Glancing aside as they entered the park, the cool May air infused with warm rays of sunshine blushing her cheeks, she knew the attention she’d garnered after her father had added Victoria’s dowry to her own was the only thing that had piqued Fielding’s interest. He wanted her fortune, she sensed, just as he’d wanted the horses last week, and just as he’d want another silk waistcoat tomorrow.
But, she reflected, she ought not complain. After all, she would be gaining a countess’s title and would live a life of comfort. Her parents would be pleased, and the whole of Society would be impressed, while she would have her children and her insects. She glanced at Fielding once more. Perhaps she ought to make her continued practice of entomology a prerequisite for marriage. Yes, that was the answer. She’d speak to her father and make the request and then cross her fingers and toes in the hope that he wouldn’t deny her.
“Ah, look,” Fielding said, the horses slowing to a gentle walk. “Here come the Marquess and Marchioness of Wilmington.” He tipped his hat while Gabriella waved, their curricle passing the Wilmington phaeton as it rolled in the opposite direction.
She was keenly aware that Fielding had refrained from mentioning Lord Wilmington’s friend, the notorious Mr. Lowell, who’d also been present in the carriage—a wealthy club owner whose fondness for opera singers, ballerinas and other men’s unhappy wives, if the rumors were to be believed, had labeled him something of a lothario.
But Gabriella knew that it was more than that alone—that it was Lowell’s constant criticism of the nobility that grated on Fielding’s nerves. As if to underscore this thought, he suddenly said, “I cannot abide that man. He completely lacks the elegance and poise that sets our class apart from the rest.” There was no doubt to whom he was referring, for she’d heard him say it before. “The aristocracy can only survive if we keep ourselves raised above the masses. All will be lost once we dip our toes into the pool of commonality, and frankly, there is nothing more common than Mr. Lowell, if you ask me. If you knew of the places he is said to frequent—” Fielding shuddered. “He is without a doubt bad company, my lady. That is an unavoidable fact.”
She would not argue.
“Your mother has invited me to join her book club,” she said instead, deliberately changing the subject. “I received a letter from her yesterday afternoon.”
“She likes you a great deal, you know, which is something of an accomplishment on your part.” He glanced at her briefly before turning the curricle onto a tree-lined path. “Mama detests silly girls, and I quite agree with her. Most of the debutantes these days are far too bold and—daring.”
“But I am not,” Gabriella found herself saying as they passed a trio of young ladies who were out enjoying a stroll. She recognized all of them, and so she waved. They returned the gesture with disingenuous politeness.
“Heavens no. You, my lady, are the very picture of propriety.”
The remark almost made Gabriella laugh. If he only knew how boisterous and carefree she’d been until a year ago when her parents had realized that everything depended on her ability to comport herself. She’d been pulled and squeezed ever since until she’d finally fit the box they intended for her.
“You would never say something untoward or do anything scandalous,” he added, her bumblebee rescue completely forgotten. “Your perfect upbringing would simply disallow it. Indeed, your code of conduct is, in my experience, so thoroughly ingrained in you that it would be impossible for anyone to find fault with your character.”
Gabriella stared at him. Fielding was describing the sort of lady she’d been trying to be since making her debut one month earlier—the attributes that her mother had assured her would secure an ideal husband—even though it was always forced. Now it was making her feel horribly dull and uninteresting too. She couldn’t help herself from sighing. “My sister, Victoria, is very different.”
“Yes,” he agreed, his tone significantly tighter than before. “I would advise you not to speak of her if you can avoid doing so since distancing yourself from the scandal she caused last year should be your greatest priority.”
“I suppose so,” Gabriella agreed. She regretted bringing it up.
“Not to worry though. Keeping my company ought to be of great advantage to you, and once we marry, your sister’s mistakes will simply fade into the background. You shall see, my lady. As the Countess of Fielding, people’s eagerness to earn your favor will make them forget what happened.”
Gabriella cringed at the superficiality with which Fielding described their peers. As for her sister . . . she still had a hard time coming to terms with her hasty decision to marry, and her sudden departure from England. The wedding had taken place by special license, so swiftly that Gabriella had not found out about it until it was over. Which could only mean one thing. Couldn’t it?
An awful report in the Mayfair Chronicle, describing the broken engagement with Bellmore and Victoria’s apparent elopement with Mr. Connolly, an ironworks owner from New York, had followed. In response to which Gabriella’s mother and father had sat Gabriella down and told her of her duty and how she alone would have to save them from ruin.
A year of unrelenting tutoring had followed, for it was no family secret that Gabriella was the difficult child on whom little hope had been placed before. It had been awful, but she had also understood her parents’ despair. Losing Victoria to such a fate had been both surprising and devastating, though Gabriella supposed that the choice her sister had made to marry for love was something to be admired. In fact, she knew that she ought to be happy for Victoria, yet, she simply couldn’t help resenting her for not confiding her feelings for Connolly in her. After all, they’d always been close, the two-year age difference between them completely insignificant.
Just a note. That was all that Victoria had left her in parting. And that had been almost a year ago. She’d yet to receive a letter with news of her life in America.
Disliking the mood their subject of conversation had brought on, Gabriella said, “I don’t believe I have commented on your gloves yet, my lord. I must confess that I find that shade of brown extremely fetching. Your taste in clothes as a whole is quite impeccable.”
He immediately rewarded her compliment with a pleasant smile that almost reached his eyes. She did not love him and she did not think that he would ever love her, but that didn’t really matter, did it? In the end they would both be perfectly content, and with her sister in mind, Gabriella was determined not to stray from her obligations, even though the thought of praising her husband’s ego until the day one of them expired did seem rather taxing.
No. She would definitely have to arrange for them to live apart. Perhaps that ought to be stipulated as well? She would have her children, her insects and perhaps a dog—a small one that could curl up in her lap—while Fielding would have his horses and her dowry and the heir he needed while avoiding the trials and tribulations that invariably came with marriage. Really, the suggestion would no doubt thrill him. He could remain in town while she enjoyed the country. It was the perfect solution, though one that probably ought to be discussed during a later visit when she’d had a little more time to consider the correct way in which to broach the topic.
But considering what she knew of Fielding and his keen determination to get his hands on her hundred thousand pounds, she was fairly confident that he would agree to a great many concessions.
With this in mind and her spirits greatly lifted, she spoke with her soon-to-be fiancé about the people they saw and the beautiful weather—inane topics, but pleasantly safe. And although she disagreed with him on several points, she refrained from voicing her opinion, since she knew that it wouldn’t matter one way or another. Indeed, it would serve no purpose at all, other than to irritate him, which was the last thing she wanted now that she sought his compliance.
By the time they returned to St. James Street, where her home was located, she’d learned nothing new about him, and he’d learned nothing n
ew about her. Which meant that all was as expected—their courtship nothing more than a practical arrangement for both parties.
But as they neared Warwick House, they saw that a carriage—indeed, a common hackney—had pulled to a stop in front of the neighboring house where the late Duke of Huntley had resided until his sudden demise two months earlier. Rumor had it that he had not been able to bear the loss of his sons, who’d died just a couple of weeks prior to him in a tragic boating accident. Since then, there had been much speculation about the continuation of the Huntley title, for the duke had been an only child, and his sons had not yet married.
As the curricle came to a halt, Gabriella considered the hackney now blocking the street and delaying their progress. She couldn’t help but frown. More so when she saw two girls descending from it with hops and bounces, almost stumbling to the ground in a most inelegant fashion. Clearly, they were not accustomed to anything other than walking. And their clothes . . . well, they looked as though they belonged to street urchins.
“Are they not aware that the servants’ entrance is at the back?” Fielding asked, his harsh tone startling Gabriella out of her own ponderings.
“Apparently not,” she said as she watched the girls, who appeared to be older than she’d initially thought—around her own age, it seemed. They certainly looked like servants, with their rumpled attire taken into account, but why on earth were they there? Pierson, the Huntley butler, did not have reason to hire more staff. Unless . . . The door to Huntley House swung open and a footman strode out, approaching the girls without pause. Gasping, Gabriella placed her hand on Fielding’s arm. “Do you suppose that an heir has been found?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps—”
His words were cut short by the thud of a bag being tossed from the carriage. A man’s head appeared next, his profile drawing attention to his unshaven jaw and the stray locks of dark hair falling against his brow. Gabriella stared as he leapt from the carriage, straightened himself to an astonishing height and stepped onto the pavement, where he extended his hand to the footman, who paused for an uncomfortable moment before awkwardly accepting the gesture.
Another figure began to descend from the carriage. “How odd,” Gabriella remarked as she recognized Pierson. “Don’t butlers usually conduct interviews at the house?”
“Mine does,” Fielding said. “Fetching the servants himself, by common hack, seems highly irregular.”
The scruffy-looking fellow suddenly turned toward the driver. “That’ll be all,” he called, his voice carrying the uncultured tone of someone who had no business standing on the pavement of St. James Street in the middle of Mayfair.
“Most irregular indeed,” Fielding murmured.
Gabriella had to agree. She watched with growing curiosity as the footman struggled to pick up the bag that had been dropped from the carriage earlier, while its owner seemed quite unwilling to part with it. A strange tug-of-war ensued with Pierson looking on in exasperation.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Fielding said as he tied the reins securely to the front rail of the curricle, “but this situation demands some clarification. Just give me a moment. I will be right back.” And then he was gone, leaving Gabriella to watch as he approached the group, his affected tone halting all action with impressive efficiency.
Ignoring the tableau was not an option. Not when she found her curiosity piqued for the first time in as long as she could remember. Annoyingly, she couldn’t hear the exchange that was now taking place several yards away, save for the occasional word.
But, at least she could see the expressions of the would-be servants and Pierson as they faced Fielding—a distraction that allowed the footman to take control of the bag and go back inside the house. As far as Gabriella could tell, none of the newcomers appeared to be the least bit bothered by Fielding’s arrival, though Pierson did seem uncharacteristically flustered. Curiously, it looked as though he didn’t know how to respond to the argument that was presently brewing between the scruffy-looking man and Fielding. And they were arguing. Or at least the man was. Indeed, he’d pushed the girls behind him and stepped toward Fielding, confronting him with his much larger size while Pierson stood to one side with a perplexed look on his face.
Which was when Gabriella decided that she simply had to interfere. Clearly, the servant lacked manners, while Fielding would likely get himself hurt.
So she hoisted herself down, smoothed her skirts so she looked presentable, pasted her practiced Society smile on her face and strolled forward, realizing belatedly that she’d made a tactical error as soon as she met the gaze of the man with whom Fielding was quarrelling. He must have sensed her approach, for his eyes flicked to hers with unashamed interest.
A second passed, but it was enough—enough for Gabriella’s footsteps to falter beneath the perusal of those dark, unyielding eyes. His appearance was rough and rugged, his hair a mass of stray locks just begging to be tamed, while his mouth . . . Gabriella swallowed, determined not to let her momentary slip in composure show. He was not of her social class, and yet, with one look, he’d sent heat rushing to her cheeks. It was a reaction unlike any she’d ever experienced before. And in that moment, she hated how weak and susceptible she was to the pleasure of this man’s forthright admiration. For it was surely this sort of feeling that had led her sister astray.
His mouth curved with the sort of confidence that could only be owned by those who cared very little about the opinion of others. And as he turned back to Fielding, Gabriella realized that the man had assessed her, found her wanting and promptly dismissed her. “Ye’re all the same,” he said to Fielding. “Makin’ assumptions.”
Pierson sputtered as if in protest. “You—”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” Fielding said, “but are you telling me that you are not hired help?” He punctuated the question with a glare that made Gabriella cringe.
“My lord,” Pierson managed as though choking on bread crumbs. “This is—”
“Nobody of consequence,” the man finished.
Fielding held his ground. “Have some respect, man. Pierson is a butler, above you in every conceivable way and hardly deserving of being interrupted by the likes of you.”
“Is that so?” The scruffy man asked as he took a step closer.
“My apologies,” Gabriella said, deciding to act before the man, whoever he might be, decided that this piece of pavement was somehow worth fighting over. “My friend here merely wished to discover if the next Duke of Huntley has been found, since it does appear as though Pierson is hiring new servants. We could think of no other reason and were simply curious to know who he might be and when we might have a chance of making his acquaintance.”
She’d caught his attention again, and not without some degree of discomfort. She was a lady, after all, and Fielding was an earl. How could this man possibly find them wanting? And yet, the evidence that he did was plain to see in his critical expression.
For the longest moment, the man simply stood there staring at her while the two young girls—women, really—peeked out from behind him with narrowed eyes. Dressed in a plain white shirt, brown trousers and a jacket to match, he wore no hat, waistcoat, or cravat. Gabriella watched in fascination as he swallowed, the movement so subtle and yet so utterly perfect.
“Madam?”
Her eyes shot to his, the indignation of realizing that her perusal had been observed flipping her stomach inside out and setting her off balance. The feeling was swiftly followed by no small degree of irritation. “My lady, if you please,” she told him tartly. Tipping her nose up a little, she did her best to feign unaffected aloofness.
To her consternation, he reached out, snatched up her hand and bowed over it, brushing her glove with his lips. And yet, in spite of the barrier between them, she felt the heat of that kiss all the way to the depth of her soul. Ridiculous. She straightened her back and prepared to give the presumptuous man a piece of her mind just as Fielding jumped in, pushing the man away
from her while Pierson made an odd sound of protest.
“How dare you take such liberties?” Fielding demanded.
The other man raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware that I was doin’ any such thing.” And then he shrugged before turning about and addressing Pierson and his two companions, who stood wide-eyed and gaping. “Shall we go inside then?”
“Yes,” Pierson exclaimed, already leading the way up the front steps while the three raggedly clad individuals paraded after him.
“Well. I never,” Fielding muttered, looking rather as if he might stomp his foot in protest at any moment.
Gabriella paid him no mind. She watched until the front door of Huntley House closed behind them, more curious than ever about what had just transpired.
Chapter 3
When Raphe woke the morning after arriving at Huntley House, the first thing he noticed was how comfortable he felt, his body completely relaxed in a liquid state of bliss made possible by the luxurious mattress on which he lay. And the delicious beef stew he’d had for dinner. That alone had been worth coming here for. Stretching his body, he opened his eyes and looked up, admiring the velvet canopy of the four-poster bed he presently occupied. It was his now: the bed, whatever furniture stood beyond it, the other rooms, the house itself . . .
What a peculiar thought!
He sat up and glanced about, his eyes shifting from the marble-topped bedside table to a footstool upholstered in a very expensive-looking fabric, to a crystal vase filled with porcelain flowers. He blinked. Why the hell would anyone want porcelain flowers? An absurd extravagance, to be sure.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Raphe stood up and crossed to the wardrobe. It squeaked open to reveal the few clothes he’d brought with him, all neatly hanging to one side. He straightened himself and selected a clean shirt and a pair of fresh trousers. Not the fashionable look expected from a duke, but it would have to do for now, as there was nothing else available.
A Most Unlikely Duke Page 3