold assured him even as her cheeks flamed. “I have no beau.”

  “Not if Jack has anything to say about it,” the other footman, Nate, said.

  Jack shot him a withering glare and an awkward silence fell around the table. Marigold glanced around. Was Jack sweet on her? She had thought of him like a brother. When she thought of a boy she would wish to walk out with and one day marry…well, she didn’t think of a boy, at all. She thought of a very tall, broad gentleman with bright blue eyes and a small scar on his cheek. Stifling a gasp at the sudden understanding of her thoughts, Marigold jumped from the table and grabbed her empty bowl.

  “Better clean up. I’m tired after the theatrics of the day.”

  The others followed suit. Just before filing out of the kitchen, Marigold cornered Becky.

  “You have been sweet on a lot of boys, haven’t you, Becky?”

  “Aye and they’re sweet back,” she laughed. “No sense in sticking to one man when I ain’t marrying for years.”

  “What about Mr. Randolph?” Marigold fidgeted with the hem of her apron and avoided Becky’s eyes.

  “Who?” she asked and peered into the mirror, rearranging her cap and fluffing her collar.

  “You met him about two weeks ago when walking back from town. You seemed enamored with him. You were despondent after he begged for a kiss and you never saw him again.”

  “Gracious.” A hand flew to her heart. “Well, I forgot all about him. There’s no use getting my hopes up about a man I ain’t seen but once. It was another man— Why are you asking all these questions?” Becky, at last, looked at Marigold.

  “Well, I…” Marigold trailed off. Should she tell Becky about seeing Randolph?

  “You’re sweet on your first one, ain’t ya? Well, mind you don’t give away the milk.” She winked.

  “Oh, I am in no danger of that,” Marigold said. “I do not think he likes me, at all.”

  “What would you know? You had no idea about Jack, did you?”

  “I think of him as a brother,” Marigold said guiltily.

  “Don’t worry your precious head. He’ll get over it soon enough.” Becky shrugged. “They always do. Enjoy your beau while you have him.”

  Marigold nodded and allowed Becky to begin her evening tasks. She knew the wisdom in Becky’s words, but felt guilty all the same. As she returned to the kitchen to wash the dishes, she heard a knock at the back door. Opening it revealed a stranger.

  “I have a missive to Mr. Kincaid from the Duke of Inverness,” the liveried man said. “His Grace requests a reply.”

  “Of course, come inside while you wait.” She showed him into the kitchen.

  “Have you eaten? We have mighty fine soup. It will warm you right up.”

  Marigold filled a bowl and broke some bread for the guest. As she poured him some water, she saw him staring peculiarly at her.

  “What is it?” she asked as she set the glass down.

  “Are you Miss Mary?” he whispered.

  A hand went to her throat. Only one person called her such. Mutely, she nodded and watched out of the corner of her eye to see if Dottie watched them. The servant handed her a package. She concealed it under her apron.

  “I’ll take the note up to Mr. Kincaid,” she said and quickly left the room.

  Once out of the room, she unwrapped part of the parcel. Two books! Don Quixote and the Camilla she had dropped in the bookshop. It must be the work of Mr. Randolph, but why? And how did he afford it? Suddenly it struck her. As the package came with the Duke’s servant, Randolph must also be in his employ. Surely the servant of a duke earned far more than one did in a mere gentleman’s household. She hid the books behind a floral arrangement in the parlor, then headed up the stairs.

  She trembled as she entered the library, in awe of her surroundings and the man who occupied the room. He could have such a harsh temper.

  “A servant arrived with a letter from the Duke of Inverness,” Marigold managed to say without stammering. “He awaits your answer.”

  “Very well. Wait in the corridor. You are not to return below stairs. I do not want the Duke kept waiting.”

  “Yes, sir.” She breathed a sigh of relief and almost reached the door before her cousin screamed, making her jump.

  “No! Explain this!”

  Marigold turned, her trembling increasing. “Sir?”

  “The Duke insists that you also attend his ball. How does he even know about you?”

  “I do n-n-not know, sir,” she stammered and inched backward. “Perhaps…” Her mind raced to think of an answer. True or not, she needed something that would put him off.

  “Yes?” He strode forward and towered over her.

  Gulping, Marigold conjured a vestige of courage. “Perhaps the gentleman who asked after Mother and Father? The Duke is new to Society, is he not? He must not know that I—”

  “That you what? Are a scullery maid in my house? Are destitute? Usually covered in ashes and soot?”

  Tamping down the urge to cry, Marigold lowered her eyes. “He must not know my situation. That I do not go out in public.”

  “Yes, and you will not between now and the ball,” he roared. “You are not to leave the bounds of the garden.”

  “Yes, sir,” she whispered.

  “No matter His Grace’s request, you will not be going until you have completed all your chores. I will not allow you to use this as an excuse to lay about and be lazy.”

  “I am to go?” she asked in confusion. “I do not wish it.”

  “You are wise,” Nicholas said. “You will likely be laughed at.” He crushed the paper in his hand. “Your actions will hurt us all. Do not bring reproach on me, girl.”

  “No, sir,” Marigold answered, still not lifting her eyes from her feet.

  “I will give Priscilla strict instructions. You are not to dance or speak to anyone. You will stand at her side and remain mute.” He crossed the room and returned to his desk. “Now stay there as I write.”

  A moment later, he had finished his note and sealed the envelope. As he pushed it into her hand, he sneered. “Get out.”

  Marigold all but ran down the stairs and threw the letter into the servant’s hands. Then, rushed to the wash basin and took her emotions out on the dishes. The Duke’s employee and Dottie attempted to console her as tears flooded her eyes, but she would not explain her upset. Soon, too soon, the whole household would hear of her humiliation. Then, the whole of Inverness would witness the maid who thought too highly of herself. How would she bear the shame of everyone hating her for the rest of her life?

  Chapter Five

  “She cried?” Douglas asked as his servant handed him Kincaid’s reply.

  “Yes, sir,” the man nodded. “I believe her cousin dealt harshly with her.”

  Douglas crushed the unread missive in his fist. Was there no end to how Kincaid would torment him? “Did she say anything?”

  “No, she refused to speak.”

  “What of the package? Did she seem pleased?”

  “She appeared confused as to why she would receive a parcel. I did not see her open it. By the time she returned, she was distraught.”

  “Thank you for your report. That will be all,” Douglas said and sank into the chair behind his desk.

  Matthews had been the first servant he hired. All others belonged to the previous duke. Matthews was proving trustworthy and reliable. Douglas knew his “man of affairs” would not reveal the scenario to anyone.

  Douglas ripped open the reply, and heat crept up his face as he read. His anger threatened to boil over. Kincaid’s letter dripped with compliments for the duke he had never seen. He expressed astonishment that the duke had heard of his cousin and, of course, she would come if her health allowed.

  Was that the lie they had told everyone as to why Marigold was never presented in Society? It was no better than his family declaring he had entered the army.

&n
bsp; Douglas suspected she cared just as little as he about being in good standing with Society, or that her family used her to maintain their image. Would that he could carry her away from them and live in seclusion away from everyone. A snug cottage with just the two of them before a roaring fire as the snow fell. Perhaps they would live near Skaw, the northernmost point of the British Isles. Marigold would sit on his lap, her arms wrapped around his neck as he held her petite frame. She would rest her head over his heart, and he could twine his fingers through her soft, strawberry-blonde hair.

  The door banged open, interrupting his fruitless fantasy. Only one person would dare intrude on the duke’s privacy.

  “Grandmama,” Douglas said without looking up, “I can hardly feel like a duke—as you insist I behave—if you do not knock.”

  “Do not use that exacerbated tone with me, young man.”

  Douglas smirked. Riling her provided a necessary bit of humor to his day. “You have awoken from your nap.”

  “As you see,” she nodded and sat in the chair opposite him. “I will come and go as I please, just as I have for the last four dukes.”

  “You are accustomed to being the mistress of the house.”

  Grandmama leaned forward. “Duke or no, we ladies only pretend to let the men lead the home.”

  “And should I ever have a wife, how do you think she would tolerate your attitude?”

  She sighed. “I sometimes forget how little you know about our ways. You look so much like your grandfather. I had hoped…” She trailed off and shook her head. “No, there’s no use talking about regrets. Any lady you marry would know the Dowager takes precedence.”

  Douglas rolled his eyes.

  “Your new clothes arrived, and so you can attend the soiree this evening.”

  “I will be hosting a ball next week. That is enough socializing with insincere people.”

  Grandmama rose from her seat. She placed her hands on the desk and leaned forward. “Meeting people is your primary occupation now.”

  Knowing she wanted him to ask why, Douglas remained mute. Grandmama held his stare. “I will not play the game,” he broke the silence. “I will not scratch their back now, so they owe me a favour and may scratch my back later.”