“You’re worried about your shop,” Grandpapa continued, “the family, the man you love. It’s a noble sentiment, Henrietta, but the right thing to do is, at times, the most difficult. In short, don’t be a coward, granddaughter. If you love a man who loves you, don’t let him get away.” He scratched his neck, looking confused. “But you already did a year ago. Ah well, time heals all wounds.”
Or uncovers all misunderstandings.
Grandpapa softly wrapped his fingers around her upper arms. “Look at me, Henrietta.”
Slowly, reluctantly, she met his gaze.
“No matter the slings and arrows the ton flings at you, weather them with confidence and an unpierceable hide.”
How could she reply to that when she felt as breakable as a butterfly wing shred beneath the Duchess’s boot?
Grandpapa ushered her out the door, pecked her on the forehead with a quick kiss, told her to send for her beau before it was too late, and let the gossips drown in their own stew, whatever that meant. “The Blakes have weathered much worse, my dear. And if it proves too much for Blake Textiles to withstand, there’s always France. You’ll not be socially shunned there. I hear they love a good scandal.”
She stood alone in the entryway, considering the front door. Was she a coward? Was she being too sensitive? Perhaps the choice she saw before her—between marital happiness and a flourishing family business—existed only in her imagination. Perhaps she could have both if she simply grew an unpierceable hide.
The solitary early morning called to her. Anonymity and safety awaited her in an early morning ride through the park. “Ha!” she barked. Who had ever referred to early mornings in Hyde Park as safe?
Those seeking refuge from the ton’s disapproving glare, perhaps.
She turned away from the door. She had much to do this morning. Since she was already up, she might as well write to Ada and explain everything. She’d put it off long enough. And perhaps her grandmother also deserved an explanation for what had happened at Hill House. The saintly woman had allowed Henrietta to cry on her book all the way back to London with no explanation whatsoever. And then another letter—her father needed to be told that the engagement with Grayson, though delayed a year, would be renewed.
And she needed to speak with Grayson, of course. More than the others, he would need to know she’d decided to marry him. She’d not let the Duchess of Valingford’s threats rule her.
A shiver of delicious energy shot down her spine and lifted a corner of her mouth into a slight smile. So much to do before she took her daily ride in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour.
Henrietta Blake was no coward.
Chapter 21
Grayson swatted at the fly buzzing around his head. Couldn’t it see he tried to sleep? The persistent little devil continued fluttering about his ear. Then it spoke.
“My lord, a letter from the Duke of Valingford.”
Not a fly. “Willems. Go away. I rode through the night in the rain to get to London. The duke can stuff his letter right up his—”
“The Valingford footman did not wait for a reply.”
Grayson pulled the pillow over his head. “Go away.” He wanted to get back to the dream he’d been having about Henrietta in the dusty old room wearing nothing but his family’s old necklace. And speaking of Henrietta, if he didn’t get a bit more sleep, he’d be unable to contemplate the dilemma hanging like a guillotine blade above them all. But Willems wasn’t budging. Grayson didn’t hear the shush of footfalls retreating across plush carpet. “You haven’t gone away, have you?”
“No, my lord. The footman said—”
Grayson sighed, threw the pillow across the room and sat up. “What did the footman say?” Something horrid Grayson wouldn’t have the patience for, no doubt.
“The footman said he waited for no response because the duke expected his word to be carried out without one.”
Grayson grabbed the letter Willems still stretched toward him and opened it.
Lord Rigsby,
You will appear this morning at noon at Valingford House to request my daughter’s hand in marriage.
Valingford
Grayson shot to his feet, crumpling the paper in his fist. “To hell I will!” The devil of a duke thought he could demand anything of anyone, and it would be carried out, no different than his wife, or than Grayson’s own father for that matter. They all thought to manage everyone and everything around them.
Grayson had played the men’s game at first, but no more. He looked out the window. The sun hung low, casting a rosy dawn glow into the room. He rubbed a hand down his face. A few hours’ sleep at most. But anger punched through exhaustion and Grayson punched his arms into his shirtsleeves.
“Where’s my father?”
“In his study.”
Grayson nodded as he pulled on a pair of trousers and stomped toward the door.
“You can’t speak with him looking like that!” Willems protested.
He was barefoot. He didn’t even wear smalls under his trousers, and his shirt lay open and loose on his frame. “I will, Willems,” he said, slamming the door behind him.
He also slammed the door of his father’s study behind him.
Grayson’s father shot to his feet. “Grayson! When did you return home?” His eyes swept over Grayson from rumbled head to bare toes. “Are you well?”
“No, I’m not bloody well! I’ve been backed into a corner of your making!” Grayson paced forward until he leaned over his father’s desk, supported his weight with flat palms on the smooth, uncluttered surface.
His father blinked rapidly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
Grayson strode away, flinging his hands into the air. “You wouldn’t! You’re perfect for the role you play, the title you hold. You do everything exactly as it should be done. It delights you to follow rules and act a certain way. It’s not hard for you because that’s who you are, but it’s not who I am!”
Grayson’s father fell back heavily in his chair. “I don’t know what to say, Grayson. What are you trying to say?”
“I want to marry Henrietta, but because of you and the damned duke, Henrietta instructed me to marry Lady Willow!”
“Henrietta?” Grayson’s father closed his eyes, thinking. “You mean Miss Blake?” He groaned. “I feared sending you to a house party with her would prove your undoing.”
“So then, you knew how I still felt about her!”
“I’ve had my suspicions. But Lady Willow is such a nice girl, and you seemed to change so much in the last year, I thought, perhaps, you’d outgrown Miss Blake.”
“Miss Blake is not a youthful indiscretion to outgrow, Father. She’s intelligent and brave.”
His father pushed himself to his feet. “A poor choice of words.” He sighed. “You don’t have to marry Lady Willow if you dislike the notion so much. Why didn’t you tell me? What use is barging in here with more rage draped about you than clothes?” He shook his head. “You always were impetuous. I’d hoped you’d settled down a bit.”
“See! That right there. I can’t be who you need me to be. I’ll never be a good duke, and I’m tired of pretending I can be.”
His father sat in an armchair and motioned for Grayson to sit as well.
Grayson shook his head and continued to pace. How the hell was he supposed to sit still at a time like this?
“You don’t have to sit, Grayson, but at least listen.”
Grayson continued pacing.
“I may have put too much pressure on you since your brother’s death,” his father said slowly.
Grayson stopped pacing. Had his father admitted to being wrong? Surely not. He dropped into the armchair nearest his father. He needed to sit. The shock of it all made his knees feel weak.
“But you seemed amenable. I thought you wanted to change. No more duels. No more drinking and gambling. No more breaking your arm falling off garden walls. You even broke off the engagement with Miss Blake. I took it as
a sign you had decided to change.”
“I didn’t break it off with her. I thought she—” he shoved his fingers through his hair. “It’s a long, complicated story. I’d rather not rehash it. And I don’t want to climb garden walls drunk anymore or duel strangers or any of that rot I used to do, but I don’t want to always wear black or think of nothing but dinner etiquette. And I don’t want to marry a duke’s daughter simply because I’m going to be a duke one day. Can’t …” He leaned back in the armchair and rubbed his face before dropping his hands to his lap. “Can’t I be a good duke without those things?”
“Yes.”
Grayson blinked. “Can you repeat that?”
“Yes, Grayson, you can be a good duke without any of the items mentioned in your ridiculous list. I enjoy dinner etiquette, myself. And I’ve never found much dignity in any color other than black. But at the end of the day, I suppose, your tenants—those you serve—do not care one way or another what color coat you wear. Unless, perhaps it’s that horrid purple color your friend Mr. Blake wore once.” His father shivered.
Grayson leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees. “Are you saying you don’t care whether or not I marry Lady Willow?”
“Do you prefer Miss Blake?”
“I love her.”
His father nodded thoughtfully. “Her grandfather is an earl. Her family is one of the richest in England, not that we need to marry into money.” He scratched his chin. “There’s no reason for you not to marry her. I remember her being perfectly lovely. I would not have asked you to break the engagement. It’s only, I thought you’d done so yourself.”
He had, in a way. They’d all played their parts, including Tobias Blake, the bastard. But who held the blame hardly mattered. His father supported his choice of bride. Grayson jumped from the chair and wrapped the other man in a bone-crushing hug.
“Grayson!” his father admonished.
Grayson pulled back, laughing at his father’s blushing cheeks. “My apologies.” But he couldn’t help it. His father’s support freed him to be himself. He’d hug him again, no matter how flustered it made the man.
But Grayson’s smile soon faded. Obstacles still remained. “The Duke and Duchess of Valingford are refusing to accept my decision.”
His father snorted, straightening his waistcoat, regaining his dignity Grayson supposed. “Absurd.”
“But true. They’ve threatened Henrietta and her family with ruination should I not marry Lady Willow.”
“Ruination?” His father arched a dukely brow. “Grayson, has Miss Blake been ruined?”
“Absolutely not. We’re going to be married.”
“Ah. So, the duke and duchess’s claims are not rooted in fiction, but in fact.”
Grayson launched to his feet. “She. Is not. Ruined. But while their threats have not scared me, they’ve set Henrietta on edge. She won’t listen to reason.”
His father whistled. “It sounds like she may not be marrying you, son.”
He pointed at his father. “You are unhelpful. But I can fix this myself,” he said, leaving the study behind him.
“Grayson!” his father called. “Grayson, let me help!”
But his words faded in the distance Grayson’s stride quickly put between them.
“Willems!” Grayson said, bursting into his room. “I need to look smart. Quickly.”
“What is the occasion, my lord?”
“I’m visiting the duke. We’re going to have a little chat.”
He had no idea how he would convince the man to call off his wife’s planned assault of Henrietta’s reputation and her family’s livelihood. And argument construction seemed impossible with his brain wholly preoccupied by everything his father had said. He didn’t care if Grayson married Henrietta. He seemed to care only that Grayson not abandon his responsibilities.
And he didn’t ask much. Grayson didn’t want to abandon his responsibilities either. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and propped against the window while Willems set out clothing. Below him, the front door opened and his father, in top hat and great coat, stepped out. He pulled the coat close around him and hurried away from the house. Where did he go? His club most likely. He’d want to immerse himself in a dignified atmosphere after Grayson’s explicit show of emotion downstairs.
Grayson chuckled, but focused on the pulsing desire to act brewing within him. Before the last year, he would have jumped onto Trott and blindly set out to fix whatever problem baffled him, but he’d learned that careful planning had benefits. Valingford was not a man to be underestimated. Grayson would find the perfect approach to convince such a man to give in, so when Grayson next visited Henrietta, he could give her the good news: he’d guaranteed their future together.
“Change of plan, Willems,” he said, setting the tumbler down. “I’ll not be visiting his grace yet. First, a visit with an ex-friend.”
No one planned and plotted better than Tobias Blake. He needed to join forces with his enemy.
Chapter 22
The Duke of Valingford was having a very bad evening. And the fault could and would be laid directly at the feet of that disrespectful young pup, Lord Rigsby. If not for the boy’s roaming nether regions, Valingford would be spending his evening as he always did, agonizing over account ledgers that never added up the way he needed them to, not confronting an earl.
An inconveniently wealthy earl, too. Loads of money, that one. And the duke’s line currently needed money. A filthy business, money, but necessary. The age of your title mattered little without it. And though the Earl of Bennington bore a title considerably younger than the Valingford title, and had less influence in Parliament, he had enough funds, provided by his son in trade, to do exactly as he now threated to do—destroy the Duke of Valingford.
Bennington’s body thrummed with energy and his eyes burned with some desire or other, likely the desire to harm him. Rage—what a plebeian emotion.
“Lord Bennington, I understand your concerns but—”
The door to the study burst open. “Let me in!” the intruder shouted, shoving Valingford’s footman. “I’ll see him now, his wishes be damned.” The Duke of Devonmere also had violence in his eyes.
Valingford shooed the footman away. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your uncharacteristically volatile presence, Your Grace?”
The other duke straightened his cravat, moderated his tone. “I know we had an agreement, Valingford, but nothing was in writing, nothing signed. If you or your wife speak a word out of line about my son and future daughter-in-law, I will see you tried for slander.”
The old earl swung a disbelieving gaze toward the newcomer. “Bravo, Devonmere!”
The other duke blinked at the earl, seeing him for the first time. “Oh, you’re here, too. Well, good. No reason not to have an all.”
The earl nodded sharply, turning back to Valingford. “And don’t think we don’t have the money to combat you. My son, you know, Miss Blake’s father, is one of the wealthiest men in England, possibly Europe. Our money has further reach than your title.”
Ah. The old man understood the heart of the matter. Valingford stood and walked around the desk. He’d not stood from his desk when the other two men had entered. Why? They were, usually, beneath his notice, their bank accounts their only worthy qualities. But one did not stay seated in the presence of such threats. “Sit, please,” he instructed the duke and the earl. Better to have the height advantage.
“I think I’ll stand,” said the duke.
“I don’t plan on staying long enough to sit,” said the earl.
Fine. Valingford could grasp the upper hand without a height advantage. He allowed his chin to tilt forward an inch, the only acknowledgement the two men would get that he ceded to their wishes. “Let me see if I understand. Your son”—he whipped his gaze toward the other duke—“is throwing over my daughter in order to marry another woman, and your granddaughter”—he swung his gaze toward the old earl—“slept with a m
an out of wedlock.”
The earl tensed. His fists clenched. Fascinating. Hot blood ran in the Earl of Bennington’s family. How puerile. No wonder half the family had turned to trade.
The other duke put a constraining hand on the earl’s shoulder. A united front.
If Valingford was prone to laughter, he would have laughed then. “And yet I’m being branded the villain here? Name my crime. Gossip? A woman’s game.” He turned from them. They bored him. “And is it gossip if it’s the truth?” He shrugged. “Your granddaughter is a whore, Bennington. There’s no harm in others knowing it. In fact, they have a right to know.”
A hand gripped his shoulder and swung him around. A fist connected with his nose. Pain exploded. He heard a crack. The bloody fool had broken his nose! Valingford blinked and pushed down a tide of emotion. Three controlled breaths steadied him, returned him to normal. Bennington had a strong right jab for an old man.
Valingford shook his head and made sure his hair remained smooth, then reached a hand up to the cold spot on his upper lip. Blood. It tasted metallic. “Brutish behavior is uncalled for.”
“So was insulting Miss Blake!” the other duke shot back.
The earl seethed, his eyes fires of rage.
Valingford sighed. “Calm your friend, duke.” He picked up the bell he always kept on his desk and rang it. John, his personal footman, entered the room. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Send for the duchess.”
The footman bowed and left, shutting the door quietly behind him.
“Calling your wife for pity?” the old earl snarled. “No one else is likely to pity you, you old—”
“Yes, my dear?” The Duchess of Valingford appeared in the doorway.
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