Helen Dickson

by When Marrying a Duke. . .

  ‘I hope my granddaughter has been keeping you company, Max?’

  Max glanced towards the stairs to see Lady Wingrove descending gracefully. His grim expression vanished. Smiling broadly, his pleasure on seeing her genuine, with long easy strides he went towards Lady Wingrove and held out his hand. ‘Lady Wingrove, forgive me for calling at this unsociable hour. I didn’t think you would mind, only there is a certain matter I wish to discuss with you.’

  She smiled at him, placing her beringed fingers in his hand. ‘Of course not, dear boy. How good it is to see you. You’re just the man to brighten up my morning.’ She looked at him askance, a knowing look in her eyes. ‘And would I be correct in thinking that this matter you speak of concerns a certain parcel of land?’

  Max gave her a sombre look. ‘Absolutely. I will not give up on it.’

  She chuckled good humouredly. ‘I don’t expect you to. I have a rather interesting proposition to put to you, Max. I would have spoken of it last night, but other things happened to divert me,’ she said, glancing meaningfully at her granddaughter. ‘I expect it will be a lengthy discussion. I’ll have coffee sent in.’

  ‘Have you not read the papers this morning either, Lady Wingrove?’

  ‘Not yet—and I always make a point of overlooking the gossip columns.’ She laughed lightly and gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘I imagine they have gone to town about that unfortunate incident with Lady Murray, but never mind. It will all blow over in no time.’ She gave Marietta a knowing smile. ‘Marietta, my dear, Lord Trevellyan and I have things to discuss. We’ll be in the drawing room.’

  When the drawing door had closed behind them, Marietta climbed the stairs to her room. What on earth did Lord Trevellyan want with her grandmother? A parcel of land, her grandmother had said. It must be an important matter to warrant his presence just after breakfast. As for her grandmother, Marietta was curious about what she had to discuss with her visitor.

  Chapter Five

  Grafton le Willows was situated in the heart of the borderlands between England and Scotland. A large two-hundred-year-old manor house employing a veritable army of servants both inside and out, it was pleasantly situated in an open position with an undulating view towards bracken and heather-clothed hills and water meadows in the valley bottom, which in the dry summers provided pleasant strolling for the ladies and good hunting for the gentlemen on the higher ground.

  Following a long train journey from London, after a week Marietta had begun to feel more at home, even to recapturing part of the self she had lost since losing her father and leaving Hong Kong. She was amazed at the way she was content to just drift through the days, doing nothing but getting to know her home. She not only saw the beauty all around her, but felt it—as if by some strange alchemy and independence of will and thought her body had absorbed it. She hadn’t known what to expect. She had come home, to a home she had never seen, a house that had been her mother’s home. Her grandmother seldom mentioned her mother, but here, in these peaceful, beautiful surroundings, she had begun talking about her.

  ‘I do so love it here,’ she told her grandmother one night at dinner. ‘So did my mother. She was always telling me about Grafton when I was little.’

  ‘Yes, she did, but she preferred London. She liked the social scene—the parties and the theatre, the shopping—as all young ladies do.’

  ‘Yes, I do remember that about her.’

  ‘We had such ambitions for her to make a grand marriage and were preparing to introduce her in society. But then,’ she said, her expression turning grim, ‘she met your father. He had her completely so that she forgot she had a mother and a father.’

  ‘I’m sure she didn’t do that.’

  ‘You did not know her then,’ her grandmother said, setting her mouth in a bitter line. ‘They wanted each other rather badly. Your grandfather and I refused to allow her to marry a penniless nobody, of course, but she was determined to have him. They ran off together—eloped. Ours is an old and noble family, Marietta. But I ask you, how can a man who talks of love to a woman at the same time urge her to cruelly cast aside the natural love of her mother and father and take her away and leave her family grieving?’

  ‘I am so sorry. I didn’t know.’

  ‘How could you? You weren’t even born then. The next thing I heard was that they were living in Eastbourne. After that we heard nothing, until we received a letter from her informing us she had given birth to a child—you.’

  ‘There were others—Mama miscarried three babies.’

  Pain slashed across her grandmother’s face. ‘I see. I didn’t know.’ She sighed and appeared to crumple, as if the memory of those days was a physical weight on her shoulders. ‘To his credit your father appears to have done rather well for himself. The fact that he was in trade shouldn’t stop you making a splendid match—your wealth and your mother’s ancestry outweighs your father’s lack of birth.’

  ‘And do you believe the Duke of Arden will see it that way?’

  ‘I believe he will. The duke is my ideal choice.’

  ‘But he might not be mine.’

  Lady Wingrove sat forwards in her chair to drive home her point as she set about plying this wilful granddaughter with a mind of her own with her duties. ‘Everything I have—the house, the estate—will all be yours when I am gone. You must marry well, Marietta,’ she said forcefully. ‘You are the last of the line. It is my dearest wish to see you with children to carry it on. Are you to be a spinster who rejects every man that comes courting? Marry a man of rank, a name with a lineage so pure, and your children could be powers in this country—at court. It will open doors if they have a title to aid them. No one could deny such a fine, distinguished name, nor the aristocracy of the Duke of Arden.’

  ‘Grandmother, I am nineteen years old and do not feel in the least like a spinster. I was constantly beset by suitors from the moment we arrived in Paris.’

  ‘And in all of them you saw flaws.’

  ‘Because I disliked most of those who came courting with a desire for my wealth exceeding their desire for me.’

  Lady Wingrove chuckled and sat back in her seat. ‘The Duke of Arden cannot be accused of that, Marietta. Our wealth—yours and mine combined—could not compare with his.’

  Marietta sighed. ‘Then he must be very rich.’

  ‘And very handsome.’

  ‘Then that’s a bonus. I seem to have a difficult time coping with marriage proposals. I find all this talk of titles and rank and wealth too much. Marrying for a title has never been on my list of priorities.’

  ‘Well then, all I can say is that if you don’t want the Duke of Arden, I’ll just have to concentrate on my second choice.’

  ‘And what rank is your second choice, Grandmother?’ she asked flippantly. ‘A prince? A marquis, or another duke?’

  Lady Wingrove raised her head loftily and when she looked at her granddaughter there was a keen twinkle in her eyes. ‘A mere earl, would you believe. Unattached dukes seem to be in short supply just now.’

  Marietta laughed and, leaning over, fondly kissed her wrinkled cheek. ‘Then it would seem that I must consider the one that’s available. But I’m not promising anything, so don’t you go reading too much into it.’

  * * *

  The fine weather and the arrival of the visitors her grandmother had invited up from London for some hunting and shooting during the season combined to put Marietta in an agreeable frame of mind. She stood beside her grandmother to welcome her guests, twelve all told, all middle-aged gentlemen who were happy to leave their wives behind to indulge in country sports for a weeklong affair.

  There was nothing unusual in this since house parties were a regular occurrence, especially at this time of year. The guests were a jolly lot and the way her grandmother—assisted by a horde of servants to cater for them—presided over the meals and saw that everyone was taken care of would have exhausted a younger woman. She was steeped in English tradition and was se
cure in the belief that social conversation was the highest art of civilisation, so every evening after a hard day’s shoot, dinner was a long drawn-out affair.

  * * *

  There was so much for Marietta to learn about the countryside, so when the last of the party had left to partake in that day’s sport, she thrust her arms into the sleeves of a three-quarter-length waisted overcoat in gunmetal grey, pulled on a stout pair of boots and went exploring, eager to learn what she could about nature, the wildlife and how the land was managed. She would have ridden, since the Grafton stables housed some fine horseflesh, but had she done so her grandmother would have insisted she was accompanied by a groom and she did so want to be by herself to wander at will and take a look at her inheritance.

  The day was cold, though her own brisk walking kept her warm. Often it was quite a stiff climb, scrambling up and down banks overgrown with bracken and gorse, stopping now and then to catch her breath and admire the scenery, the gently rolling, sheep-dotted hills beginning to turn to the bright-hued glory of autumn. She had to tread with care through wet patches and tangled undergrowth and brambles that lay in wait to trip up the unwary.

  * * *

  She’d been walking for about an hour when she finally came to a halt. Slithering down the trunk of a tree, she sat on a mound of soft green moss within the deep-set roots. The grassy hollow was concealing and secluded, but offered a perfect vista of the countryside. The canopy of leaves above her of bronze and copper and amber stirred in the breeze and the sky was pale blue with just the odd white cloud.

  It was so very different from London, which she had loved, with its hustle and bustle, the cries of street vendors and the crash of horses’ hooves on the cobbles. Yes, she had loved all that, but here on the Borders where everything happened at a slower, quieter pace and where a person could breathe, she loved the wonderful remoteness of it, even though she could hear the sound of guns as the shooters shot at the pheasant and grouse the beaters drove out of the bracken.

  However, knowing she was so close to the shooters, she regretted coming this way today. One stray shot and her short life could be over. Standing up, she was about to go back the way she had come when a fresh volley of shots broke out over her head. Immediately she sank to her knees, aware that her actions might have put the shooters off their target. Then, hearing a single shot and feeling certain it had been aimed at her, she started shaking like a leaf and watched some young birds flap and squawk and scuttle away and become hidden in the undergrowth.

  A shadow fell across her and a man suddenly appeared with a rifle in his hands. Instinct warned her that danger was near and she felt threatened. Her head shot up and she was blinded for a moment, seeing only the large, menacing shadow of a man. She was startled and, when Marietta was startled or upset, she went on the attack at once.

  ‘Saints preserve us,’ she fumed, springing to her feet. ‘Don’t you know better than to lurk behind trees and shoot like that? You gave me an awful fright. What are you doing?’

  She couldn’t believe her eyes when she recognised Max Trevellyan approaching her. Their eyes met and locked for a moment. Marietta’s opened wider and wider, displaying astonishment and incredulity, before she brusquely recollected herself. He was dressed in a well-worn tweed jacket and the pale sunlight fell across him, touching his thick dark hair. His silver-grey eyes were clear and alert. For one dreadful moment she panicked, feeling an urgent desire to turn and run. For heaven’s sake, she was Marietta Westwood, afraid of nothing and no one. She almost did turn and run, but the fierce resolve with which she had been born and which had developed inside her since she was a child kept her rooted to the spot.

  ‘It’s you,’ she said frostily, though on a calmer note, though her heart for some bewildering reason was beating rather quickly. She hadn’t seen Max since he had come to see her grandmother the morning after the party at which she had disgraced herself. What had transpired between them remained a mystery to her.

  Max gazed down at her, slapping his riding crop impatiently against his leg, thinking how different she looked, with her hair all mussed up. The cold and her exertions had put red flags in her cheeks and her eyes glowed. ‘Hello, Marietta. I didn’t expect to find you in the fresh outdoors. I was out riding when I saw you disappear beneath the tree,’ he said, indicating the fine grey stallion which cropped peacefully a few yards away. ‘I came to make sure you are all right. There’s no need to worry. You are quite safe with me.’

  ‘I don’t care if you’re the King of England,’ she snapped. ‘Have you no more sense than to go around frightening people? Did you just shoot at me?’

  ‘I’m afraid I did,’ he said, leaning his rifle against a tree.

  Marietta was even more outraged. ‘With the intention of hitting me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not in the habit of going around shooting at young ladies—even young ladies who push other young ladies into fountains,’ he uttered with a wicked gleam in his eyes, unable to resist teasing her. ‘Had I been shooting at you, I would not have missed.’

  Marietta stiffened. She didn’t like to be reminded of the fountain incident. It had been a horrible humiliation, the second worst time of her life practically—the first being when she had kissed him—and she didn’t like to think how humiliated Lady Murray must have been.

  ‘But that is quite shocking. What if your aim had been bad?’

  ‘My aim is never bad.’

  ‘That is fortunate for me.’

  A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I did frighten you, didn’t I—enough to make you come crashing out of your hideaway.’

  ‘Yes, you did. How was I to know you were not some—some brigand with...’

  He cocked a sleek black brow, a gleam of amusement in his eyes. ‘What? Evil intent? Designs upon your person?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Marietta’s tone was biting, telling him he should have more sense than to go around frightening people and shooting his gun at random. She raised her chin a notch to reinforce her disapproval and her thoughts circled, looking for some crack in his armour of implacable calm, some place where she could thrust the blade of her anger, but she couldn’t find one.

  ‘By your actions and after seeing those little birds escaping into the undergrowth, I have no doubt that you have spoiled the shoot.’

  ‘So I did, which isn’t such a bad thing.’

  Her lips thinned into a grim line and she scowled. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because those pheasants are second-clutch birds. Visibly immature and too young to be shot,’ he informed her, sitting on the ground and propping his back against a tree, his long booted legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. ‘It’s very unsporting of anyone to do so.’

  ‘I wouldn’t know. There really is so very much I have to learn about living in the country. What are you doing here?’ she demanded, not in the least mollified. ‘Did my grandmother invite you to Grafton?’

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘She has invited some people up from London for a few days’ shooting and I thought you must be one of them. Do you know this area well?’

  ‘I should. I live not far away. We are neighbours. Considering the close ties of our families, does it not seem ridiculous that we should hold ourselves in reserve?’

  ‘Far be it from me to presume upon your forbearance,’ Marietta quipped. ‘Whether or not you adhere to a strict code of gentlemanly conduct is entirely down to your own discretion.’

  Marietta’s expression remained wary and antagonistic. He wanted to shake the stubbornness out of her. ‘I can see I’m going to have my work cut out softening your attitude towards me, Marietta.’

  For a young girl whose looks had once been so inspiring, Marietta Westwood was now no less than a rare gem. The lovely slender nose, the elegant cheekbones touched with a rosy hue, and the delicate mouth and winsome face in its entirety were admirable enough to stir the heart of many of his gender, but it was her large, silkil
y lashed, olive-green eyes, slanting ever so slightly upwards, that revived images of the girl she had been in Hong Kong.

  As much as his heart rallied in admiration at what he saw, conversely his self-esteem suffered from the barbs of his erroneous judgement of the past, for it was a simple fact that Marietta was a strikingly beautiful young woman.

  ‘When I first saw you when you stepped out on to the terrace with your grandmother, I thought your appearance had changed by such an astonishing degree that I was left in awe. I suppose I was still thinking of you as the girl I had met in Hong Kong, but that is definitely no longer the case.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘I never imagined you would turn into such a beautiful young woman.’

  Marietta bristled in the face of his unexpected compliments. ‘Then why were you so angry with me?’

  ‘Because I was disappointed to find that, beneath all that sophisticated beauty, the girl who didn’t blink an eye at dressing up as a Chinese woman and visiting an opium den in the seediest quarter of Hong Kong was still lurking in the young woman who pushed Lady Murray into the fountain.’

  The vague smile that touched Marietta’s lips was the best she could manage with any semblance of calm. It didn’t help that moments earlier she had been forced to construct a cool reserve from the ashes of a resentment she had struggled to maintain since their parting on Hong Kong. Even after feeling as if this man had torn out her heart at that time, it was all she could do to carry on her stilted aloofness.

  ‘Please don’t feel you have to apologise,’ she said stiffly.

  Max arched a sleek black brow, one corner of his finely chiselled mouth quirking into something that looked suspiciously like a grin to Marietta. ‘I’m not. You deserved to be chastised.’

  ‘You’re right. I did not like what Lady Murray said about my maid, but it did not merit being shoved into the fountain. If it makes you feel any better, I will tell you that my grandmother reproached me most severely. When I arrived in England, she worked hard to teach me how to show proper respect for others. I’ve since thought of the humiliation and the anguish my actions must have caused Lady Murray and have lamented it time and again. It all seems so petty now. What I did doesn’t seem so clever any more. If we should meet in the future, I shall certainly apologise for my inappropriate behaviour and I can only look forward with the hope that I will be forgiven for the trouble I caused.’