She’d looked into his eyes, a tender smile on her face, and said, “I want to give you a son. I want to leave you this gift.”
“I’d rather have you!”
She’d stepped into his arms, and they’d closed around her, as though he could keep her safe by holding her tight. He’d wanted Fanny a thousand times more than he’d wanted an heir. He’d told her his younger brother’s boys could inherit for all he cared.
One of them still might. Fanny had died along with their son, who’d been stillborn.
Blackthorne realized he hadn’t seen his nephews for some time, but he trusted the arrangements his wife had made for their care. He’d confirmed with his solicitor that they were being well taken care of at Tearlach Castle, where they had room to run and play in fresh country air.
His conscience niggled at him over the fact that he hadn’t visited them, or had them visit him, for more than two years. He’d assuaged it with the knowledge that he’d had two very good reasons—first, Fanny’s illness, and then, working night and day to keep the estate afloat in a sea of debt—for abdicating their care and supervision to a governess.
Unfortunately, nothing he’d done had brought him back to solvency. Marriage to a wealthy woman was his only option. And since he had no intention of loving his mail-order bride—some American trading her money for the title of duchess—he’d been putting off the necessary nuptials.
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right, Phipps. I’ll speak to the girl. How old is she? Who is she?”
“She’s eighteen, Your Grace.”
Blackthorne wasn’t that much older than Miss Wentworth, only twenty-seven, but he would rather have married someone who’d lived in the world awhile. Who knew what fantasies of life as a duchess the girl had concocted?
Phipps ignored his groan and continued, “She’s an orphan, so there will be no parental interference.”
Blackthorne made a dismissive sound in his throat. One less hurdle to leap. “And her fortune?”
“More than enough to meet your needs.”
He hadn’t allowed himself to think about his bride’s looks. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. He’d been more concerned about temperament. About kindness. About having someone he could abide interacting with for the rest of his life.
When he’d been married to Fanny, there had been no question of seeking physical pleasure with another woman. But he wasn’t sure what to expect with a bride who was marrying him merely to become a duchess. He would need to consummate the marriage, of course. But he had no idea whether the woman would want to continue marital relations.
He’d wanted children with Fanny. He wasn’t so sure how he felt about having children with a wife who’d been forced upon him. There was also the issue of whether she wanted to have children with him. They would have to work through those issues over a lifetime together.
He had the choice, of course, of letting Blackthorne Abbey fall into ruin. Of having all his estates sold off to the highest bidder. Of having the dukedom become a shell that consisted of a title, the entailed, crumbled-down Abbey, and little else.
Blackthorne sighed. He’d gone over his options in his head endlessly without ever coming to any good answer for what was best. He was willing to try marriage to a stranger and attempt to make the relationship work. That seemed the lesser of two evils.
But he wasn’t hopeful. He wasn’t optimistic.
His opinion was likely colored by the candidates he’d interviewed so far. He’d been surprised by how many young—and much older—women had responded to his advertisement in the American papers, especially since he’d required them to come to him, rather than going to America himself.
He hadn’t set limitations on who might apply, which meant he’d seen a great many women who were unsuitable for one reason or another. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, dreading the coming meeting. He might as well get it over with.
“Tell her I’ll see her at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“She’s here right now, Your Grace, waiting for you in the Garden Room.”
Blackthorne could hear the hounds baying again. He looked for some way to delay the interview, but he was already dressed for company in a plain black frock coat and trousers, a white shirt, a gold brocade vest, and a four-in-hand tie. On the other hand, his black hair needed a cut, and although his valet had shaved him that morning, when he rubbed a hand across his chin, he felt the beginning of whiskers. On the other, other hand, spending time on his appearance would only delay the inevitable. If the girl was already here, there was no sense keeping her waiting.
The Garden Room had been Fanny’s idea. She’d added windows to the backyard-facing wall and put in a garden that brought the outdoors inside. He’d done his part by making sure there were always bouquets of fresh-cut hothouse flowers for her to enjoy as well.
The garden behind the house had been left fallow since Fanny’s death, and he’d never bought another flower. The Garden Room seemed empty without the profusion of colors and scents—and without his wife. He’d met every candidate there, because it allowed him to compare their behavior with his memories of Fanny in the same space.
“Wait for me here,” he said, then added cynically, “I won’t be long.”
Phipps raised a judgmental brow, probably because he realized that Blackthorne had every intention of dismissing this woman as quickly as he had all the others. “Very well, Your Grace.”
Blackthorne marched down the hall of his mansion on Berkeley Square and nodded curtly to the footman standing by the door to the Garden Room. The servant opened the door and the duke entered, stopping just inside to wait for the door to be closed, before he moved farther into the room.
The woman had her back to him. She was staring out the tall windows at the street below, and even though she must have heard the door open, she hadn’t turned around.
He observed a fetching feminine silhouette and the most beautiful golden curls he’d ever seen, spilling down her back. He waited with bated breath for her to turn around. Would the face match the form?
“There’s an altercation on the street,” she said, ignoring him and taking another step toward the windows.
Right away, her behavior was different. He crossed the room in several long strides and looked to see where she was pointing. In the street below, a carter’s horse had fallen to its knees. The carter was whipping the animal in an effort to get it back onto its feet.
“We have to help!” she cried.
Before he could speak, she grabbed his hand and headed for the door. Her gloved hand was small and engulfed by his. She gave a slight tug but seemed confident that he’d follow her. He still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, just the hint of a strong chin and an upturned nose—with a pair of spectacles perched upon it.
She didn’t wait for him to open the door, just pulled it open herself and headed out past the startled footman, who stared goggle-eyed at the duke being led like a naughty boy toward the front door of the house.
The butler had more warning than the footman, and the front door was open when they arrived. The girl led him through it and down the steps to the street. He’d gotten a glimpse of startling blue eyes—the same color as her dress—when she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was still following, even though she had hold of his hand.
She had the face of an urchin, with freckles dotting a peaches and cream complexion and lips the color of berries. But the formfitting bodice and tiny waist of the fashionable gown revealed an appealing, womanly figure. It seemed her only flaw was a bit of nearsightedness. The wire-rimmed spectacles did little to hide a pair of enchanting blue eyes.
Blackthorne wasn’t sure whether he was more astonished or amused by the girl’s precipitous behavior. She seemed to have no idea of proper protocol in the presence of royalty, but he found it refreshing that she didn’t seem awed by his title.
She released his hand when they reached the carter, who was still whipping the horse.
The carter looked startled to hear a female voice admonish him, but his jaw dropped when he turned and saw what was obviously a lady standing with her hands on her hips in front of him. “This is my horse. I’ll whip him if I please.”
“If you insist, I’ll buy him from you,” the girl said.
Blackthorne could see where this was headed. The carter would ask an outrageous price for the animal, and the girl would pay it. She obviously had a soft heart, but he wondered about her common sense.
“He’s a good horse,” the carter said.
“He’s underfed and overworked,” the girl responded pertly. “I’ll give you ten guineas.”
The carter snorted. “He’s worth fifteen.”
“He’s on his knees,” the girl replied. “If you can’t get him up, he’ll be worth a lot less than ten to the butcher.”
The duke felt a twinge of admiration as he watched her haggle. She might be too softhearted, but at least she wasn’t a dupe.
The carter pursed his lips and eyed the broken-down horse. Then he held out his hand. “Ten guineas, milady, and he’s yours.”
The girl froze and then turned to stare up at him. “I don’t have a farthing with me. Would you? Could you please pay the man?”
Blackthorne smiled at her audacity. Then he reached into his coat pocket for a leather purse and dropped ten guineas into her white-gloved palm. She smiled up at him, and his heart jumped.
Then she turned and laid the coins in the carter’s hand. Before his fist had closed, she’d crossed to the horse and was on her knees beside its head, petting its neck, and crooning to it. A moment later, she’d coaxed the animal to its feet.
“Would you mind unharnessing him?” she said to the duke.
Blackthorne was amused again. Did she think dukes went around harnessing and unharnessing vegetable wagons? Apparently, she did, because she turned her attention back to the spavined horse, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for the Duke of Blackthorne to be unharnessing a carter’s broken-down nag.
Outwardly, his visage was stern, daring anyone in the street to remark on the outlandish situation in which he found himself. But inside he was chuckling. Inside he was grinning from ear to ear.
WHILE SHE’D BEEN focused on saving the carter’s horse, Josie had been able to ignore the duke’s overpowering maleness.
Once the two of them were back in the Garden Room, the horse having been temporarily dispensed to the duke’s stable, she was suddenly very much aware of Marcus Wharton’s height. Tall. The breadth of his shoulders. Massive. The cut of his jaw. Rock-solid. And the force of his gaze. Blue steel.
She felt very much like the youngest and most bookish of the Wentworth girls and very little like a worldly, wealthy heiress, intent on getting what she wanted from a man who might very well be unwilling to give it up. She pushed her glasses up over the slight bump in her nose with a gloved forefinger. What on earth had possessed her to drag the Duke of Blackthorne out onto the street? She’d come here to negotiate a business deal and had succumbed to a combination of nerves at the prospect of facing the man and compassion for the horse.
The duke was the one dabbing sweat from his forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief, but Josie was having trouble catching her breath, as though she were the one who’d unharnessed the nag, rather than the duke.
She was here to convince Blackthorne to put his nephews in her care in exchange for her fortune. She believed him to be uncaring enough of their welfare to be glad of her offer.
At first, she’d been anxious that he might recognize her, but she bore little resemblance to the battered creature he’d rescued. She’d considered using a false name when she met with him, but the Pinkerton had discovered from Blackthorne’s solicitor that he’d had no previous dealings—none at all—with anyone named Josephine Wentworth. He really had forgotten all about her!
Josie had been incensed all over again at the thought that, instead of spending the money to send her home, the duke had dumped her at one of his faraway holdings and completely wiped her from his mind—along with his nephews.
The fact that he’d helped her rescue the broken-down horse suggested he wasn’t completely heartless. Maybe she’d misjudged him. Maybe there was some other reason he’d ignored the two boys. Maybe it would be sufficient to bring his nephews’ plight to his attention.
The impudence of her original plan—to buy the boys with her inheritance and take them back with her to America—suddenly struck her, making her breathing even more labored. Alone in this barren room with the duke, she felt like a helpless lamb who’d come face-to-face with a ravenous wolf. She wondered if the feeling of being trapped had anything to do with the fact that Blackthorne stood between her and the door.
A picture of Spencer and Clay appeared in her mind’s eye with welts on their calves and palms, the result of Mrs. Pettibone’s war against the governess. That pitiful image gave her the strength to lift her chin and ball her gloved hands into tight fists in the folds of her skirt.
She was about to speak when the duke said, “I understand you’re here to apply for the position of duchess.”
His low, rumbling voice reminded her of those painful days on the ship, when he’d coaxed her to hang on to life. But that was another lifetime ago. Josie took a breath to contradict him, but he’d already continued speaking.
“I think you’re exactly what I’ve been seeking. My solicitor will explain the terms of our agreement. It will be up to you whether we continue marital relations once the union has been consummated.”
Josie was flustered by such plain speaking. Her clenched fists unfurled and rose to cover her cheeks, as she sought to hide her blush. But she was appalled by the duke’s assumption that any woman would agree to marry him because of who he was, without even the courtesy of a proposal.
She lowered her hands, which quickly curled back into tight knots behind her skirt. “Do you plan to propose? Or have you assumed I’ll accept, even before you’ve made your offer?”
The duke looked taken aback. “I presumed—”
“Yes, you did, Your Grace,” she interrupted. “I never said I was here to apply for the position of duchess.”
“You didn’t?” His brows lowered. “You aren’t?”
Josie hadn’t expected the duke to be interested in her as a prospective bride, so she hadn’t considered becoming the Duchess of Blackthorne as a possible means of taking the boys under her wing. But why not?
Because he’s a thoughtless, unkind human being, who’s ignored his nephews for the past two years.
He saved the carter’s horse.
You saved the carter’s horse. He came along because you gave him no choice.
He saved you.
Well, yes, that’s true. But he broke his promise to send me home. He made me an utter slave at one of his estates and forgot I was alive.
So here’s your chance to repay the man for his perfidy. You could show him how it feels when someone makes a promise—for instance, to love, honor, and obey—and then breaks it. You could marry him, and then, when he least expects it, abandon him the way he abandoned you.
Josie turned her back on the duke and stared out the window at a garden that seemed as untended as the duke’s nephews, giving her the chance to think without being distracted by Blackthorne’s steady, penetrating gaze.
It suddenly occurred to her that, if she married the duke, she would become Spencer and Clay’s aunt. She would be able to bring them to live in the duke’s home, where they belonged. Eventually, if the duke cared as little as she believed about the boys—and a wife he’d married merely for her money—she would be able to take them home with her to America.
If you marry the duke, you’ll have to lie with him. He’ll see your back. He’ll know at once—or at least suspect—who you are.
All the better. He should know from the start how I feel about him—when it’s too late to do any
thing about it. He’ll be stuck for the rest of his life with a wife who despises him.
But you’ll be stuck with him, too! The duke will never divorce you. Even if you return to America, you’ll always be tied to him.
Josie pursed her lips at the dilemma she faced. To save the boys, she was considering marriage to a man she didn’t like or admire, let alone love. On the other hand, she’d never planned to marry, because of her disfigurement. Her back was a dreadful thing to see, something no man would ever want to touch. So it wasn’t as though by marrying Blackthorne, she’d be giving up a chance of finding her one true love someday.
Besides, if their marriage was like most Society marriages in England, she and her husband would see very little of each other. And, the icing on the cake, she would have the experience, at least once in her life, of knowing what it was like to be a woman in a man’s arms. If the duke was virile, perhaps she would even conceive during that single encounter. Because she’d never intended to marry, Josie had never let herself imagine having children of her own, but that possibility had considerable appeal.
Blackthorne had foolishly agreed to leave the issue of “marital relations” up to her, so she would be the one deciding whether or not they repeated whatever happened between them on their wedding night.
So why not marry him?
Josie turned back around and discovered that, in the interim, a suspicious frown had been carved on the duke’s chiseled face. She realized she needed to distract him from asking why she’d come here, if not to become his bride. She didn’t want to give him any inkling that he was being cleverly manipulated into this marriage, so that she could both have her revenge against him and rescue his nephews.
“I came here to see for myself whether marriage to you would suit me,” she said.
The frown disappeared, and a smile teased at his lips. “What have you decided?”
“I’m willing to listen to your proposal, Your Grace.”
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