Amelia shook her head. “I daren’t suppose such a thing. It looks authentic enough with this seal right ‘ere and a stamp at the bottom.” Squinting, she read the small print that Raphe had missed in his surprise. “Mr. Rupert Etheridge, Solicitor to the Duke of Huntley.” Amelia drew a deep breath. Expelled it again. “Bloody hell!”
Raphe quietly nodded. “It’s the damnedest thing, don’t ye think?” He stared up at Amelia, still trying to process the news.
“Yes. It is. In fact, I wouldn’t ‘ave thought it possible at all. Not ever.”
“Me neither.” Amelia handed the letter back to Raphe, He set it on the table next to his bowl of soup and jabbed it with his finger. “But our great grandfather was the Sixth Duke of Huntley.”
“I’m aware of that. But when ‘e died, the title passed to our great uncle an’ split off from our side of the family.” She hesitated, as if trying to understand. “I thought succession ‘ad to be lineal—that it ‘ad to go from son to son. So ‘ow can it possibly jump to ye?”
“That’s just it. Says ‘ere that—” leaning forward, he carefully read what had to be the most significant part, “the letters patent generally include a limitation pertainin’ to the heirs of the body, but in this instance it ‘as been left out. With this taken into consideration, we’ve looked fer the late duke’s nearest kin, and ye, Mr. Matthews, appear to be it.”
“Ye’re it?” Amelia’s eyebrows were raised, her lips parted with dumbfounded surprise.
“Apparently so.”
“Bloody hell,” she said again as she slumped down onto another chair with a dazed expression. “I can’t believe ‘e ‘ad no sons. Don’t aristocrats always ‘ave an heir an’ a spare for these situations?”
“Yes, but accordin’ to this, the Eighth Duke of Huntley’s sons perished at sea a couple o’ months ago. The shock of it was apparently too much for their father. It killed ’im.”
“God.” Amelia paused for a moment before saying, “So there’s nobody else but ye to fill ‘is shoes.”
“No. Only problem is, I ain’t so sure I’ll be able to manage it. It’s been fifteen years since . . .” His shoulders stiffened and his chest tightened. He couldn’t speak of the event that had plunged them all into destitution. Refused to do so—refused to open the door to the darkness.
Thankfully, Amelia spoke, filling the silence. “Ye can ignore the letter if the thought of being a duke disagrees with ye.”
“True.” He considered the ramifications of showing up at Huntley House. And then the door to the darkness creaked open, quite unexpectedly, and he was faced with the faith that Bethany had placed in him. She’d believed in his ability to save her. He’d been her older brother, and she’d looked to him for help. Except he’d failed her, and now she was dead.
He slammed the door to the darkness and stared at Amelia. This was it. The chance to do what he wished he could have done for Bethany—a chance to get his surviving sisters out of St. Giles and back to the world where they belonged. “I can’t ignore this opportunity. I can’t deny ye the things ye deserve.” I can’t take the risk of losing you because of my own apprehensions and prejudices. “Think of it, Amelia. No more ‘ungry bellies, or worryin’ about money. No more scrapin’ to get by.”
“No more Mr. Guthrie,” she murmured.
The uplifting thought spilled through him, immediately halted by another. “Ye know, we’ll never fit in.” They’d spent too long amidst the lower classes—could barely recall what it meant to live in a fine house and to have servants. Fox Grove Manor, where they’d grown up, had not been overly large, and most of the servants had been gone at the end, but he had a vague recollection of tin soldiers and the sound of piano music playing while Molly dusted the china. It seemed so peculiar now, the thought of hiring someone to do the simplest task.
He shook his head at the absurdity of it all and wondered if he would be capable of becoming such a person after growing accustomed to the working-class ways. And that was just the beginning. It did not take into account the ridicule they were bound to face with every misstep they made. Because if there was one thing he knew about the aristocracy, it was their cold, hard censure of those who didn’t belong.
“Here at least we ‘ave friends.” He thought of what Ben had told him earlier. Of Ben, in general. He’d never understand the decision Raphe now considered making. Worse than that, Raphe knew in his gut that claiming the Huntley title would destroy that friendship—that in order for him and his sisters to stand any chance at all of making a life for themselves in Mayfair, they’d have to sever all ties to St. Giles.
“True. There are surely people I’ll miss—people who’ve been kind to us over the years, like Mary-Ellen’s family an’ the ‘aroldsons.” She reached for Raphe’s hand and squeezed it tight. “But we also ‘ave no future ‘ere. At least none that I can see.”
“I know. It’s me greatest regret.”
“It’s not yer fault.”
“No, but I ‘ave the chance to change things now.” Mind made up, he said, “I’ll claim the title an’ make things right fer both of ye.”
She pressed her lips together and nodded agreement. “It’ll be an easier life than the one we ‘ave now.”
Even though he knew she underestimated the task that stood before them, he didn’t argue, happy with the knowledge that his sisters would soon be living the lives to which they’d both been born. But the truth of it was that they faced a daunting struggle—one in which their pride and dignity would be tested at every turn. Steeling himself for the battle ahead, Raphe bid his sister a good night, aware that the dawn would bring turbulence with it.
Chapter 2
Lady Gabriella Radcliffe sat in the parlor of her family home, regarding the man who was sitting opposite her. His name was Simon Nugent, otherwise known as the Earl of Fielding, and more furtively referred to as the most eligible bachelor on the marriage mart. On either side of her sat two of Society’s most esteemed women: Gabriella’s mother, Portia, the Countess of Warwick, and Gabriella’s paternal aunt, Caroline, the Dowager Countess of Everly. Forced from her home by her late husband’s detestable nephew, she’d accepted her brother’s invitation to come and live at Warwick House two years earlier, much to Portia’s aggravation. For although they did their best to be cordial and polite, the two women were so opposite that they collided at almost every opportunity.
“How often do you hunt?” Gabriella’s mother inquired of Fielding. Reaching forward, she picked up the plate of biscuits that sat on the table and offered it to him.
He declined with a subtle hand gesture, then simply said, “I do not.”
Gabriella’s aunt shifted in her seat. The sofa was not very wide, which made Gabriella wonder why they had to sit in such a silly way, like three judges quizzing a plaintiff. Stopping a chuckle that threatened to rise up her throat, she made a choking sound and was rewarded with an elbow in the ribs by her mother.
“I thought all gentlemen hunted,” Aunt Caroline remarked.
Brushing something invisible from his knee, Fielding shook his head. “It’s a dirty business. I much prefer fishing when I’m in the country.”
Gabriella quietly sipped her tea, her concentration fixed on holding the cup correctly. Crook this finger and point the other. “Perhaps we can do it together sometime?”
“What? Fish?” Raising an eyebrow, Fielding looked at her incredulously.
“You’re slouching,” her mother whispered.
Straightening her back, Gabriella silently cursed the day her sister had gone away. Victoria should have been the one sitting here right now. Marrying well had been her destiny. Heck, she’d been courted by a marquess—a very determined one at that. Everyone had been thrilled by it. Until she’d thrown it all away in favor of something that no one approved of and forced all attention on Gabriella—the awkward one who wasn’t expected to do better than marry someone desperate enough to overlook her flaws.
What a depressing thought.<
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Another jab in the ribs made Gabriella flinch. She quickly nodded, realizing that she’d abandoned the conversation and that everyone was staring at her. “I—”
“She jests,” her mother cut in.
“I don’t believe she does,” Aunt Caroline said.
Fielding looked from one to the other before pinning Gabriella with a most serious expression. “You are a refined woman, Lady Gabriella. Fishing—well, it’s rather a chore, in a way—work that you ought not be engaging in. And then of course there are all the insects to consider.”
“I actually rather like them,” Gabriella confessed. She’d found a bit of loose trim on her gown and couldn’t quite stop herself from picking at it.
Fielding tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Insects,” Gabriella clarified. “I find them rather intriguing.”
“She has a collection,” Aunt Caroline said.
“Perhaps you would care to see it one day?” Gabriella suggested. “The spiders are especial—”
“She says such silly things, my lord,” her mother interrupted with a nervous chuckling sound. “Gabriella does not engage in such . . . such . . .” she waved her hands about as though hoping to catch the appropriate word, “wild activity.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” Fielding murmured, looking not the least bit convinced as he eyed Gabriella with censorious aloofness. He hesitated a moment as though reflecting on something, and then his eyes suddenly widened. “Was it you who once defended a bumblebee?”
“A childish lapse in judgment that you mustn’t hold against her,” Gabriella’s mother hastened to say before Gabriella could respond. “She’s completely transformed now. And her dowry is rather impressive. One mustn’t forget about that.”
“Of course,” Fielding said, allowing a smile. He seemed to relax a bit before saying, “Still, I would suggest that you give up on fishing and entomology. Neither is a very ladylike hobby.”
“Indeed,” Lady Everly said dryly, “God forbid she gets bit by a mosquito.”
Although Fielding’s comment grated, Gabriella had to force back a chuckle. On her other side, she could feel her mother’s disapproval of her sister-in-law’s sarcastic sense of humor radiating off of her.
“An unsightly blemish that you would do well to avoid,” Fielding remarked.
“Oh, indeed,” Gabriella’s mother breathed with unfeigned appreciation of the man’s insightfulness. “Perhaps admiring nature from a respectable distance would be best.”
Gabriella bit her lip, fighting the urge to argue, since doing so would be considered highly disagreeable. After all, men do not care for confrontational women, as her mother had so often told her. To her left, she distinctly heard her aunt say, “Oh, for heaven’s sake. It’s not as though she’s asking to ride in the races.”
Fielding paled, his bone-china cup clattering against its saucer to further convey his shock. “I should hope not!”
Gabriella winced, a little embarrassed by her aunt’s outspokenness, even though it was one of the traits Gabriella admired most about her.
“Please forgive my sister-in-law,” Gabriella’s mother grit out. “She has the uncanny ability to say the most nonsensical things.”
Though her aunt did not respond, Gabriella could sense her annoyance, as though it were a ball of heat expanding beside her, just waiting to explode. Gabriella would never have the courage to tell Fielding he was wrong about something, or to thwart his wishes herself. To do so would go against her parents’ wishes and the duty that weighed on her shoulders since Victoria’s scandalous departure from Society. And since Gabriella had had the fortune of attracting Fielding’s attention—albeit with the help of her dowry—she would try not to do anything to upset the delicate balance of their courtship, lest she ruin everything by sending him running in the opposite direction.
So, rather than adding fuel to the proverbial fire, she prayed for the mood in the parlor to change for the better, while keeping her mouth firmly shut. She turned her attention to admiring Fielding’s attire instead—a gold waistcoat, embroidered with pale blue flowers beneath a navy blue jacket. He was celebrated by the Mayfair Chronicle as the most fashionable man in London. She briefly wondered how much of his time he must spend with his tailor, valet, and mirror.
“Gabriella!”
Gabriella blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Pay attention,” her mother hissed in her ear.
“I was just complimenting your beauty.” Fielding spoke gently, his voice no doubt capable of capturing any number of hearts. “May I say that you look particularly pretty today?” With his hands elegantly folded upon his lap, back straight and feet precisely placed at just the right angles, he sat as he always did—as though he were posing for a portrait. “The rose-colored hue of your gown agrees with your fair complexion in a very pleasing way.”
Dipping her head, Gabriella responded with a discreet smile that she hoped would reflect her pleasure without distorting her features. As her mother always said, one must not smile with exaggeration. Teeth are for eating, not for displaying.
“You are too kind, my lord,” Gabriella murmured.
“Not at all.” Carefully, he picked up his teacup, took a sip and returned it to its saucer. The biscuits on the plate in the center of the table remained untouched. Fielding would not eat in front of any of them, and because he wouldn’t, neither would they. He glanced toward the window before looking back at her. “It is a pleasant day today.”
Gabriella nodded. “Did you walk here, or ride?”
“I drove my curricle.” He paused for a second as if considering something. “Perhaps you would like to try it? We could take it for a drive in the park. With your mother’s permission, of course.”
“What a generous offer,” Gabriella’s mother said. “I see no reason why you cannot go.”
Setting down her teacup, Lady Everly said, “It will be your first public appearance together, will it not?” Her aunt’s implication was clear. She meant to caution Gabriella that if she accepted this offer, people would see her with Fielding, thus making their courtship official.
Gabriella hesitated, torn between duty and her lukewarm feelings for the man her parents had selected for her. Was marrying Fielding what she truly wanted? No. It wasn’t. Not in the least. But with the scandal of Victoria first ending her engagement to the Marquess of Bellmore and then marrying into the working class still looming, Gabriella was keenly aware that her family depended on her to save them. And besides, there was no one else whom she liked better than Fielding. Whether she married him or one of the other earls or viscounts who’d shown an interest made little difference. In the grander scheme of things, he was better than nothing, she supposed.
And she certainly had no illusions about marrying for love. It simply wasn’t the way of her world—a world in which all that really mattered was one’s reputation, fortune and pedigree. So rather than decline, as her aunt no doubt hoped she would since she couldn’t abide Fielding herself, Gabriella chose to please her parents instead by saying, “Certainly, my lord. I think I should like that a great deal.” At any rate, it would give them something to do beyond drinking tea and discussing trivialities. “Allow me to fetch my bonnet and shawl.”
As she rose, so did he. Offering her his hand, he guided her carefully around the furniture, releasing her when no more obstacles stood in her path. “I would recommend a blue one,” he said as they bid her family adieu and exited the parlor.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The shawl,” he said. “A blue one will match your eyes, as well as my jacket.”
“Of course.” Thankfully, she managed a smile—one that hid her inclination to hit him.
They set out ten minutes later at an easy trot, the horse’s hooves clopping against the cobbled street while their tails swayed happily from side to side in perfect synchrony. Hesitantly, Gabriella cast a look in Fielding’s direction. Too often, his pomposity detracted f
rom his physical appearance, which was, Gabriella decided, quite pleasing to the eye. Oh, her aunt spoke of some great passion and how important it was for Gabriella to find that in order to be truly happy, but she disagreed. Right now she was only concerned with convincing him to let her continue with her entomology.
Biting her lip, she considered the task. Perhaps they could live apart? What a pleasant thought. She could spend her days cataloguing butterflies and playing with their children. She instinctively cringed at the idea of how such children might be produced, but she supposed she would simply endure the ordeal with eyes closed and good cheer while pondering . . . something else. But to fantasize about making a love match . . . well, she was not disillusioned enough to allow such fanciful ideas to distract her from her duty.
Determined to earn his good favor, lest his thoughts still lingered on her less agreeable attributes, Gabriella indicated his horses with a wave of her hand. “They are a magnificent pair,” she remarked as Fielding navigated his way along Piccadilly to where Hyde Park began.
“Thank you,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “As you know, I take my horses quite seriously. When I saw these two beauties at Tattersall’s last week, I simply knew I had to have them. Quite a blow to the Earl of Bromwell, who was eager to buy them as well.”
“Perhaps you will allow him to borrow them one day?”
Fielding turned then, the shock on his face conveying his astonishment, and perhaps his outrage too, at what she’d just suggested. “I think not.” Returning his attention to the reins, he added, “I am not the sort of man who enjoys sharing.”
Gripping the seat iron at her side, Gabriella did her best to hide her emotions. She knew he was both competitive and possessive, that he loved nothing better than winning—it was what he lived for, the knowledge that he outdid all others in every pursuit that interested him. Which was why he always bought the year’s most fashionable carriages, the best bred horses and the latest innovations, including a private rail and locomotive for his country estate. It also explained his reason for coming to call on her in the first place.
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 2