“My dear child!” Mama shrieked, enveloping her in an embrace.
Mama normally did not hug her. Hugs were reserved for small children, not for daughters one feared might achieve spinsterhood.
“I was so worried,” Mama squealed.
Margaret wondered whether she should remind her that she would not have been worried had she not decided to tie Margaret to the duke’s bed.
Lily pattered toward her, wagging her tail, oblivious that this night was unlike any of the others. Margaret crouched down and petted her dog’s pale coat.
“Ah, there you are,” Papa said. Even though light gleamed from his pince-nez in their customary fashion, Margaret saw the friendly creases around his eyes, even if he displayed less emotion than her mother.
“Young lady, you should have come home with your mother,” Papa said, as if remembering that this was a moment for parental showcasing, even if such moments were rare. “Why ever did you become separated from her?”
Mama looked at her nervously.
Margaret hesitated. Now was the time to tell her father everything, and yet, what would it accomplish? Papa might scold Mama?
No.
This was between her mother and herself. She just needed to be more careful, lest her mother decide to stage a false compromising scene again.
“I’m here now.”
Papa nodded. “Right, right. So you are.”
Another father might have become angry, with the air of a man who’d always pondered what it might be like to be a dictator and who took any misbehavior as a sign to fully explore that potential. Papa was not most men. When he halted his incessant meetings and perusals of various ledgers and reports, it was only to smile contentedly, as if he had a constant cup of chocolate in his hand. Papa was grateful for his good fortune and withstood the temptation lesser men had succumbed to of acting patronizing to everyone who’d not succeeded in becoming a titan.
Margaret shifted her legs. “I’ll go upstairs.”
“Quite sensible,” Papa said. “I—er—should get back to my books.”
Mama nodded, but there was an icy glint in her eyes, and when Margaret ascended the stairs, she wondered if she’d made a mistake in not saying everything.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE LIGHT MIGHT GLISTEN through his library, rendering the gold emblazoned letters on the vibrantly colored tomes even more magnificent than was their tendency, but Jasper’s mind did not muse over the aesthetic pleasures of that event, nor did he contemplate with great delight the flavors of his bergamot and lemon tea. A peculiar feeling had lingered over him since escaping marriage, that most vile of institutions.
Jasper’s closest proximity to leg-shackling before had been confined to some rather misty moments when reading Byron. Thankfully, no women had been present, and the mood had passed.
But he’d veered altogether too near to the dreaded marital institution. His heart beat oddly as he envisioned a life of quiet Sundays and pitter-pattering feet.
Actually, strictly speaking, quiet Sundays seemed an improvement to his current Sunday ritual of visiting the club. Hades’ Lair was being converted into apartments, and Jasper now had to endure an unpleasant coach ride to enter a mediocre gaming hell. The armchairs might match a sumptuousness he’d thought only achieved by the leather armchairs at the now defunct Hades’ Lair, but his friends had disappeared.
They’d married, one by one, vanishing as if some blasted maniacal killer had hacked each man apart.
Apparently, no such fate had occurred, even if Jasper eyed the crime section of the broadsheets with suspicion.
Jasper had attended their various weddings, at least the ones who’d not eloped in a shocking lack of judgement that should have gained instant admission to Bedlam. By all indications, his friends were now ensconced in the countryside, so as to gaze blissfully at fluffy lambs and plump flowers with greater ease. Hugh had even mused about the possibility of joining his wife in the art of watercolors.
Jasper scowled.
Other men might succumb to the sentimental drivel perpetuated by poets and depicted in oil smeared monstrosities by artists wielding blister inducing palettes. Jasper refused to succumb to other men’s fates.
But I almost did.
Jasper focused on his correspondence. Picking up an envelope was normal, as was picking up an erasing knife to break the seal.
He scanned the contents, then frowned and rang the bell pull.
Powell soon appeared.
Jasper held up the letter in his hand. “This is a bill, Powell.”
“Ah,” Powell murmured. “Very good, Your Grace.”
Jasper scrutinized his butler. “This is a bill to repair a carriage roof.”
“I see, Your Grace.” His butler shifted his legs.
“The Viscount of Brimfield indicates you ruined it.” Jasper set the letter down. “Obviously, he must be mistaken.”
Two pink circles appeared on his butler’s cheeks. “I am afraid, Your Grace, that His Lordship is entirely correct.”
Jasper drew his eyebrows together.
“You may subtract the fee from my wages,” Powell said stoically with the sort of resigned expression painters were always employing when depicting men about to be executed.
“Was there a reason for you to destroy his carriage roof? Is it a new hobby of which I should be aware? Did the viscount say something particularly vile?” Jasper leaned forward and grinned. The viscount had a stodgy nature, and it was difficult to imagine him inspiring his always calm butler to take revenge. He was certain he’d never even heard the viscount curse.
“The viscount acted with his normal good grace,” Powell said. “There was an incident with a young lady.”
Jasper’s eyebrows lurched up. He hadn’t expected Powell to speak about a woman. Powell had seemed elderly when Jasper was a child and Powell was comforting him about his parents’ and siblings’ deaths. Powell hardly seemed susceptible to sneaking into carriages with women and engaging in vigorous activity that would lead to roof mutilation.
“The young lady in question was in danger of falling from a balcony. I surmised that she would find the landing less lethal were she to land on the viscount’s carriage. The roof’s surface is more conducive to comfort.”
Jasper stared at his butler. “You saved her life.”
Powell shrugged. “It was a pleasure.”
“And that means—she almost lost hers.” Jasper’s heart lurched.
Powell gave him a sympathetic look.
“Blast it, she shouldn’t have been in that position,” Jasper exclaimed.
“Perhaps it will help you to know that she suffered no injuries.”
“That’s good.” Jasper raked his hand through his hair. “I need to see her. I need to thank her.”
Jasper searched for his address book.
“She had an invitation to the ball. I remember when she entered.”
“Good, good.” Jasper found the list.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?”
“For now,” Jasper said, waving his hand up.
The butler nodded and left the room.
Jasper hastily found Miss Carberry’s address.
Most women wouldn’t hang off balconies, even if they were in the habit of reading adventurous gothics. They certainly weren’t prone to risking their necks. Not when not risking their necks might mean an everlasting union with him.
It had been damned decent of her to risk her life. Damned foolish too.
Though Jasper had an appropriate disregard for his charms, he was aware that women had a habit of having glazed eyes in his presence, as if occupied with imagining unborn children.
Unborn children were always the perfect sort. They didn’t glare grumpily at one, and they never tested their vocal range.
Debutantes were particularly prone to the malaise of misty eyes. When one had just been presented to the king, one was apt to imagine all sorts of things, even if nothing could be more ridiculous than
picturing Jasper as a husband.
Evidently, Miss Carberry had seen the impossibility of any match quickly. Though Jasper was unsure whether he’d ever spoken to her, he had spent a house party with her. To be fair, Miss Carberry belonged to the shyer sort of woman, and she hadn’t spoken much to anyone.
Miss Carberry’s eagerness to avoid a marriage with him was almost insulting.
In fact, it was quite definitely insulting.
Had she thought he wouldn’t do the right thing? Jasper might not be a marriage advocate, but he did not skirt his duties, even the one involving a morning church visit, an uncomfortable cravat knot and standing perilously near the altar while making eternal vows.
A knock sounded on the door, and his butler appeared. “You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
“Thank you, Powell.”
“I took the liberty of placing the young lady in the drawing room.”
“Right. I’ll just finish this letter—”
Powell coughed. “I believe you will want to see this lady.”
Jasper swallowed hard. “Does the young lady have a name?”
“I am certain, Your Grace.” Powell bowed. “Regrettably, I am not aware of it. She is not one of your normal visitors. She is, though, the lady who fell from the balcony last night.”
Jasper’s heart jolted, but he managed to retain a placid expression. “Very good, Powell.”
“I should perhaps inform you that she brought another woman,” the butler said.
“An older woman?” Jasper’s voice trembled.
“That is an apt description of her, Your Grace.”
Jasper jumped up, strode through the corridor and headed for the drawing room. His London townhouse might lack the bedroom count of his various castles, but it could hardly be described as compact. Finally, he entered the room.
On the chaise was Miss Margaret Carberry. Today, her dress had no tears, and was a somber navy blue compared to the garish yellow she’d favored yesterday, but it was definitely her. Beside her was an older woman with the gray hair and wrinkled skin his butler had mentioned.
Not Mrs. Carberry. Relief moved through him, and he returned his gaze to Miss Carberry.
“It’s you,” he said hoarsely.
“Er—yes.” Her lips spread into an awkward smile that managed to be endearing.
Jasper bowed to the elderly looking woman beside her.
He shifted his legs, as if bracing for Miss Carberry to bound out another window. Thankfully ground floor windows were less conducive to producing heart murmurs. He eyed her warily and sat down on an armchair. The velvet fabric seemed to scratch him, even though previously he would always have termed the fabric opulent.
“How nice to see you, Miss Carberry,” he said. “I—er—haven’t seen you since the marquess’s house party.”
Miss Carberry raised her eyebrows, and he gave her a mild smile, calculated not to inspire musings on the past night. He refused to admit to anyone that he’d seen her in his bedroom the night before. Some things should remain secrets.
“And I brought my grandmother,” she said brightly.
“Ah.” He turned his attention to the woman beside her. “Not your mother.”
Miss Carberry shook her head firmly.
Jasper had fought in the war and he tended to assign dangerous qualities to people lighting cannons and thrusting bayonets. Miss Carberry’s grandmother might not be holding a match, much less have a cannon before her, but he still inched into his armchair.
“My grandmother is my father’s mother,” Miss Carberry said.
“Ah...” Jasper’s shoulders eased. “So, she’s entirely unrelated to your mother.”
“Precisely.”
Jasper nodded rapidly. “Good, good.”
This day hadn’t taken a dreadful turn after all. It had veered so abruptly last night to the side of all things atrocious that Jasper hadn’t been certain whether his luck had abruptly ended and the whole world would forever be just a bit worse and that he would always be able to point to the exact day, the exact moment, in which everything good had ended, never to be recovered.
Jasper sprang up, informed Powell to tell the housekeeper to bring tea, then settled back into his armchair.
“The weather is nice today, is it not?” Jasper asked brightly.
“Unlikely to produce mud,” Miss Carberry said amiably. “I have a proposition for you.”
“A proposition?”
“Indeed?” Despite his best intentions, his voice trembled. Hopefully she did not mean the marital sort.
She nodded. “I need to find a husband.”
“That was clear from your mother’s behavior,” he remarked.
Her cheeks pinkened, but she didn’t avert her gaze and she didn’t make an excuse to leave.
“Did you have a particular husband in mind?” his voice squeaked, and he coughed.
The last thing he desired was for her to say that he made the ideal husband. It wouldn’t be an unusual statement. Plenty of matchmaking mamas had told him the same thing, usually before stating how their daughters were uniquely equipped to manage Jasper’s vast estates—as if he were incapable of hiring good estate managers and housekeepers, and as if he were completely flummoxed by the prospect of choosing a dinner menu or color scheme.
If Jasper could battle Bonaparte’s army, he could certainly tackle a menu, no matter how much it might shock the women of the ton.
“It’s not you,” Miss Carberry said, clearly reading his mind.
“Good,” he said, and her cheeks pinkened in that delightful manner again.
He sighed. Perhaps it was ungentlemanly to appear utterly horrified at the thought of marrying her.
“I mean,” he corrected, “I have no desire to marry anyone.”
“You don’t need to,” she said.
He nodded. “Very astute.”
The housekeeper came with the tea, and they were silent. He wasn’t going to give the housekeeper any fodder for marital speculations. She had a dreadful habit of having her eyes mist at the prospect of him marrying. There were reasons why most people didn’t have servants who remembered one in leading strings.
Instead, he relaxed into the wingchair and scrutinized Miss Carberry. He’d seen her before, of course, but she never drew attention to herself. At Hugh’s house party, the other women had excelled at conversation, and he’d talked with them about the weather, high society gossip, and the virtues of good manners.
He’d had no such conversations with Miss Carberry. She’d talked rarely, and when she did, she had a horrible habit of talking about the wrong thing. She even sounded different from the other women, even if there was something appealing about the Scottish lilts of her accent. Miss Carberry had once entered into an entire monologue about the supposed marvels of earthworms at his friend’s house party. There was never a good time to talk about earthworms, but dinner was the very worst time to introduce the conversation. Frankly, Jasper was quite content to pretend that earthworms did not exist. The thought seemed to create a much more pleasant world, no matter what Miss Carberry might think.
“I was hoping—” Miss Carberry paused, and her face pinkened. She then inhaled and focused her gaze on her tea.
Miss Carberry’s grandmother smiled benignly, and Miss Carberry stirred her tea. A clanging noise sounded as her spoon hit the porcelain cup.
She was nervous.
Most likely Miss Carberry desired a favor. Money, perhaps, as an acknowledgment that she’d saved him from a dreadful fate. Perhaps she’d contemplated the potential benefits of being a duchess.
Well, he could compensate her. Whatever she wanted. He was damned grateful. Besides, he had plenty of coin. Coin was not the issue.
Finally, Miss Carberry raised her gaze. “I was hoping you might dance with me.”
“Dance?” Jasper lurched his eyebrows upward and glanced toward the empty space beside the chaises. “N-Now?”
“No, no,” Miss Carberry said quickly
. “At a ball. Where people might see us. In fact, if you were to give the impression you enjoyed dancing with me, it is possible other men might—”
“—desire to dance with you?” Jasper finished.
She widened her eyes, evidently surprised Jasper had come to the conclusion with only minor prompting.
The correct answer was no, obviously.
Jasper had escaped marriage and now he could throw himself into all his normal pleasure-making activities. He certainly didn’t want to be thought to be courting a wallflower. A man had a certain reputation to keep up. One wouldn’t want to make a sartorial error and accessorize with the wrong style of shoe, and one certainly wouldn’t want to be seen with the wrong type of chit.
And yet...
It had been dashed decent of Miss Carberry to not wait in the room and insist they marry. It had been even more decent of her to hide out the window.
She’d risked her entire life.
Jasper had vowed to himself he would grant her anything. He’d been imagining she would desire some sort of financial gift. Most people were quite simple, and were equally enamored in the unwavering, consistent coin.
“I can’t do it,” he said finally.
“Oh.” Miss Carberry’s face fell.
Jasper ignored the tinge of guilt that thrummed through him. He rose and paced the wooden floor, moving over the oriental carpet placed underneath the coffee table and chairs.
“It’s not a horrible idea,” he amended.
“But you won’t do it,” she said.
He nodded. “Exactly so.”
There was an awkward silence in the room, and Miss Carberry’s grandmother munched on a sweet. Perhaps the elder Mrs. Carberry thought it likely that Miss Carberry might leave abruptly and had decided to avail herself of Monsieur Parfait’s sugar delicacies.
If so, the elder Mrs. Carberry was a wise woman. Monsieur Parfait’s delicacies were brilliant.
“The fact is,” Jasper continued. “It won’t work.”
Miss Carberry frowned. He’d thought she might frown, and he continued on, ignoring the instinct that he must make her laugh. Normally he could achieve it quickly by sticking out his tongue or standing on his head. Still, if her mood really matched the downward slope of her lips, there was a chance she might fling the sweets at him.
All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Page 5