A Good Day to Marry a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  This was the third time . . . or was it the fourth? . . . that Ashton Graham had saved her from ruinous discovery. She wasn’t sure what would have happened if Red and the countess had caught them together, engaged in passionate embraces. But considering the countess’s warnings about just such things and her exacting moral standards, Daisy couldn’t imagine she would continue to support Daisy’s marriage to Duke Arthur.

  For the first time Daisy herself began to wonder if she was worthy of the eager, unworldly Duke of Meridian. Perhaps he deserved someone sweeter and less demanding, someone whose virtue was still hers to give. And perhaps she deserved to be known as the reckless, impulsive hussy she truly was.

  * * *

  “I was returning from a ride and realized I had never actually been in His Lordship’s impressive maze,” Ashton had said, calling on every skill of deception at his command. “That’s my horse tied up outside.” Outwardly he seemed cool and faintly disdainful as he was confronted by Daisy’s uncle and sponsor.

  “You’re sure you haven’t seen Miss Bumgarten?” the countess repeated, scrutinizing him through narrowed eyes. He prayed that the lumpy shawl he was sitting on was fully tucked and hidden.

  “I have not,” he lied smoothly, though at some cost to his self-esteem. He really was a wretch sometimes. A first class bounder.

  “So, you’re just sittin’ here?” Red demanded, seeming bewildered by such a pointless pursuit.

  “I’ve had a rather eventful week. I was seeking some solitude.” He smiled at Red. “You should try it sometime. It’s good for the soul.”

  The countess strode this way and that, pausing to peer down the path that Daisy had taken to escape. Her suspicious look said she wasn’t convinced, but she gave a huff of resignation.

  “Very well. We’ll continue our search elsewhere.” She turned back the way they had come. “Come, Mr. Strait, we need to find your niece.”

  Red lingered a moment, scanning Ashton’s defiantly casual pose. Then his gaze dropped to a small piece of royal blue silk peeking out from under Ashton’s rear, and he smiled with a sharpness that made Ashton reconsider his opinions of the old fellow.

  “My Daize is a good girl.” He paused a moment and Ashton felt a heat creeping up out of his collar. The old boy noticed and his mouth twisted up on one side. “A bit wild betimes, and stubborn as all hell. But she’s got a heart o’ pure gold. If you’re smart, you’ll stay clean away from her. She’s meant for better’n you.”

  Ashton sat for some time after Red left, hearing those words echoing around the hollow that developed inside him.

  “She’s meant for better’n you.”

  Yes, she was.

  Chapter Twenty

  A shton Graham avoided dinner that night and left Marlton first thing the next morning, citing urgent family business. The countess was relieved, Red was gratified, and Daisy was privately disappointed. For a few hours.

  She was dragged into Bristol the next morning by two determined countesses, who insisted she see the wonderful array of silks and unusual cotton weave fabrics that the shipping merchants of Bristol offered. They were fresh off the boat, Lady Regina said with some pride. Bristol ladies always got the finest first when it came to imported fabrics. Her boast proved true, and by tea time Daisy had selected a small haberdasher’s worth of wonderful fabrics—most of which she declared she would send to her family in New York.

  It was a most pleasant day, until the Lady Evelyn cornered her over tea and demanded to know what Ashton would report to the Meridian family council in a few days. Daisy had to admit that she wasn’t sure of his intentions, but took hope in the fact that he had helped her uncover some of the material and knew it to be sound. The countess wasn’t satisfied with that explanation, but she stiffened her spine and declared that they would deal with whatever happened. Meanwhile, she said as she leaned in to speak in confidence, Daisy must work to see that the duke himself had a favorable opinion of the match.

  * * *

  The core of Betancourt was a Jacobean manor house that had been added to and renovated numerous times over the years. But the main impression presented to guests and visitors was of great long windows set in red brick with gray limestone quoins at the corners. It was only as the coach pulled into the entry court that the true age of the place became clear. The wooden window frames peeled and showed their age and the mortar of the brick of the main house needed repointing. The front doors were weathered, but had recently been subjected to a coat of oil that did little to hide their underlying parched and unattended state.

  When the doors opened, a line of servants in black and white came trudging out, followed by a butler who had to have been around for the laying of the cornerstone of Betancourt. He walked bent and had jowls that quivered and made him look like a bloodhound on a scent.

  Behind him came three faces Daisy recalled from that night at Mountjoy’s ball: Aunt Sylvia, Uncle Bertram, and another old uncle whose name escaped her. At the very rear came the duke himself, striding quickly, looking astoundingly young and fit by comparison. He hurried past his elders to greet the countess and Red before turning to Daisy with a broad smile and hands eager for hers.

  She gave him her hands and her best smile. He looked better than she had ever seen him—certainly better than a week before, when she’d had to help carry him back to the house and send for a doctor.

  “Dearest Daisy,” he said, sounding a bit out of breath. “Welcome to Betancourt. We’re so pleased to have you here. Do come in and refresh yourself while my fellows see to your things.” He gave a wave toward the coach that started several old servants shuffling forward to obey.

  Inside, Betancourt seemed a place frozen in time. The furnishings and paintings hanging in the hall looked like they had been there forever. The wood of the great stairs had darkened, except for worn spots on the treads, and the carving and moldings overhead were half obscured by decades of candle soot. The floor of the entry was laid with marble that had cracked in places, some of which had been repaired noticeably. Still, there were abundant fresh flowers on the hall table and the place had a dignity about it that was undeniable.

  Voices came from the grand parlor to the left and they entered a large receiving room filled almost entirely with septuagenarians. The gentlemen rose creakily as Daisy and her party entered and the ladies managed to turn and peer at them through smudged lorgnettes. One by one she was introduced to dowagers, aged “sirs,” and the occasional baron or viscount. Each was pronounced a valued family friend, and several had an attendant standing by to help with a shawl, footstool, or ear trumpet.

  Daisy looked to Arthur, who smiled indulgently when his guests called him “my boy,” and saw no hint that he thought of this gathering as anything but expected. This was the old trots’ idea of entertaining? These were the family friends who would try and test her under the guise of a social affair? She glanced at the countess, who merely raised an eloquent eyebrow and continued to make small talk in a rather loud voice.

  A few additional visitors arrived over the afternoon and were introduced before dinner at a gathering in the grand parlor. These were mostly younger, some the offspring of the oldsters she had met earlier. But only one of them could rightly claim to be under forty: Reynard Boulton.

  “Goodness, I didn’t expect to see you here.” Daisy extended her hand and he gave it a gracious nod before surrendering it back to her.

  “I was surprised myself to receive an invitation. The Meridians seldom entertain—I had to come and see what the fuss was about. And now I see. You’re here.”

  “Me? I can’t think they’re celebrating my presence,” she said, glancing up to find Uncle Bertram’s gaze fixed on them. Boulton noticed and smiled.

  “Perhaps ‘celebrating’ is waxing it a bit.” He looked around at the abundance of white hair in the room. “They’ve assembled the troops. Whether for an honors brigade or a firing squad is yet to be determined.”

  She laughed in spite of herself
and attracted curious glances. Within seconds she found the countess at her side to pry her away from London’s premier gossip. Soon after, they were called in to dinner.

  Daisy tried to steer the conversation away from the claims of gout, digestive problems, and dietary peculiarities that seemed to occupy the guests’ thoughts. But none of her dinner companions, it seemed, had much interest in country pursuits like hunting anymore. A few of the men recalled the glory of past hunts and some argued over the lineage of long-dead horses, the skill of hound masters past, and the routs that followed the hunt’s exertions. A few blue words escaped and no one batted an eye. She was regretting having brought up the subject when the duke himself stepped in to the conversation.

  “Miss Bumgarten is something of a hunter herself,” he said, loud enough for all of his guests to hear. “Brilliant rider, actually. And you should see her horse—black as night and seventeen hands at least.”

  The guests turned to look at her and to her credit she reddened under the attention—as a young unmarried girl should. When she looked down at her plate, she caught a glimpse of Boulton rolling his eyes for her benefit and smiled. It wasn’t long before Red was called upon to repeat some of his best Nevada stories, and the rest of the meal was relatively genial. Red knew how to tailor his tales to an audience, and the older guests were enthralled by his larger than life depictions of the West and claims of derring-do.

  There was no brandy-and-cigars part of the evening that required the ladies to retire to the drawing room. A number of the older gentlemen confessed to having strict orders from their physicians to avoid both, and some declined the coffee that was served on the same grounds. One by one they shuffled off to bed, leaving only the younger contingent of guests in the drawing room.

  “Lovely dinner, Your Grace,” Daisy said when Arthur finally managed to work his way through the remaining guests to reach her side.

  “So it was. A bit dull for you, I expect. But, I say sincerely, your presence here made my night. You are so gracious and lovely.”

  “Why, thank you, Your Grace.” She hoped her smile looked more genuine than it felt. “It is a pleasure to accept your hospitality. I confess surprise, however, at the number of older persons in your acquaintance.”

  “Oh, that.” He chuckled and reddened a bit. “They’re my aunts’ and uncles’ friends, actually. They planned the thing and since I have relatively few acquaintances near my own—”

  “I say, Artie.” Boulton sauntered up with a flask in one hand and a coffee cup in the other. “Thinking of opening up a boardinghouse for old-age pensioners?”

  “Why? Do you need lodgings?” Arthur said with complete sincerity. “You’re most welcome, Reynard. Stay as long as you like.”

  “Bloody hell, Artie,” Reynard snapped. “That was a joke.”

  “Was it indeed? Didn’t catch that at all.” He looked to Daisy. “You have met Miss Bumgarten, haven’t you? She’s quite a horsewoman, you know. I intend to show her Betancourt on horseback first thing tomorrow morning. You’re free to join us if you wish.”

  “It is my custom to sleep till noon,” Reynard said archly. “And I’m no great lover of horses. No offense.” He aimed that last at Daisy.

  “None taken,” she responded.

  “I wasn’t a devotee myself until Miss Bumgarten introduced me to the joys of riding,” Arthur continued, looking to Daisy. “I’ve been practicing every day since. I think you’ll find my seat much improved.”

  Daisy’s eyes widened by the same amount that Reynard’s narrowed. “I am glad to hear you’re making progress, Your Grace.”

  “No doubt she could encourage your skill as well, Reynard. Do come with us tomorrow.”

  “I appreciate your largesse, Your Grace, but I’m a creature of habits.”

  “Bad habits,” Arthur muttered as Boulton walked away, causing Daisy to look at him with surprise. “He can be a rotter, sometimes. But basically he’s just lonely. When we were at school together, nobody liked him.”

  “That’s rather sad,” she said, considering Arthur’s insight into Boulton’s character. He noticed more than anyone gave him credit for.

  “We were in the same boat. I didn’t have many friends, either. Ash stuck up for us, though. And the other boys left us alone.”

  “Really?”

  “Ash was like that. Always eager to fight and fierce to defend his family and friends. People think Ash is a bounder, I know, but he has a good heart. I’m glad he’s coming home, even if it is just for a visit. I miss him.”

  Those were the words that echoed in Daisy’s head as she prepared for bed that night in the once elegant, satin-lined bedchamber. “I miss him.”

  He wasn’t the only one who missed Ashton Graham.

  Sleep was a long time coming as she tossed and turned and refused to think of any Graham but Arthur. He surprised her with his desire to ride and his efforts to follow through on his promise to gain skill in the saddle. And while he was still oblivious to the slights and subtleties of social interactions, she was beginning to think he wasn’t as inexperienced as he seemed. She laughed softly, thinking of his exquisite rebuff of Boulton earlier. Yes, he showed promise, the Duke of Meridian. And she prayed that she could make him see the same in her.

  * * *

  The duke had indeed improved in the saddle, Daisy learned the next morning. She, the duke, Red, and a couple of the younger guests set off from the house when the sun was rising in the sky. Dew still drenched the grass, birds were chirping, and people in the clusters of cottages that dotted the estate were stirring. There were planted fields and woods and pastures ready for grazing, but there was little activity about them. Where were the cattle, sheep, pigs, and goats?

  Interestingly, the people in those cottages ran into their yards to stare at the party riding by. The men doffed their caps and the women spread their aprons and dipped as they recognized their duke. There was a palpable excitement and no small bit of wonder in their expressions, as if seeing him were a rare treat. Arthur nodded graciously and squared himself in the saddle, as if their greeting reminded him of his role here.

  By the time they returned to Betancourt proper, Daisy was pleased to be able to compliment Arthur on his horsemanship and his lovely home, the estate of Betancourt.

  “The stable,” Arthur said with chagrin as they handed off their mounts to a couple of aged grooms, “is not up to standards, I fear.” He looked around the unpainted structure. “As soon as I have means, I will be hiring a new stable man to take it in hand.”

  “Horses, horses,” came a harsh voice some yards away and approaching. “They’re all he’s talked about since we returned from Marlton.”

  Uncle Bertram arrived with a taut look of displeasure for Daisy.

  “Well, then, he’s showin’ good sense.” Red stepped into Bertram’s line of sight. “We always say in Nevada, ‘you take care o’ yer horses, an’ they’ll take care of you.’”

  “A waste of oats, most of them,” Bertram said with a sniff.

  “Only because they haven’t been attended properly,” Daisy said, stepping out of her uncle’s shadow and making straight for Arthur. “What say you, Your Grace? Shall we have a look at your carriage and riding stock?”

  “Oh, I say, would you?” Arthur said with that innocent look she’d seen before. He looked to Red. “I would greatly value your opinions, Mr. Strait.”

  “Uncle Red, to you, boyo,” Red said, grasping his own lapels proudly and waiting for the gasps that would follow. Daisy whapped her uncle on the sleeve and caused him to laugh wickedly.

  The duke laughed, too, despite Bertram’s wordless fury, and motioned them to follow along to the house.

  A cold luncheon was served in the breakfast room amidst strong beams of light pouring through the great windows. They were joined by a number of the older contingent, who listened eagerly to news of the estate and spun a few stories of their youthful escapades in ponds, up trees, and pulling pranks in the great house. Dai
sy was surprised to hear that Betancourt’s stables were once considered its prime feature.

  Later, as they assessed the formation and movement of various horses from the stable, confusion erupted in the paddock at the far end. Knowing Dancer was stabled there, Daisy jumped up onto one of the fence boards and stretched to see what was going on. A glistening black head was rearing and there was a lot of snorting and whinnying. The stable hands and grooms began to snicker. Red and Arthur pulled her back down and Arthur turned her by the shoulders and pulled her against him to shelter her from the sight.

  “You mustn’t look,” Arthur said, horrified. “I fear your beloved mount has gone rogue and started to—”

  “He’s coverin’ a mare, Daize,” Red said loudly. “Must have found one in season.”

  “Oh.” Daisy pushed back in Arthur’s arms, looking a little abashed. “I’m afraid he’s used to having his way with mares. I hope you don’t mind.”

  Arthur was speechless for a moment, then quickly recovered. “I imagine your horse would be a splendid father.”

  Red burst out laughing and the stable hands scrambled to their duties while trying to hide their amusement.

  “I mean”—Arthur reddened—“a foal from your stallion would be a wonderful addition to our stable.”

  “So it would,” Daisy said, shooting a fierce look at Red. “He’s a fine horse and a gentleman with mares. I had no idea he was put in with your horses.”

  The story reached the main house in record time, whispered and tittered about by the staff, who could scarcely recall the last time a foal was born on the estate. But by afternoon, when Daisy retreated to her room to rest and freshen up, the countess had a few choice words about the incident.

  “Dearest Heaven—of all things! That beast of yours inflicting himself on the duke’s riding stock! His family already thinks you’re unbridled and uncouth, and unsuitable. And your presence is now marked with the taint of this reckless . . . ‘mating.’”