Lady Priscilla's Shameful Secret

by Christine Merrill

  But the dance could not go on for ever and she did not want to give the man reason to speak. She would have to do without.

  He had noticed her silence. ‘It surprises me to find you so uninterested. Mrs Hendricks was most eager for any news of you. Do you find yourself jealous on her account?’

  ‘Certainly not. It is about time that Drusilla had the chance to be happy.’ She looked longingly back at the wallflowers, wishing she was amongst them. Perhaps one of them had been at the Folbrokes’ party and could give her the information she craved. ‘It seems I am out of practice in social settings.’ She glared up at him. ‘I do not remember the conversation being quite so rude, when last I waltzed.’ He would let her go now. That had been a direct insult and he could hardly ignore it.

  But her barbed words bounced off his thick skin as though they meant nothing. ‘You must make an effort to get out more,’ he replied. ‘It was at my request that you were invited here. I wished to meet you. I will see to it that you receive further such invitations.’ He said it without a smile. Did the man have no emotions at all?

  ‘If you wish,’ she added for him.

  ‘Of course I wish. That is why I will do it.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, your Grace. What I meant was that you should have finished your last sentence with the phrase “if you wish.” Then it would mean that you would see to it I received further invitations and could accept them if I desired. It would imply that I had a choice.’

  He ignored her lack of enthusiasm. ‘If I give you a choice, I can well guess what your answer would be, although I am at a loss as to the reason for it. You seem to have taken an instant dislike of me, though you have known me for all of five minutes. I suspect that you would have formed the same opinion of me without even leaving your house, if I had given you the chance. But that would not do at all. It is time that you are brought out into the light so that a man can get a proper look at you.’

  ‘Why would you need a proper look at me?’

  ‘I mean to marry,’ he said, as though it were not obvious. ‘And you are a front runner. But no matter what your father might think, I cannot be expected to make a decision based on his word alone.’

  ‘He could have shown you a miniature and you could have made a judgement from that,’ she said. It was clear that her opinion did not matter. Of course, she supposed, since the man was a duke, her acceptance was assumed. Why would she refuse?

  Other than that he had the manners of a stable hand.

  ‘It would not have been the same,’ he assured her. ‘You are quite lovely and I am sure no picture would do you justice.’

  ‘I am not so different from many others,’ she insisted. ‘If you wish for a pretty bride, you would be better served to make the rounds at Almack’s. Everyone who is anyone is there.’

  ‘In knee breeches,’ he added. ‘There is a limit to what I will go through, simply for the sake of marrying.’

  ‘They are proper attire for evening,’ she said bluntly.

  ‘They are uncomfortable,’ he said with equal bluntness. ‘And they do not suit me. I will wear them at court, of course. I mean no disrespect to the Regent. But beyond that, trousers will have to do.’

  ‘So you are willing to limit your choice of bride, based on your unwillingness to dress for evening?’

  ‘Just as you are limiting your choice of husbands by not attending Almack’s,’ he said.

  Touché. She could not explain her way out of that without admitting that she could no longer get vouchers. ‘Perhaps I do not wish to marry,’ she hazarded.

  ‘Then you should go for the dancing,’ he suggested. ‘You are very good at it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said glumly.

  ‘If we marry, I will not worry about having to hire a dancing master for you.’

  She stumbled. He knew. Not all, perhaps. But enough. She pulled her hand from his, prepared to quit the floor.

  He grabbed it back again and kept her in place. ‘You will not get away from me so easily. Wait until the end of the music. Anything else will make you appear skittish.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I do not tolerate skittishness.’

  ‘And I do not care what you do or do not like,’ she said.

  ‘Then we are not likely to get on well.’ He gave a thoughtful nod as though he were marking a check on the negative side of some invisible list of wifely qualities. ‘Other young ladies are much more agreeable,’ he said. ‘One might even say that they fawned.’

  ‘I expect so. You are a duke, after all. A marriageable miss cannot aspire higher than that.’

  ‘Then why do you not express similar behaviours?’

  ‘Is there anything about the title that imbues it with an amiable nature, a pleasant companion, a loving mate, or…’ she struggled to find a delicate way to express her misgivings ‘…any kind of compatibility between us? You are young, of course.’

  ‘Twenty-six,’ he supplied.

  ‘That might be an advantage in your favour. Barring accident, I would not have to be worried about widowhood. But I have met many men to whom I would much rather be a widow than a wife.’

  His rather forbidding face split in a smile that was as surprising as it was brilliant. Straight white teeth, full lips, which had seemed narrow as he’d frowned at her. And there was a spark in his eye. For a moment, she almost found him attractive.

  Then she remembered that he was her father’s choice, not hers.

  ‘I intend to live to a ripe old age,’ he affirmed. ‘Do you ride?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I said, do you ride? Horses,’ he added, as though there could be any other sort of riding.

  ‘No,’ she said hurriedly, hoping that this was the correct answer to put him off. ‘I am deathly afraid of horses.’ In truth, she quite liked them—probably better than she liked his Grace. But one could not be expected to marry a man based on the contents of his stables.

  His smile had turned to thoughtful disappointment. ‘That is a pity. You do a creditable imitation of one, I notice. Although it does not suit you. This Season, I have met several young ladies from whom a snort and a neigh would not have surprised me in the least.’

  The joke was not subtle. She almost upbraided him for his cruelty before he added, ‘That did not bother me much, however. Looks are not everything in a woman. And I quite like horses. I breed them, you know. I have rather a lot of land devoted to the business of it. In the country, of course.’

  ‘Then it is as I said. We would not suit at all. I cannot abide the country.’ Another lie.

  ‘You would not be there all the time, you know. Much as I do not like to be away during the prime foaling time, now that I am Duke, I will be forced to attend parliament, and all the balls, galas and entertainments that accompany the Season. I suspect you could have your fill of town were you married to me.’

  And then retire for the rest of the year to a country estate, far away from the prying eyes of the ton. She imagined acres of soft rolling green dotted with grazing mares and their little ones nudging at them. It was tempting, when he put it that way. ‘As you complained earlier, I rarely attend the events of the Season now that I am here. It is just as likely that I would be forced to socialise when I did not wish and then be forced into a solitude I did not enjoy.’

  He gave her a sidelong glance. ‘It sounds rather like you have taken it into your head not to be happy with anything I might offer you.’

  She returned the glance. ‘Is it so obvious?’

  ‘Quite. Since you are prone to such candour, will you tell me the reason for it? If I have given you offence, as I frequently do, it would be useful to know how. I would welcome a critique of my approach, so that I do not repeat the mistake with the next young lady.’

  Her lips q
uirked as she tried to suppress a smile. ‘There. Just now. You should have said, “If I have given offence, I humbly apologise”.’

  ‘Without knowing why?’

  ‘Definitely. That is the way to a lady’s heart.’

  ‘And if I were to begin with this apology, you would feel differently towards me?’

  ‘No.’

  He drew back a moment, as though running through the conversation in his head. ‘Then I shan’t bother.’ He stood in silence next to her, as though plotting his next move.

  Why did he not just go away? She had been the one to give offence. And he was the one with all the power and new enough so that he hardly knew how to wield it. Did he not realise that his rank would allow him to take umbrage at the most trivial things, storm off or deny patronage? By now, he should have reported to her father that there was no way he could be leg shackled to such a thoroughly disagreeable chit and that would be that.

  It would be a Pyrrhic victory, of course. There would be punishment and frigid silences awaiting her at home. But it would be one step closer to spinsterhood and the forced rustication that she craved.

  Instead he seemed stubbornly attached to her. ‘Now, let me see. You do not like riding, or balls, or the city, or the country. What does that leave us? Books?’

  ‘I am not a great reader.’

  ‘Shopping?’

  ‘I have no wish to outfit myself in such a way that I am merely an ornament to my husband.’

  ‘But you are most charmingly arrayed and, as previously noted, quite pretty.’

  ‘I do not like flattery either.’ But if she were totally honest with him, she would admit that she quite admired persistence.

  ‘I suppose pleasant conversation cannot be a favourite of yours, or we would be having one now.’ He gave her another sidelong glance. ‘Clearly, you enjoy arguing. And there we will find our common ground. I can argue all night, if necessary.’

  ‘To no avail. I will never agree with you, on any point.’

  ‘If I sought your agreement, then that would be a problem.’

  ‘That is precisely the problem I have with you,’ she snapped back, growing tired of the banter. ‘No one seeks my agreement. I am to be presented with a fait accompli and expected to go meekly along with it, for the sake of family connections and political benefit.’

  ‘Aha.’ He was looking at her closely now. ‘You are trying to avoid a favourable match because it has been presented by your father. You have someone else in mind, then? Someone not quite so rich? Or without a title?’

  ‘Do not flatter yourself to think that I love another,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps I simply do not want you.’

  ‘But that is not true either. You hardly know me. But you have formed an opinion on the Duke of Reighland, have you not? Your answer to him is a resounding no.’

  ‘You are he.’

  ‘Not until recently,’ he informed her. ‘But I am quite aware of the pressure to marry according to one’s station, at the expense of one’s wishes. That is the purpose of this interview and several others I have organised recently.’

  She smiled in relief, sure that if he had spoken to any other girl in London, it would cement his poor opinion of her.

  He smiled back and once again she was surprised at the blinding whiteness of it. ‘I must inform you that you have passed with flying colours. I look forward to calling on you, at your home, and on speaking to your father about a further acquaintance.’ And with that the dance was over and he was escorting her, in stunned silence, back to her stepmother.

  * * *

  He liked her.

  Even now, thinking of that rude whinny, he could feel his lips starting to twitch. He carefully suppressed the emotion. It was far easier to deal with people if they suspected that ‘Reighland’ was hovering on the edge of displeasure. They jumped to attention, in a vain attempt to keep the impossible man happy and not be the one upon whom the impending storm would break.

  If he had been amiable, or, worse yet, laughed in their faces at their ridiculous behaviour towards him and offered friendship, it might be possible to dismiss him, title and all, as the unworthy upstart he sometimes felt he was. They would remember that he was the same lad they teased unmercifully at school. Robert Magson, the bear with no teeth. Once they had realised he would not fight back, it had been declared great fun to bait him. The torment had not stopped until he had gained his majority and retired to the country estate.

  Now, those same men and their wives feared him, because they feared the title. If they realised that Reighland was just a thin veil over his old self, they would know how much power they still held. And it would all begin again.

  So he glared and felt the crowd tremble at the possibility of his disapproval. It was better that they were kept off balance and at a distance, as they had been since his arrival in London. It meant he had made no friends, but neither had he any real enemies.

  And until recently, tonight had been going according to course. Though she might sneer at his manners tomorrow, tonight the hostess was fawning over him, desperate to keep his favour. Several young ladies had been nudged into his path by their mamas, rather like birds forced from the nest into the mouth of a waiting cat. And just like those birds, they had been, to the last, wide-eyed, gawky and rather stupid. He had done the nice, of course, danced with them and fetched several glasses of lemonade, which allowed him to avoid adding his own dull wits to theirs.

  Then he had spotted his supposed intended, just as he had hoped to. Hendricks had been right, the girl was a prime article. Pretty enough to put the others in the shade.

  Or shadow. For there could not exactly be shade, could there, if the sun had set?

  He brooded on that for a moment, then returned to the matter at hand.

  The beautiful Lady Priscilla had seen through him in an instant. Apparently, she was not impressed by the farmer with the strawberry-leaf coronet.

  In response, he’d been instantly attracted to her. But it was obvious that the sentiment would not be easily returned. Perhaps that was why he found her so fascinating. Of the three or four likely candidates he had found for his duchess, she might not be the prettiest in London. Close, perhaps. He almost preferred the dark good looks of Charlotte Deveril, despite that girl’s lack of a titled father.

  Lady Priscilla was an earl’s daughter, with connections equal to two of the other girls he favoured. And her reputation…

  There were rumours. When he’d questioned friends, no one had had the nerve to speak directly of the flaw. But he was sure it existed, if her own brother-in-law could not manage unequivocal approval of her. Even without the presence of Mrs Hendricks, he’d had to give a more-than-gentle hint to tonight’s hostess that he wished the presence of both Benbridge and his family. He had been informed that the new Lady Benbridge would be welcome, of course. But there had been something in the tone of the discussion that implied everyone would just as soon forget that there was a Lady Priscilla.

  Perhaps it was that they knew she would misbehave in his presence. She did not offer shy and hopeful glances through her eyelashes. She did not flatter. She did not hang upon his every word, no matter how fatuous. She would not pretend one thing to his face, only to talk behind his back.

  What she felt for him was plain and undisguised dislike. And it was directed to the duke and not the man inside. She refused to agree with him, in even the slightest details of his speech. She wanted no part of him and did not bother to hide it.

  Therefore, she was the only one worth having. Whatever she might be, she did not bore him. And if he could win such a proud creature for himself he would know that the past was finally dead. Once Priscilla was married, whatever small scandal lay in her past would be forgotten. His wife would be beautiful, well bred and the envy of the ton. He wo
uld give her free rein in wardrobe and entertaining. Their house would be a show place and the feigned respect of his peers would become real.

  But it was still a surprise to find that the most perfect woman in London was dead set against marrying above her station. Perhaps, a year ago, when he was a not particularly humble horse trader, she’d have courted him, just to spite her father. Or perhaps not. It would take time to find the full reason for her contrary behaviour, but he was willing to be patient.

  Her distaste of riding was another problem. What was he to do with a woman who did not like horses? Granted, he had escorted two of his final four candidates down Rotten Row just this week. In the saddle, they were mediocre at best, sitting their beasts like toads on a jossing block. It had pained him to watch.

  At least, when he could persuade the Benbridge girl to take to a mount, she would have no bad habits that needed to be broken. He could teach her not to fear and eventually she would enjoy it. He imagined her fighting every step of the way. The thought excited him, for sometimes it was the most spirited mare that made for the best ride.

  Then he reminded himself, yet again, that women were not horses. Life would be easier if they were. He could not exactly break her spirit with a rough bit and a whip. But it would be better to have to argue and cajole for every compromise than to have a woman with no spirit to break.

  The combination of riding and spirited women made him smile into his glass and take a long savouring drink. He had not expected to feel the low heat he was feeling for the woman he had met tonight. He had imagined the getting of an heir to be a momentary pleasure, surrounded by a lifetime of awkwardness and frigid courtesy. At best they would develop a fondness for each other. But suppose there could be passion as well?

  Then it would be better if it were mutual desire, he reminded himself. He already knew the foolish course he was likely to take. He would do well to remember, before it was too late, that a passionate dislike from his spouse might make him long for the frosty indifference he was avoiding now.

  And here was her father, eager to know how the dance had gone, but too subtle to ask directly. If Robert did not acknowledge him, the man would be hanging about all night, waiting for an opportunity to speak. ‘Benbridge,’ he said. ‘A word, please.’