(Richard Whately, Archbishop of Dublin, 1787–1863)
Surely ’twas impossible for a person to be still living if they hadn’t breathed for twelve hours.
To be sure, she’d not breathed last night when bundled upstairs, or when put to bed by her maid, or whilst sleeping, and she quite definitely hadn’t breathed since waking at dawn.
Whenever she tried, her throat contracted.
And another entirely new development in the life of Aideen Maura Kathleen Quinlan was that she appeared to have been struck dumb.
Uncle Seamus said she’d been born to the world jabbering, tongue running twelve score to the dozen, and yet… She opened her mouth.
Nothing.
Not that she needed to say anything. Mrs Beckford was more than making up for Aideen’s muteness.
At this very moment, she chattered over the breakfast table about how well-mannered the duke was and how honoured Aideen should be.
Honoured?
Certainly, she was aware it had been a grand gesture on his part to save her reputation from ruin, although she’d an inkling it had also been to save his own pompous hide.
The duke had not suddenly developed a tendre for her, and if she’d been in any doubt, his tight lips and angry eyes on the stalk back from the fountain would have soon un-doubted her.
He’d probably regretted the words as soon as they’d been uttered, but what else could a priggish duke do when confronted with such a reproachful threesome?
Well, not kiss her in the first place, of course, but the milk had already been spilt. Indeed, it had copiously flooded until they were chin-high and drowning.
Aideen scowled as Mrs Beckford babbled on about trousseaus and wedding fruit cakes. But what no one seemed to have taken into account were the very words the duke had so coldly drawled: “It was to choose my wife.”
Conceited, puffed-up, overconfident, egotistical, self-important…
The more she thought upon it, the more incensed she became. There were so many ways he could have worded it:
“I was about to ask the beautiful Aideen to be my treasured wife.” Perfect.
“I am hopeful Miss Quinlan would honour me by consenting to be my duchess.” Very Rakecombe but acceptable.
“You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.” From her favourite book, so unlikely.
“You don’t have to marry him, you realise.”
Aideen frowned. An odd thought, until she realised it wasn’t in her head but the astute Mr Beckford.
Peering up, she found warm brandy eyes twinkling at her over a fork full of bacon. “Just saying, Aideen dear, you need not marry the young buck if you don’t wish to. Duke or no duke.”
His wife’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Of cours–”
“No,” Mr Beckford said mildly. “What is most important for our girls, Edwina?” He reached to twine his fingers with his wife’s, their gazes meeting.
A moment of jealousy engulfed Aideen. They looked so…affectionate. Mr Beckford was rather a quiet man but over her time spent with the family, Aideen had realised he was no hen-pecked husband. He radiated silent strength.
“Happiness.” Mrs Beckford sighed.
“Exactly so,” responded her husband. “The duke sent a message earlier. He will be here on the hour of eleven, so I suggest you think carefully, Aideen. But no one is forcing you. We will support whatever decision you adopt. Yes, it might cause a disruption if you decide otherwise, but we are not of the higher echelons of society. We will survive and having Sophie as a countess will help.”
The words brought tears to Aideen’s eyes and she hastily dashed them away. Her own father would have demanded she obey, brandishing his fury with harsh curses. He’d probably have called her a harlot.
Perhaps she was. She’d hardly fought off the duke’s impudence but instead relished his touch.
Pushing her unfinished breakfast to one side, she stood. “Thank you. I do not deserve your kindness after the events of last night–”
“Aideen,” Mrs Beckford interrupted, holding up a palm, “you are not to blame in any way. The duke has a decade over you in both years and experience. Blame lies solely in his hands. Take a rest in the morning room and I’ll bring you a cup of chocolate.”
“And, Aideen,” Mr Beckford added as she turned. “You are as a daughter to us in every way, so if you require me to call him out, I will. I’m a dab shot, eh, wife of mine?”
That wife of his blushed, and another time Aideen would have stayed and inveigled that entire story, but nodding gratefully, she wandered out.
Mrs Beckford’s words had given her pause to think. Rakecombe’s years did not detract but doubtless added to his appeal. Men like the young Lord Sherburn behaved so young, more concerned with gambling and carriage racing.
And then there was chocolate.
Some men smelled of horse, sweat or liver, but scrumptious chocolate?
Certainly not a reason to marry but one to add to the cauldron of consideration.
After plunking herself on the mahogany floral ottoman, she flicked through a tatty old copy of La Belle Assemblée.
Why, when one needed to think, did one’s idea pot empty?
No reasoning or conclusions arose; instead, there lay a gaping hole of indecision and befuddlement.
How she wished Sophie was here for some sound advice. She could send a message for Cordelia to call, but felt her friend was also in the dark concerning men, if not more so. Oakdean was markedly monosyllabic – or brooding as Aideen would label it.
An article caught her eye: “Maxims and Rules for the Conduct of Women” by Countess de Boufflers.
Idly, she studied the list.
1. In the exterior, decency and cleanliness. Well, she could accomplish the second.
4. In language, truth and perspicuity. She did sometimes fib but thought she could manage to be articulate…or long-winded, depending on how one viewed it.
5. In domestic life, rectitude and kindness, without familiarity. Oh dear.
Her father had always bemoaned she should’ve been a boy and perhaps, after all, he was right. Life was certainly less formal for them, and her manners would have been better suited to a male of the species.
But damn them all – she liked being a girl, and she liked being Aideen Quinlan. She peered at the list again.
“I don’t think you need that old twaddle, Aideen love,” said Mrs Beckford, arriving with the promised cup of chocolate and placing it by her. “The duke seems to admire you exactly as you are from what I spied last night.”
Cursing the redness which coursed beneath her pale Celtic skin, she nevertheless smiled. “I don’t know. We always…argue.”
Mrs Beckford sat on the dainty chaise, and Aideen wasn’t quite sure what to expect after her defence of the duke at breakfast. Certainly not a furious reprimand but maybe some gentle persuasion.
“Have you any common ground?”
“Erm.” Furiously, she thought over the time she’d known him. “We both like books. I remember him saying he was a prodigious reader.”
“A most pleasant pastime for husband and wife. If you decide to marry, you have to work on what pleases you both and be patient but, Aideen…friction is not always a harmful element to marriage.”
Aideen’s eyes widened as redness now travelled up Mrs Beckford’s neck, tinting her like a rose.
“Is it not? But we fight and bicker. Nothing like your Sophie and the Earl of Kelmarsh.”
“That is their character. Those two enjoy tranquillity, but… I know you will not believe it now, but when my husband was young, he had quite the temper and I was no namby-pamby miss either.” She coughed gracefully.
“Really?”
Mrs Beckford flicked open a fan, which lay on the chaise, and wafted it vigorously. “We had some skirmishes, but I knew, deep down, he was the only man for me. And the making up can be most…agreeable.”
Aideen coughed ungracefully.
The fan snapped shut and earnest eyes shifted to her. Despite having difficulty following Mrs Beckford’s etiquette guidance this Season, Aideen had great respect for her. And she so desperately needed advice.
“You have to search deep down, Aideen. Not on the superficial surface but within. Do you want this man for the rest of your life?” Mrs Beckford patted a cushion nervously. “I will not say this again as ’tis a dash indecorous, and dukes may sleep differently, but…well, do you want to see his face across your pillow every morning?”
Yes, yes, yes, Aideen’s heart screamed, but so many inner concerns yelled no, no, no.
“I can’t be a duchess,” she wailed. “All the formality! I have no manners and should’ve been a boy like m’da always–”
“Anyone can learn manners and social graces.” Mrs Beckford hastened over and jostled up on the ottoman, leaning close. “What cannot be learned is kindness and humour and understanding, and you have those in abundance. As for your father… Did you know I visited Waterford before your birth?”
Aideen shook her head.
“Your mother was sure you would be a girl. So excited, she was.”
“Didn’t she want a boy? Like Da.”
“No, she didn’t. And your father couldn’t have cared less at the time either – anything to make her happy. But when she died… Well, he lost himself and I’m afraid you were lost too. He turned his focus not to you, his daughter, but inwards, and anger consumed him. It still does. I thank God for your Uncle Seamus, even though he did teach you some highly inappropriate conduct.”
“Oh.”
“And I also doubt you know that your father was the one to name you.”
“What?” She gasped.
“Hmm. Said any girl of his was bound to be fiery and stubborn.”
Lips parted but Aideen was once again unable to speak.
“I shall leave you to think,” said Mrs Beckford, patting her knee. “But one other matter to ponder on.” She pursed her lips. “I talked of the duke being a man of years and experience. A man that should know better. So, the only reason for him to make such a grave impropriety is because you must call to him in some way. He does not appear to be a man controlled by lust. Far from it, his reputation is somewhat priggish.” Mrs Beckford stood. “So, to make such a severe slip demonstrates profound…emotion.”
Aideen’s lips snapped shut.
Bejabbers.
Chapter Seven
Tempus fugit.
The Duke of Rakecombe really didn’t have time for this.
After last night’s little rumpus, he’d headed out for a pre-arranged meeting with his resourceful informant Bluey, but he hadn’t been able to uncover the merest trace of Stafford.
Bluey would continue to ferret away though, and today, he himself was supposed to be scouring coffee shops for gossip.
Instead, he was winding the lengthy way around Grosvenor Square with his grandmother’s ring in his pocket.
For once, he hadn’t wholly formulated a plan yet. He often did his best thinking in bed, but restless memories of that deuced kiss had occupied his thoughts.
Wandering onto South Audley Street, he decided to take the long-cut and head for Berkeley Square.
If he wished to be an utterly ruthless bastard, there were still a number of ways he could get out of this mess a bachelor.
Essentially there were only three witnesses, all bribable in differing ways – they could be made to forget that he’d ever uttered the word “wife”, although that debutante had most likely blathered to all and sundry.
He’d since learned from Mother that she’d been angling for the vacant position of duchess. He didn’t enjoy being cold-hearted – well, actually that was a falsehood – but God forbid, she chewed her hair.
So…to his current problem.
Obviously, he could bundle Aideen off to Ireland with a quantity of money, enough for a cosy house and servants. Or, as a duke, find a cash-strapped lesser noble to leg shackle the girl to. He could, in fact, do nothing and leave the wench ruined, deny he ever mentioned marrying. Everyone would understand – she was so far beneath his station in life they never should have even met.
It might yet enhance his callous reputation.
But beneath the rational, down below the wise logic, he felt a stirring animal growl its rage.
How revoltingly primitive.
Rakecombe coughed as he realised he’d strolled twice around Berkeley Gardens and so exited the next corner, which unfortunately meant he was further away from Conduit Street than when he’d first entered the blasted square.
He really didn’t have time for this.
Or, of course, he could marry…
Last night, faced with that threesome of witnesses, all he’d wanted to do was protect Aideen’s reputation, and his mouth had spoken without consulting anyone.
But could he marry?
He’d vowed he never would or at least wait until he was too old to continue in his work, his reflexes too slow. But he reckoned he had at least another ten years within him.
Could he marry and yet continue with his work for the Crown?
As he wandered onto Hay Hill – was this the quickest route? – he thought of his sister Gwen. They’d been so close, shared everything, and that had been the cause of her death. So maybe if he did marry but kept his wife…at a distance, all would be well.
Indeed, if he was never seen with his wife, and surely that was how half the haut ton existed anyway, there would never be any trouble. He could hire guards as he did for his mother – dear Mama had never once noticed the man who’d consistently trailed her for ten years.
A faint tremor slunk down his spine, raising the issue that Aideen could never be kept at a distance, but he was a duke, and a miserable malcontented one at that. She would fall into line.
“Excuse me, good sir, do you know the way to Old Bond Street?”
Rakecombe glared at the bacon-fed fellow who’d dared to intrude.
Did the lackwit not see the hurry he held? “I no live ’ere,” he scorned in his best Parisian accent, and without waiting for the fellow’s fatuous answer, he ambled on.
Now which was quicker? Grafton Street or cut across South Bruton Mews? He’d try both.
Briefly, very briefly, he wished Winterbourne was around as he was always overflowing with hopeless advice, but then again, it would cost him his pride, so perhaps it was best the man was still up north.
Looking up, he realised this was Clifford Street, and so he hummed and hawed.
How did one get to Conduit from here? Could he take a detour and cut across another mews? He didn’t have time to piddle around the streets of London.
Deliberating, his legs set off down Saville Street, so he followed, wielding his cane every so often on a stray song sheet littering the ground, and adding up all the reasons to marry.
He did need an heir. The current beneficiary was cousin Matthew, who had unfortunately inherited the calamitous family trait of gambling.
Sapskull Matthew was kept on a thrifty stipend and Rakecombe had made sure that even if he did inherit, the estate and monies were bound up tighter than a strumpet’s corset.
Grandfather Thomas, another with the ill-fated gambling habit, had nearly bankrupted the Rakecombe name with his reckless wagering on ducks in a wild goose race.
Fortunately, he’d been trampled by a frisky mare and Father had managed to claw back the monies, instilling in his own son the need for sobriety.
So, an heir. Useful.
A wife would also keep away any marriage-minded misses and their devious mothers. Although he’d always been successful enough on that count.
Any other reasons?
An innate sense of honour? Mayhap. Not that he minded his reputation gaining a dash more heartlessness, but he had been raised with a sense of integrity, and if he reneged on his words it was likely his mother would cause his ears to ring.
Were there any more reasons?
“Oy, watch where y
er going, cork brain,” a grubby little urchin yelled as Rakecombe ambled into his bundle of newspapers.
He really didn’t have time for all this dilly-dallying.
Perhaps he ought to mull it over in The Coach and Horses on Burlington, but consulting his fob watch, it was nigh eleven and he was never late.
Putting on some haste, he wandered down Swallow Street and came to the wrong end of Conduit.
Damn.
Of course, what he kept ruthlessly suppressing was this odd…need he felt for Miss Quinlan. That aching want as she’d touched his eye last night. The overwhelming desire to have her beneath him. No doubt lust played a part, but he’d felt that before.
This appeared to be deeper, but he purposefully shied away from probing further.
There was no time.
If he married Aideen Quinlan, she would belong to him. And only him. No woolly crowned Sherburn drooling over her, soft hands pawing.
With mind made up, he strode down the street that the Beckfords inhabited, glad after all that he’d taken the time to remove his grandmother’s ring from the safe this morning.
Aideen sipped the now cold chocolate and willed her heart to stop thumping so stridently.
The duke had arrived well after the appointed hour of eleven, but he’d immediately demanded to speak with Mr Beckford. She knew this was proper but couldn’t help feel a tinge of resentment.
They were discussing her life, her future, and she wasn’t even there. At least she could rely on Mr Beckford not to be cowed, but even so…
“Aideen? The duke has requested to speak with you privately, and I have agreed you may converse on the terrace with the door open. But Edwina or a maid can stay if you so wish?”
Pivoting, she found Mr Beckford with a looming black shadow at his heels. Devil’s minions, the duke resembled the Grim Reaper some days – he need only swap his ubiquitous cane for a scythe.
“That is acceptable, sir.”
“Good. Remember my words this morning, dearest.”
Nodding, she led the duke through the drawing room and onto the small terrace. The birds cheerfully chirped, and an audacious russet-red squirrel ran along the oak tree, all utterly unaware of the life-defining scene about to take place.
Let Sleeping Dukes Lie Page 6