“It’s quite lovely, isn’t it?” the housekeeper murmured.
“Yes,” Margaret said.
“We have staircases in Scotland,” Mama said quickly. “They are of a similar quality. My daughter is quite accustomed to staircases.”
“Of course,” the housekeeper said, and Margaret’s face heated.
“This way,” the housekeeper gestured to her right, and Margaret’s parents turned obediently.
This corridor was quiet, but it dazzled with equal vigor to the main reception rooms downstairs. Beauty was distributed equally here, as if it were doing its part to prevent any of the furniture staging a revolution.
The housekeeper opened a door and gestured to Margaret’s grandmother. “This is for you.” She looked at Margaret. “Your room is next to it.”
Margaret stared at a pleasantly decorated jonquil colored room, then followed her parents to another chamber. In another house the bedroom would have been suited for a drawing room. Even though two canopied beds were in the room, the room remained large, as if the architect had intended any eccentric inhabitant to be able to host parties inside.
Green damask silk lined the walls, and a magnificent molding adorned the high ceiling, as if the designer had found it essential to create the ceiling with the utmost splendor, since it was placed at least fifteen feet above the gleaming wooden floor dotted with equally magnificent oriental carpets.
“I suppose this will do,” Mama said. Her voice did not display any particular enjoyment of the surroundings, as if to prevent the housekeeper from reporting back that the Carberry family were not accustomed to such finery. Still, Mama did not normally keep her neck reclined at a sharp angle.
Sunbeams entered through long windows that overlooked the grounds, but it wasn’t the immaculate gardens that drew Margaret’s attention. Beyond the garden lay a sliver of turquoise.
The ocean.
Margaret’s heart soared.
“Are we very far from the coast?” Margaret asked the housekeeper.
“The coast?” The housekeeper raised her eyebrows momentarily.
“Why on earth would you ask about that?” Mama asked. “You’ll be spending your time here.”
Mama knew why Margaret would ask though.
Mama knew about Margaret’s delight in the discoveries Mary Anning had made near Lyme Regis.
She simply didn’t approve.
The housekeeper gestured toward a dirt road, lined by majestic chestnut trees. “You can reach the coast by following that path.”
“Thank you,” Margaret said.
“Yes, so kind of you to indulge her,” Mama said to the housekeeper, casting a glare in Margaret’s direction. “Obviously, our daughter will not venture from the castle. She is perfectly content with everything here.”
“Er—yes.” The housekeeper’s stalwart expression wobbled, and she suddenly appeared far younger.
Lily pattered happily through the room, taking delight in squeezing underneath sideboards and chairs, as if eager to find a hiding place, though the dog was not conducive to being hidden.
“Be good, Lily,” Mama admonished.
“Lily is always good,” Papa said staunchly, and Lily wagged her tail.
Mama scrunched her lips with the air of a woman who had a great many circumstances to discuss but was valiantly resisting the impulse to share them.
“Oh, these items are only from the seventeenth century,” the housekeeper said lightly. “You needn’t worry.”
“I see,” Mama squeaked, her eyes wide.
“Please ring the bell pull if you need anything,” the housekeeper said. “The duke has made everything at your disposal. Dinner is at seven. There will be drinks in the drawing room at six, though you are welcome anytime.”
After that short speech, the housekeeper hastened from the room.
“Really,” Mama said, turning to Margaret. “I hope you’re not going to indulge your strange obsession with bones. It’s not ladylike. The duke didn’t invite you here to have you digging about on the coast. You will be the death of me.”
“They’re fossils,” Margaret said. “And they’re most special. They explain how the world used to be.”
“It is far more important to know how the world is today,” Mama declared. “So far, you have shown no sign of accomplishing even that. Once you master the current world, you can delve into the past. After all, no man wants to hear you pontificate about the wonders of fossils. Men tolerate women discussing fashion and water coloring techniques, because they can dismiss those things as women’s interests.”
“Now I’m not certain that’s true,” Papa said. “Seems to me they might be interested in fossils.”
“Even worse,” Mama said. “Fossils are a topic some of them might think was something they should be able to discuss. Realizing they lack the knowledge to do so, will cause them discomfort. What sort of woman goes about causing men discomfort?”
“You’ve made your point,” Papa said.
“Thank you,” Mama said triumphantly and collapsed onto a conveniently located chaise-longue.
Her mother had that odd gleam in her eyes again. The last time Mama’s eyes had gleamed in that manner, atrocious things had occurred.
Mama angled her head toward Papa. “They’re all dukes. Do you not find it odd?”
“Well, Jevington is a duke,” Papa said. “It’s not entirely unreasonable for him to have invited other dukes.”
Mama frowned, and Margaret had the impression that if her mother were a high ranking noble, she would prefer to surround herself with those who would be suitably awed by her position. After all, Mama had enjoyed Scotland and its absence of titled people from the home counties. There, few people had minded that Papa’s money was new.
The ton though had a distinct preference for pre-nineteenth century coin. Indeed, Margaret was certain any money that was not pre-eighteenth century was deemed suspect in the eyes of the highest rungs of London society, as if it were tainted by poisonous factory smoke.
Margaret’s mother and grandmother decided to test the bedding after the exhausting journey.
“I’m going to explore the place with Lily,” Papa said.
Lily wagged her tail at the sound of Papa’s words.
Her father glanced at Margaret. “Do you want to come with us?”
Margaret wanted to say no. If she went downstairs, she was bound to see other people, and she chewed her bottom lip. “Perhaps I’ll just go to my room.”
“Of course, you must go,” Mama said sternly, and Margaret soon followed Papa down the stairs. Lily wagged her tail, excitedly sniffing each vase they passed.
She scurried along the oriental carpet, leading them at such a brisk pace, that Margaret was almost surprised when they reentered the reception room.
The Duke of Jevington and his friends rose hastily.
Lily greeted the other dukes, and Papa beamed as they bestowed her with compliments.
“Let me give you a tour,” the Duke of Jevington said magnanimously. He turned to his burly companions. “You may accompany me.”
Margaret gave a tight smile.
“At a distance of ten feet,” he told the two men.
The two men nodded in that somber manner that good servants excel at doing, making certain their employer felt entirely comfortable, if only by making certain no request, no matter how odd, ushered their surprise.
Margaret followed the Duke of Jevington. She’d imagined he would want to wander through the garden or the corridors for his tour, but instead he led her to a balcony. He ascertained the curtains were fully open and not at risk of collapse.
He then opened the door, and she stepped onto the balcony. The large glass windows made it clear what they were doing.
“This offers some privacy,” the Duke of Jevington explained, flashing a cocky grin. His two companions lingered on the other side of the door.
No doubt they were accustomed to performing more athletic movements when ser
ving as guards. The guards settled down on a chaise. Though their expressions were still appropriately rigid, their shoulders were relaxed.
“Now what do you think of my friends?” the duke asked. “Do you have a favorite yet?”
“I barely know them,” Margaret said. “Besides the concept is—” She hesitated.
“Ridiculous?” the duke offered.
Margaret’s cheeks flushed. “It wouldn’t be polite to say that.”
He shrugged lackadaisically. “I don’t much care for politeness. The far more important thing is that it would be wrong. I think you would care about correctness.” The Duke of Jevington gave her one of his infuriatingly broad smiles. “It will work. I planned it.”
The duke did not add anything to his statement. It seemed its ducal origin was enough to be coronated with effusive exaltations.
“But why would they want to marry me?” Margaret asked.
“Miss Carberry,” the duke said in an explanatory tone. “No man wants to marry. Not unless they’ve consumed a steady subsidence of the most atrocious poetry.” He leaned closer. “The romantic sort. I doubt Dante would make a man overly compelled to resist all reason.”
Margaret considered his statement.
“Some men, though, have accepted their fates.”
“And you’re not one of those men,” Margaret said, worried whether she’d overstepped this odd outpouring of confidences.
“It’s not my fate,” the duke said amiably. “Not now at least.”
“I thought all men were desperate to have an heir.”
“Perhaps ten years ago,” the duke admitted. “When the war on the continent was still raging. But I find it rather less likely that some Frenchman will decide to impale me with a bayonet or will aim a cannon at me. My health is excellent. I have no sisters or mother who might be cast from the castle if some beastly second cousins inherit it. In fact, all my second cousins are quite pleasant. Most unromantic.”
“Not everything can be a Jane Austen novel,” Margaret said.
“Indeed.” The Duke of Jevington bowed his head, as if to give appropriate reverence to that wisdom. “And yet, you will find my friends have excellent qualities. Come, let’s join them.”
Margaret wanted to visit the coast, but perhaps her mother was correct, and the duke would not find her instinct to wander the coast polite.
No matter.
She would do it as soon as she could.
Margaret nodded and followed the duke into the reception room, ignoring the fact she felt removed from everything she knew. The duke’s two men plodded after them.
“You’ll love my friends,” the duke said. “They’re all good men. We’ve been together since school.”
“And they all desire marriage?”
He grinned. “I don’t think any of them have that wish. But they’ll soon discover it.”
“How do you know?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why, they’ll spend time with you.”
Margaret knew he hadn’t meant anything by his comment, but her heart still fluttered.
CHAPTER TEN
THE AFTERNOON PROGRESSED splendidly. Jasper was not surprised. His festivities were consistently successful. The key was to plan sufficiently in advance so one might maintain a jovial demeanor. Sour expressions destroyed elaborate events with disturbing ease.
His friends might have been baffled by the appearance of Miss Carberry and her parents as well as the vanishing Lady Juliet, the latter whom Margaret’s mother had seemed compelled to flaunt, but it didn’t matter. Not every man shared his quickness of mind. Without doubt Sandridge still mused above the waves off the cliffs of his beloved Cornwall. He remained oblivious that there was someone present who could be his companion in all things coastal, all things in general.
Most likely Sandridge assumed he could get around to heir-making in a few years, but the journey to London from Cornwall was long. If Sandridge married Margaret, he’d spare himself from missing more time on his beloved coast. Given Miss Carberry’s discomfort with London seasons, she’d hardly pine about for them. Sandridge would not be subjected to any guilt generated by a lack of good local haberdashers or balls in which one might flaunt one’s tasteful ribbon selections.
But then, Miss Carberry would be equally well-suited to any of his other friends. Ainsworth enjoyed books, a hobby Jasper was certain he shared with Miss Carberry. Hammett could be intimidating, given his love for boxing, but the normal women of the ton did not suit him. He imagined Miss Carberry would be much more relaxed about torn shirts, and no one could question Hammett’s sweetness. And as for Brightling—well, everyone adored him.
Mr. Carberry was wealthy. The man’s only vice seemed to be the passion to procure more, and Jasper hardly thought that ruled Mr. Carberry out as an inappropriate father-in-law.
Indeed, some of his friends were conscious of the costs of running a large estate. Things were rather different in past decades when one could pop over to the continent at one’s leisure, nab a few priceless treasures in the name of Britain’s most currently favored religion, then spend the next year happily enjoying its profits. In fact, some of the ton had profited from the Napoleonic Wars and were known to stare glumly at world maps, pondering which countries might require their governments to be toppled.
A marriage to Miss Carberry would solve those problems. She possessed a sensible air, and she was unlikely to allocate any freshly stabilized funds to the purchase of gilded furniture, construction of new castle wings, or a newfound desire to have a horse win the Derby. Similarly, she was hardly likely to declare herself a patroness of the arts, and decide to fund the lifestyles of the poets and artists most fueled by expensive drink and desirous of vast clothing budgets to express their personalities in an astonishing and never repeating manner. No, Miss Carberry was a reasonable sort of woman. Her name might not have appeared in the various top debutante lists, but that was an obvious oversight: he could not think of a more suitable wife.
For his friends, he amended.
Obviously, Jasper himself was in no rush to procure a duchess. Life was not everlasting, and he’d planned to maintain a dashing bachelorhood until he reached the age of thirty-five. Parties were not yet dull. At least, not that dull. When one spent too much time musing, one was apt to muse about strange things. The quality of one’s musings was difficult to keep in order, since the chief admirable quality of musing was its unpredictable manner.
He rounded the corner and entered the reception room.
Unfortunately, his friends were absent, and he raked his hand through his hair. “They—er—were here.”
Damnation. They couldn’t have got far. This was Dorset, after all.
A footman coughed. “I am to inform you that your friends took the liberty of going upstairs to change into more athletic attire.”
He blinked.
“They expressed a desire to play cricket.”
“Oh.” He frowned and cast a guilty glance at Miss Carberry.
“They don’t know the true purpose of the house party.” Her eyes shimmered and sparkled, and even though she should be berating him for having failed in retaining the prospective husbands for her, she didn’t.
He shook his head miserably.
Her dark eyes sparkled, and the light played in an interesting manner on her round cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice husky. “We can go find them...”
“I don’t want to interrupt anyone’s cricket game. I’ll see them this evening.”
Right.
That was a sensible plan.
“Before sunset,” he said.
“Before sunset,” she agreed.
“Splendid.” He nodded, multiple times. Somehow his head seemed heavy, moving more slowly than customary. He was less certain around her, as if his body were fighting the urge to stand nearer her, to tuck the loose strand of fallen hair behind her ear, and perhaps, just perhaps, to press his lips against her throat, against her ea
r, against her lips.
THE DUKE STIFFENED and stepped away from her. “I should change as well, then find my friends.”
“Naturally.”
For some reason the man’s face had paled, and his manner had become overly formal and rigid.
Indubitably, he was regretting inviting her. Most likely now that she was standing in daylight and now that he’d met all of her family, he’d realized the impossibility of any match.
A vile taste invaded her mouth, and she swallowed hard.
Perhaps the duke had told his friends he saw her as a potential wife for them. Perhaps they’d disappeared because they’d found her unappealing.
“Goodbye,” she said hastily.
“Er—yes.” He avoided eye contact with her, seeming to find his shoes more interesting than her face. “Well, this place is at your disposal. There’s a library at the other end of the corridor.”
“Splendid,” she squeaked.
She strode hastily away, before she remembered she would prefer to visit the coast.
Still, perhaps she could visit the library. Her mother hadn’t allowed Margaret to take any books with her, seeing them as a poor use of the coach’s limited space.
Margaret wandered through the corridor. Heavy Tudor furniture that looked like they could withstand anything dotted the hallway. Margaret had never taken much interest in furniture, merely appreciating those that fulfilled their practical functions, but these pieces could be considered art. Gilt frames sparkled and shimmered and shone, even in the waning afternoon light.
Corridor walking shouldn’t be a cause for nervousness. Yet everything was so immaculate, that even though the duke had assured her to feel at home, her spine prickled, as if she might suddenly veer into one of the delicate oriental vases perched on the sideboards and smash it onto the floor.
She peeked inside an open door. Books stretched to the top of the high ceiling. Their leather bindings gleamed, like rows of rubies. Stained-glass windows sprinkled jeweled-colored light over the room, and she stepped inside.
All You Need is a Duke (The Duke Hunters Club, #1) Page 9