A Most Suitable Duchess

by Patricia Bray

  “I recognize the hand,” she said slowly. The elegant swirls of old-fashioned copperplate had become familiar to her in these last months.

  “Then you did write it,” the duke said.

  She shook her head. “I did not say that. I said I recognized the hand. I am afraid that I have been the victim of a cruel hoax.”

  She folded the letter carefully and then slipped it into her reticule.

  The duke’s eyes searched her face, and then he smiled in rueful sympathy. “Pray accept my sympathies. I know all too well what it is to be the victim of a jest,” he said.

  “Thank you. And now, I think it best if I take my leave.”

  “Perhaps one day we may meet again, in more pleasant circumstances.”

  “We can hardly meet in worse,” she said.

  This won her another smile, and the duke held the door for her as she left.

  She returned to the foyer, where she found her maid busy gossiping with the clerks. Catching sight of her mistress, Mary hastily cut her conversation short, and came over to help Penelope don her cloak.

  “Shall I have one of my clerks summon a hackney?” Mary asked.

  “No, I think we will walk for a bit,” Penelope said. “I would like to stop at Hedges’ to see if the new novels have arrived.”

  And the walk would give her time to gather her thoughts. Should she tell her brother what had happened? Even if she showed him the letter, would he believe her? Or would he find some way to blame this on her? There was no denying that the letter was a malicious act. But if she confronted Miss Carstairs, the scheming minx was sure to deny everything. And she had a sinking feeling that if she forced her brother to choose between them, his infatuation would lead him to believe Miss Carstairs over his own sister.

  In the end, Penelope decided she would say nothing of the hoax to her brother. It would serve no purpose, save to drive a wedge between them. However, the next time she saw her brother’s intended, she would let Miss Carstairs know that her deceit had been discovered. It was possible that the letter had been written in a momentary fit of pique. Surely Miss Carstairs must regret her rash action, and once she realized that Penelope had discovered her plan, perhaps that would be enough to dissuade her from attempting any other such tricks.

  For her own part, Penelope resolved to treat Miss Carstairs with all civility. She would give the young woman no chance to complain of her treatment at Penelope’s hands.

  Her good resolution turned out for naught, for two days after her encounter with the duke she returned from an afternoon lecture to find her brother pacing the hall. His cravat was half undone, and his face was flushed.

  “James, is something wrong?” Penelope asked, as she handed her cloak to the footman.

  James shot her a venomous glare. “How can you ask that? Did you think I would not hear of your scandalous behavior? How much longer were you planning on waiting before you told me?”

  His angry tirade confused her. “I do not know what has you in an uproar. I am certain it must be a simple misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?” His voice cracked. “It is a nightmare!”

  From the corner of her eye she saw the footman Robin, still clutching the coat, hanging on every word.

  “This is hardly the place for such a discussion,” she said. “Come now, and we will talk in private.”

  She led the way to her sitting room, and after a moment heard James’s footsteps behind her. He slammed the door behind them.

  “It is a little late for discretion, since news of your escapade is in all the papers. If the servants haven’t heard of it by now, they will have by this evening.”

  A sudden horrible suspicion crossed her mind. “Just what is it that you think I have done?”

  It couldn’t be, she told herself. And yet his next words proved her worst fears had come true.

  “When I went to the club today, I found myself the subject of sly congratulations. Imagine my surprise when I learned that my sister was to become a duchess.”

  “James, I can explain—” she began.

  “No,” he said, raising his right hand to cut off her words. “The gossip pages reported this morning that a certain Miss Penelope H—of Edinburgh had taken her love of rationalism to a new height by applying for the position of Duchess of Torringford. The notorious duke, after meeting the woman in question, was pleased to accept her proposal.”

  “Good heavens.” She sank down on the sofa. This was worse than she had imagined. “But how could this have happened?”

  “You were recognized leaving the solicitor’s office.” James leaned up against the mantel, resting one arm against it. “Did you even once think of how this would look? What this would do to our family’s reputation?”

  “I am not to blame,” Penelope said. “I did not write to the duke.”

  “But you did meet with him, did you not?”

  “Yes, but it was a mistake. He had received a letter with my name on it.”

  “And you expect me to believe this tale? Why would someone forge a letter with your name? Why would you agree to meet with the duke, if not to discuss his absurd search for a wife?”

  “I thought he wished to become a patron of the Astronomical Society. Once I realized my mistake, I took my leave,” Penelope said. “As for the letter, you will have to ask Miss Carstairs why she penned the missive and signed my name.”

  Her brother’s eyes narrowed. “Is it not enough that you blacken our name? Now you must drag an innocent into this as well?”

  “I can show you the letter. You will have to agree it is not my hand,” Penelope said.

  James shook his head. “No doubt you had one of your bluestocking friends write it out, in an attempt to shift blame.”

  “How can you believe me capable of such deceit?”

  “How can I not?” he retorted. “If all was innocent, why did you not tell me at once? Why not the day you met the duke? Why must I find this out through scurrilous gossip?”

  She wished fiercely that she could turn back the hands of the clock. If only she hadn’t agreed to meet the solicitor. If she had only known that the Duke of Torringford was Mr. McGregor’s client. If she had only spoken to her brother that day.

  If only. But there was no changing the past. Now they must face the future.

  “I met the duke, as I told you, and I explained the mistake. We parted cordially, but there was no mention of marriage. The newspaper reports are wrong. The scandal is unfortunate, but in a few weeks, after the duke has chosen his bride, this episode will be forgotten.”

  “No,” James said. “If you lived a blameless life for the next hundred years, you would still not be able to live down the scandal. Bad enough that society thinks you proposed to the duke. How will it look when he refuses your offer and marries another?”

  She hadn’t thought of that.

  James kept on speaking. “You have two choices. You will marry this duke, and the two of you can attempt to restore your tarnished honor. Or, if you choose to remain single, you will retire to the cottage Great Aunt Ivers left you in Selvay Firth.”

  “Selvay Firth? You can not be serious.” Selvay Firth was a small coastal village a hundred miles north of Edinburgh. It was a mere pinprick on the map, a speck too insignificant for anything of note to have happened there. Penelope had been there once, when her mother had taken her to visit her ailing aunt. She had no wish to return.

  “And if I refuse?” she asked.

  “You have no choice,” James said, pushing himself away from the mantel and drawing himself up stiffly. “Until your marriage, I control your inheritance. I will not allow you to remain in Edinburgh, a living reminder of the disgrace you have brought upon us. Marriage or banishment to the country. It is your decision.”

  She looked in his face for some sign of kindness or affection, but there was only scorn in his eyes and the tight set of his mouth. With the mask of civility stripped away, she knew at this moment that her brother hated h
er, although she was at a loss to explain why.

  Her own anger rose hot and sudden. “I thank you for the benefit of your wisdom, dear brother,” she said. “I will take a few days to consider my position.”

  “A week, no longer,” he said.

  “A week it is,” she answered. “And lest I forget, I will take this moment now to wish you and Miss Carstairs joy. I see now that you are perfectly suited for one another.”

  With that she rose, and swept from the room.

  Once out of sight of her brother, she found it hard to maintain her composure. To think that only a few days ago she had been fretting over the possibility of having to live in a house presided over by Amelia Carstairs. Now she could not even hope for that dubious pleasure.

  As an unmarried woman, her choices were few indeed. Even if she somehow persuaded James to release her inheritance, she could not set up her own household and expect society to accept her. Not after this scandal. A respectable young woman of one-and-twenty simply did not live on her own, with no female relatives to countenance her. It was unheard of.

  And even if they were willing to take her in, she could not inflict her presence on the Lawtons. Leaving her brother’s household would be taken as a sign of guilt, and the taint on Penelope’s good name would inevitably tarnish Harriet’s reputation and that of her sisters.

  She could give in to her brother, and accept banishment to Selvay Firth. But she could not imagine leaving Edinburgh. It was the center of her world. Everything was here. Her friends, her societies, her causes, every activity that filled her days and nights was within the city walls. Exile to a remote village was a cruel punishment indeed.

  Or she could marry. And there was only one candidate, the Duke of Torringford. No other gentleman would want a wife with Penelope’s reputation. Even Mr. Ian MacLeod had no doubt forsworn his infatuation for her, in light of this scandal.

  She faced a difficult choice indeed, and she wondered whom of her friends she could trust to advise her.

  Five

  “His Grace, the Duke of Torringford,” the footman intoned.

  Marcus’s stomach clenched with nervous anticipation as he entered the small sitting room.

  “Miss Hastings, I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” he said.

  “Your letter was most insistent, Your Grace.” Her gaze drifted to the footman behind him. “That will be all, Robin. And kindly shut the door,” she said firmly.

  He sat on the edge of a chair, hoping he did not look as uneasy as he felt inside. He had not felt this nervous in years. But then again, it was not every day you called upon a virtual stranger and attempted to convince her to become your wife.

  Especially when the lady in question had already made it quite clear that she had no interest in marrying him. It was an ironic twist of fate. Out of the seven candidates James McGregor had presented for his inspection, there had been only one with whom he felt any sort of connection. And she was there only because of a mistake.

  Perhaps his attraction was because of that very mistake. Perhaps it was the fact that unlike the others, Miss Hastings had not been trying to curry his favor. Instead she had been dignified, and honest to the point of bluntness. That was a trait that he could admire.

  And her appearance was pleasing as well. Her dark auburn hair curled softly around her face, bringing attention to her inquisitive hazel eyes. And the green of her dress, the green of the newly sprouted corn, emphasized her creamy complexion.

  All things considered, he could do far worse for himself. Much worse. Now if only he could convince her the marriage would be in her best interests as well.

  “Your Grace?” Miss Hastings prompted.

  He flushed, realizing that he had been lost in his own thoughts.

  “Please, call me Marcus. Being called Your Grace makes me feel as if I am an ancient, and surely there is no need for formality,” he said with a smile.

  “Your Grace,” she said, pointedly rejecting his overture. “I thought we had said all that we had to say to one another.”

  “I came to make my apologies to you, and to your family,” he said.

  “Apologies?”

  “Surely you have seen the newspaper reports.”

  “Indeed we have. But unless you were the one who gave my name to the correspondents, I do not see that you have anything to apologize for,” Miss Hastings said.

  “It was not me. I do not know how they learned of our meeting,” he said. James McGregor suspected one of his clerks had been gossiping with the newspaper correspondents. But there was no proof, and so he would keep his suspicions to himself. “Nonetheless, the situation is of my making, and I bear the blame for dragging you into this.”

  “The blame is not wholly yours. A portion must be laid at the door of the newspapers, who are so quick to report scandal without pausing to verify the truth. Not to mention that we would never have met, had not a false friend decided to send in my name as a jest.”

  He had come here expecting anger and condemnation, but her reasoned civility surprised him.

  “You are generous, but still it falls upon me to make amends. I realize your reputation has been damaged, and I can offer no amends other than to suggest that we be married.”

  “No,” she said, rising to her feet. “If that is what you came to say, then this conversation is over.”

  “Wait,” he said, reaching out to clasp her hand. “Hear me out.”

  She looked at him, and then nodded. He released her hand, and she took her seat.

  He felt a faint shimmer of hope. If she was truly set against the match, his light touch would not have stopped her from leaving. So at least a part of her was willing to listen to his proposal.

  “By now the entire kingdom knows that I must marry within the week, in order to fulfill the conditions of the late duke’s will.”

  “And is securing that fortune so important that you made a fool out of yourself with that ridiculous advertisement?” she asked.

  “No, the advertisement was a mistake. A poor jest, scribbled in drunken folly, and sent to the newspaper by accident. By the time I learned of it, the newspapers had decided on their own version of the truth and would not listen to reason.”

  “So why continue the charade? Why seek to interview those women who had responded?”

  How could he explain without making himself sound more of a fool than he was?

  “Once the story was out, it seemed I had no other choice. The scandal caused all other doors to be barred to me.” He shrugged helplessly. “I let McGregor pick the best of the lot. He knew of your family, so the letter with your name on it was among them.”

  “And would you really marry a stranger? Is the wealth that important to you?”

  “Of course not. For my sake I would refuse the inheritance. I never wanted great wealth or a title. I would give it all back if I could. But I can’t.” He hesitated, then realized that only complete honesty would serve. “It seems I also inherited substantial debts, from my cousin George Wallace who had been in line for the dukedom. Over a hundred thousand pounds, at last reckoning.”

  “A hundred thousand pounds? Surely you are mistaken.” Her hazel eyes widened in shock, just as his had when he first learned the news.

  “A hundred thousand pounds,” he repeated. “A monstrous sum to be certain, but only a small fraction of the duke’s estate. So you see I have two choices, neither of them good. I can refuse the inheritance and go bankrupt trying to pay a fraction of my cousin’s debts. Or I can give in to Torringford’s whim and marry.”

  “And you have decided I will do as well as any other?” she asked. “Surely there is some woman of your acquaintance you could ask.”

  “There was, but she had found someone who suited her better. And I have no time in which to court another,” he explained. “I promise you, this folly notwithstanding, I am considered to be of good character, an honorable landowner who cares for his family and tenants. My friends can attest to my virtues.”
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  “But they will not offer their sisters or daughters in marriage,” Penelope pointed out.

  “What was I to do? Write to each of my acquaintances, telling them that I was desperately seeking a wife?”

  Given time, he was certain he could have found a suitable bride among the women of his acquaintance. But that was the problem. There had been no time. And he had been so certain that Alice Dunne would accept him, more fool he.

  “Is there another gentleman you planned to marry?” he asked, remembering his awkward meeting with Alice Dunne.

  “No, I had no plans of marriage. Ever,” Miss Hastings replied.

  Such was unusual, in a woman of her age and class. She might be in mourning for some lost love, and had dedicated herself to spinsterhood in his memory. Perhaps she was one of the free thinkers, like Mary Shelley, who held that marriage represented a fatal compromise for a woman. Perhaps her parents’ marriage had been infelicitous and had set her against the institution.

  Or mayhaps there was another reason for her reluctance. Perhaps she was being kind, not stating the obvious. That she had no wish to marry him.

  “In that case, I offer myself. A marriage of convenience, for both of us. I, to secure my inheritance, and you to reclaim your good name.”

  “Do you really think marriage will restore my reputation?”

  “All things are possible, in time. Especially since as the Duchess of Torringford, you will be in a position to lead society. And to be a true patroness of the arts and sciences, if you so wish.”

  He could see her turning the idea over in her mind. He held his breath, hoping her answer would be yes.

  “Then I agree,” she said. “It seems my choices are marriage, or a dilapidated cottage in Selvay Firth.”

  Relief flooded through him, and he released the breath he had been holding. He realized that he had been unconsciously expecting her to reject him.

  “A cottage?” he asked, as he gathered his thoughts.

  “My brother’s suggestion,” Miss Hastings replied.

  “I am pleased to find that you hold me in higher esteem than a mere cottage,” he said.