Chapter Twenty-Three
The breeze was a perfect benevolence, the air scented with scythed clover and sea salt, and the only sound was the St. David pennant luffing gently a dozen yards away.
Elizabeth tied the string of the kite around one of the cannon at the corner of the parapets and took the bench where Haverford had embraced her so tenderly days ago.
“Are you saying good-bye?” Haverford stood by the carved door below her, holding two books.
“I am revisiting lovely memories. How did your meeting with Sherbourne go?”
Haverford came up the steps. “Sherbourne isn’t an ogre, and he’s developed a passion for lending libraries.”
Great upheaval could unhinge even the stoutest minds. “Sit with me, and tell me what happened.”
Haverford didn’t sit. He stood beside the bench, gaze on the verdure stretching out from the castle in all directions. He set the books on the dip in the crenellations, one thin volume, one very thick.
“May I show you something, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth had seen the coachmen and grooms readying the vehicles by the carriage house, despite it being the Sabbath. Flocks grazed in their pastures, the occasional sea gull wheeled overhead.
“You could not show me anything lovelier than this view, Haverford. You really are quite right to defend your heritage.”
“Stop that. Next you’ll be regretting that you knocked sense into Sherbourne. He’s building a mine.”
The kite swooped by, a red dragon on a green and white field, reminiscent of the flag that had flown over the king’s victory at Bosworth.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, rising and slipping her arms around the duke. “You fought long and well, and I’m sorry.”
He held her, his chin propped on her crown. “Sherbourne will be sorry soon. I made him agree to a list of conditions as long as my pedigree. No children working below the mine’s surface, no women, half days on Saturday and Sundays free. I could have asked him to return the dower house and he would have agreed, he was so surprised to find a reasonable human being where an intransigent title had always stood.”
“You’re not intransigent.” Though Julian was stubborn. Witness, his devotion to a lot of damned books nobody would ever read.
“Look there,” he said, turning Elizabeth and pointing toward the sea. “Sherbourne thinks to develop a colliery over the lip of that hill. We won’t even be able to see it, and he’s assured me no ironworks will be built. I honestly think he’s happy.”
Elizabeth turned back into Julian’s embrace. “Good for him, I suppose, but what of you? What of the debts and loans?”
The dragon swooped by again, then darted up into the sky and hung suspended at the end of its twine.
“Have I told you that I love you, Elizabeth?”
How would she ever, ever leave him? “Julian, you needn’t—”
“I love you,” he said, “and I respect my family’s legacy, but I do not love those books, at least not most of them. I’m speaking to Andover about having an auction, and selling the curiosities, duplicates, and more fragile antiques. You are absolutely correct that books that just sit on the shelf are like unloved children. Glenys and Griffin are both well situated. It’s time I found new homes for some of those books.”
Julian spoke calmly, and yet, Elizabeth could feel the tension in him, the worry. His heart beat steadily beneath her cheek, and he hadn’t asked her permission to sell the books, but her reply would matter to him.
“Of all your many virtues,” she said, “your kindness, conscientiousness, graciousness, loyalty to your siblings and staff, your passion”—she kissed him—“I most admire your courage. Courage to hold fast against terrible odds, courage to let go. Courage to protect good traditions, courage to change the ones that no longer serve a purpose. Sell all of the books, Julian, and I will only love you more.”
He sighed and the embrace became closer. They stood thus, wrapped in each other’s arms, the sun beaming down, the dragon sailing above, until Julian stepped back and took Elizabeth’s hand.
“Sherbourne has promised to purchase from me an inventory sufficient to stock a group of lending libraries. He’ll be grateful for your direction regarding how those institutions should be established and maintained.”
Elizabeth sank to the bench. “Sherbourne is funding lending libraries? Lucas Sherbourne?”
“A dozen or so, though you’ll have to guide him in the particulars.”
A penniless duke had somehow arranged for the creation of a dozen lending libraries, which would be abundantly stocked from the shelves of one of the finest collections in the realm.
“This is a very devious plan, Haverford. I like it.”
He came down beside her. “Thought you might. You never did choose a book from my library, Elizabeth, so I also took the liberty of choosing a pair of books for you.”
A parting gift? Elizabeth’s emotions were a muddle—she didn’t want any blasted lending libraries if she couldn’t have the duke who’d made them possible—but truly, Julian had managed the impossible.
“You need not give me anything more,” she said. “I have memories, a beloved friend in you, and I’m hopeful that in time, given your rapprochement with Mr. Sherbourne, that our friendship might grow into something—”
He kissed her. “I love you, without limit or condition, but this polite balderdash doesn’t become you half so much as hurling thunderbolts and righting the wrongs of the shire. This is my general ledger.” He passed her the slim volume.
“I’ve seen it before.”
“I usually keep it hidden under lock and key, but I want you to understand my situation, Elizabeth. I’m not wealthy, though I’ll manage well enough. These debts are a large part of who I am.”
“I don’t care an acorn’s worth about your debts, Julian.” She cared very much that forty-two coaches were lined up on the drive, that the Windham coaches were near the head of the queue.
“This is my family Bible—in Welsh, of course,” he said, passing over the more substantial volume. “I would like to add your name to the succession of duchesses gracing the front pages. Will you marry me, Elizabeth? Will you live with me and put my castle to rights? Climb the occasional oak with me, and wander up Tudor Hill? Read to our children, call on Biddy and Griffin, drop in on Radnor, and possibly even tolerate Sherbourne at our table on occasion?”
He slid to one knee before her. “I want the good times and the difficult, the challenges and the triumphs. I have no plan for the rest of my life other than to love you, to be loved by you, and to face life together, come what may.”
The Bible was a comforting weight in Elizabeth’s lap, anchoring her to the bench when her spirits were flying aloft to cavort with the dragon. She put her arms around her duke, and drew him very close.
“Yes,” she whispered in his ear. “Yes, I will be your wife, your duchess, your dragoness, and your love. Yes.”
They remained on the parapets for much of the afternoon, laughing, loving, and hatching an occasional plan—Charlotte and Sherbourne had seemed to notice one another, after all—while above them, the dragon danced in the sunshine.
Epilogue
The wedding was small, St. George’s being a modest edifice capable of holding little more than two hundred people.
Those who didn’t attend the Duke of Haverford’s nuptials consoled themselves by attending the Duchess of Haverford’s library auction. The weather was lovely, Christie’s was thronged, and everybody—everybody from royal princesses to academics to society couples looking to enhance their book collections—came to bid.
“One can hardly credit that my darling niece has organized this entire gathering,” the Duke of Moreland observed.
Amid polite applause, the auctioneer knocked down an Elizabethan Bible to Lucas Sherbourne, who’d managed to bid enthusiastically but not aggressively.
“Your Grace forgets,” Haverford replied. “My duchess has had the benefit of g
uidance from your duchess.”
“Just so, and whomsoever Her Grace of Moreland guides is bound for success. When did cloth of gold become suitable for the masculine daytime wardrobe?”
Moreland referred to Sherbourne’s waistcoat. “Mr. Sherbourne has thrown himself into Elizabeth’s lending library scheme with every appearance of good faith. Perhaps his waistcoat will attract others to the same cause.”
Or blind them. Charlotte Windham, however, seemed determined to pretend her program fascinated her whenever Sherbourne chanced to look her way.
“His waistcoat could guide ships through dense fog,” Moreland said. “Somebody should warn your friend Sherbourne that Her Grace of Quimbey will not accept defeat quietly.”
Sherbourne had outbid the duchess on a Shakespeare quarto not thirty minutes ago.
Across the room, Elizabeth was whispering in her aunt’s ear. Her Grace of Moreland had ensconced herself beside the Duke of Wellington, and among the bidders were more titles, nabobs, learned professors, and old fortunes than Haverford had ever seen assembled under one roof.
“There is no defeat here today, Moreland,” Haverford said, as Hugh St. David and Radnor began brisk bidding for a second Welsh Bible. “There is only great enthusiasm for great literature. I’m finally coming to understand why my duchess is so passionate about her libraries.”
“She’s a Windham,” Moreland scoffed. “Of course she’s passionate.”
Haverford allowed the older man his pride, in part because Moreland was right. Elizabeth had thrown herself into the management of Haverford Castle. She’d sorted the library collection into a family book treasury, lending library stock, and tomes intended for the auction, and the latter group was larger than the other two put together.
Elizabeth disentangled herself from her aunt and took the place at Haverford’s side. “Uncle, you should bid on something.”
Moreland set down his glass of punch. “Why don’t I give that Sherbourne fellow a run for his money?”
“He has rather a lot of money,” Elizabeth said. “I’d appreciate it if you chose one of the smaller items, something more pretty than valuable.”
“A gift for a lady, perhaps?”
When Moreland smiled, he was the embodiment of familial benevolence. Sherbourne was about to lose a tidy sum, and that prospect always cheered Julian.
“Exactly,” Elizabeth said, patting her uncle’s arm. Moreland marched off, taking the seat beside Her Grace of Quimbey.
“Sherbourne’s doomed,” Haverford said. “Lovely thought. Hugh and Delphine seem besotted, and Radnor and Glenys are bidding on all the romantic poetry.” Hugh and Delphine sat nearly in each other’s laps, and Radnor and Glenys had exchanged a half-dozen kisses blown across the auction hall.
Romantic devotion apparently inspired the ardor of bibliophiles, for the bidding had galloped along all afternoon.
Elizabeth wound her arm through Haverford’s. She did this—touched him frequently and affectionately in public—and the pleasure of that, the soul-deep joy of being openly acknowledged as her spouse—had repaired something in Haverford’s heart he still couldn’t find words for.
“There’s hope for Mr. Sherbourne,” she said. “His democratic inclinations seem to be rooted in genuine respect for the common man.”
To blazes with Sherbourne. Haverford leaned closer to his wife. “How are you, Elizabeth?”
“I’ll be ready for a nap when this is over. One worried.”
One should not have. The bidding was enthusiastic and the gathering impressive. “I am ever prepared to join my duchess for a nap. Her health and happiness are my greatest concern.”
And what a pleasure that was, to have sorted endless responsibilities and duties into a hierarchy that brought meaning and joy to Haverford’s days—and nights. As long as Elizabeth was happy and happy with him, the rest of his ducal tasks and obligations were manageable.
The best plans were, indeed, the simplest, and guided always by love.
Thus far, Elizabeth had seemed very pleased to be his duchess. She’d taken on the challenge of running the castle, dragged her duke about on social calls, found a governess for Charity who could also tutor Griffin in English, and supervised Sherbourne’s lending libraries charity.
“Haverford, Uncle Percy is starting a bidding war.”
Starting wars was probably Uncle Percy’s idea of a hobby, for Moreland provoked two more bidding wars before the afternoon was gone. Haverford could not keep a tally of the sums earned, but he never lost sight of his wife. She was gracious, lovely, good-natured, and brilliant at managing a crowd.
No other duke could possibly be as happy as Haverford, for no other duke had Elizabeth for his duchess.
“Come with me,” he said, taking Elizabeth by the hand when the last of the items—a first edition of Mr. Burns’s poems—had been knocked down.
“Where are we going?”
“To bed, madam.”
“One does delight in your sense of ducal command, Haverford, but our guests—”
“Will be more than adequately congratulated and thanked by your family. Your auction was a triumph, Your Grace, and now you will rest.”
He led her not to the street, but to the mews, where his town coach stood waiting.
“Haverford, you will please tell John Coachman to take the long way home.”
“My dear, we’re three streets over from the townhouse.” He didn’t need to finish the thought: Marital bliss in a moving coach was all well and good—had been well and good on several occasions—but a ducal bed had its charms as well.
“Very well,” Elizabeth said, climbing into the coach. “I bow to your greater sense of comfort, if not your greater restraint.”
This time. She’d accost him tomorrow when he was at his ledgers or practicing his guitar. Elizabeth excelled at the art of the conjugal ambush.
“I heard Andover trying to talk you into making this auction an annual event,” Haverford said, when he and Elizabeth were settled on the forward-facing seat.
“One cannot think that far ahead,” Elizabeth replied, yawning. “Today was successful in significant part because Her Grace of Moreland lent her cachet.”
“And because you knew exactly which offerings would draw the book lovers into the bright light of day, coin purses clutched in their shy little fists.”
Elizabeth’s hand was clutched in Haverford’s not-so-little fist. Holding hands had already become a habit, as had kissing each other in greating and parting.
“Her Grace of Moreland has lent her cachet in another direction,” Elizabeth said.
Fatigue was stealing over Haverford now that he was private with his duchess. He’d been worrying about her for weeks in anticipation of this auction, while she’d been worrying about every detail of the undertaking.
“She’s a Windham,” he said. “Her Grace will find mischief to get up to, but because she’s a duchess, we’ll call it lending her cachet.”
Elizabeth kissed him. “You are such a quick study, but I think you’ll approve of Aunt’s latest project. I saw her introducing Mr. Sherbourne to no less than a viscount, an earl, and a dowager duchess.”
Sherbourne? “He’s Her Grace’s next project?”
“One can’t be certain. He was looking a bit dazed, though bearing up under the strain.”
“One does, when Her Grace of Moreland is fixed on an objective.” And Elizabeth would be just like her aunt, if Haverford were lucky.
“Elizabeth?”
“Hmm?” She already sounded sleepy.
“Thank you. For everything.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you too, Julian. I am the happiest duchess in the realm.”
Haverford devoted the ensuing weeks, months, years, and decades to ensuring she remained ever thus. The task was made easy by the fact that Elizabeth was determined on a reciprocal challenge, and thus Their Graces of Haverford eventually became known by their affectionate friends, family, and even neighbors, as the Du
ke and Duchess of Happiness.
Keep reading for a peek at Charlotte’s story in
A ROGUE OF HER OWN
Available Spring 2018
Chapter One
“Heed me, Miss Charlotte, for you won’t be getting other offers, no matter that your uncle is a duke. I am a viscount, and you shall like being my viscountess very well.”
Charlotte Windham had no choice but to heed Viscount Neederby, for he was nearly dragging her along Lady Belchamp’s wilderness walk by the arm.
“My lord, while I am ever receptive to knowledgeable guidance, this is not the time or the place to make a declaration.” Never and nowhere suited Charlotte when it came to proposals from such as Neederby.
He marched onward nonetheless, walking and pontificating at the same time being one of his few accomplishments.
“I must beg to differ, my dear, for receptive to guidance you most assuredly are not. Married to me, your sadly headstrong propensities would be a thing of the past. It will be my duty and pleasure as your devoted spouse to instruct you in all matters.”
He sent her a look, one intended to convey tender indulgence or a disturbance of the bowels. Charlotte wasn’t sure which.
“Might we circle back toward the buffet, your lordship? All this hiking about has left me with an appetite.”
Neederby finally came to a halt, though he’d chosen a spot overlooking the Thames. What imbecile had decided that scenic views were a mandatory improvement on Nature as the Almighty had designed her?
“Were you being arch, Miss Charlotte? I believe you were. I have appetites too, dontcha know.”
Neederby fancied himself a Corinthian. Hostesses added him to guest lists because he had a title, and had yet to lose either his hair or his teeth in any quantity. In Charlotte’s estimation, his brains had gone missing entirely.
“I haven’t an arch bone in my body, your lordship. I am, however, hungry.” The occasion was a Venetian breakfast, and Charlotte had intended to do justice to the lavish buffet.
No Other Duke Will Do (Windham Brides) Page 30