The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  He hoped they weren’t staying for supper. Nervously, he ran a hand through his hair. Shite. He hoped they would leave and he hoped they would stay, because even as he was ashamed of his vast, vacant manor, the emptiness softened at the edges because Miss Halton was inside the walls. Her presence felt more like home than anything he’d ever felt in his life.

  He hurried to the side parlor, slowing only when the open doorway was in sight. Three telltale shadows spilled across the floor.

  She was here. His heart sped faster. She was here.

  Chapter 13

  Oliver strode into the side parlor with his shoulders back and his head high. The estate might be a shadow of what it once was, but the manor was still standing and he remained its Black Prince.

  He sketched a beautiful, courtly bow. “Mr. Mayer. Mrs. Mayer. Miss Halton. Welcome to my home.”

  The grandmother’s moue of displeasure matched the sharp edge to her tone. She gestured at the bare walls with her walking stick. “This is a home? It’s an embarrassment, is what it is. I’ve had better equipped stables. Do you realize one can see precisely where the furniture stood and the paintings hung? Don’t expect me to return to this box. I will not. Mark my words.”

  “Grandmother, please,” Miss Halton hissed as she dipped her respects. “You didn’t curtsey.”

  “Nor shall I.” Mrs. Mayer sniffed. “I’m not here to curtsey. I’m here to discuss your dowry. Look around you and tell me he doesn’t prefer that we sign the contract as quickly as possible.”

  Eyes pained and cheeks flushed, Miss Halton flashed Oliver a pleading glance.

  He smiled at her. He couldn’t help it. Who cared if her grandmother was a rude old hag? She wasn’t coming back; she’d said so herself. He honestly couldn’t imagine a better wedding present than that.

  “I see you smiling,” Mrs. Mayer snapped. Despite her gray hair and the slight sag to her features, she was as brisk and spry as a woman half her age. Her quick, dark eyes took Oliver in with a glance. “I assume you compromised the chit specifically to get your hands on her money? Well, it’s not her money. It’s my money. And yet the girl is going to be yours.”

  Oliver could not wait to rid his bride of this horrible woman. And the grandfather—where was his pride? He neither supported his wife nor defended his granddaughter. Hands clasped behind his back, he gazed out the big picture window as if he wasn’t paying the least attention at all. Perhaps he wasn’t.

  He could be deaf.

  “Don’t bother looking at Mr. Mayer for help,” Mrs. Mayer barked sharply. “He’ll sign when it’s time. I’m accepting your suit not because you compromised the girl, but because of your title. The Mayers came from nothing and built our fortune from scratch. We have more money than most of you supposed aristocrats, and we’re still nothing. Thus it gives me great pleasure to have a countess for a granddaughter. The snobs can take that and stuff it!”

  Miss Halton—Grace—winced at her grandmother’s vulgarity, but she had borne the brunt of snobbery firsthand. Oliver had long understood that it was his title and his father’s money that gained him entrée into exclusive arenas.

  “I will sign whenever you like,” he said quietly. He peeled off his gloves to more easily handle the documents.

  The important thing was not the contract. The important thing was Grace, and she was currently expiring of mortification. He hated to see her so miserable. If her grandmother hadn’t excommunicated herself from their married lives, he would’ve happily done the job for her.

  “I’m sure you’d sign your soul away for enough coin,” Mrs. Mayer snapped. “Well, that’s too bad. Earl or not—and compromise or not—you’re not getting a penny more than I originally planned. I don’t care how much pleasure it gives me to rub the ‘countess’ title into society’s face, it’s a one-time purchase. After the wedding, you’re on your own. Both of you. Is that quite clear?”

  Oliver inclined his head. What did it matter what Grace’s dowry amounted to? A thousand pounds was a mere drop in the bucket with an estate this size, but that wasn’t why he was getting married. He was doing so because he wished to. He’d marry her if he had to put up the thousand pounds himself. He was going to make something of this earldom, make a good life for them both, if it killed him.

  Which it just might. “Clear as crystal. Shall we summon our barristers or just have done and sign?”

  Mrs. Mayer snatched the contract back from him. As she did so, her gray eyes widened slightly. She flipped his hand palm up, then grabbed the other one as well.

  “Grandmother, what on earth?” Grace stepped forward as if to put her body between them.

  Mrs. Mayer narrowed her eyes. “Do you see that? His hands are as ruined as a pauper’s.”

  “Grandmother, stop it. He’s an earl.”

  The older woman harrumphed. “Mr. Mayer is the decision maker around here. Mr. Mayer! Get over here and sign the contract.”

  “There’s no table and no pen,” he answered without turning from the window. “Have you a pot of ink in your reticule?”

  So he wasn’t deaf.

  “Come to my office,” Oliver suggested. “There’s only one chair, but there’s a desk, several plumes, and plenty of ink.”

  Nose held high, Mrs. Mayer preceded them out the parlor door as if the manor belonged to her.

  Oliver took advantage of the opportunity to pull Grace into his arms and press a quick kiss to the top of her head.

  “Lord Carlisle!” she whispered, eyes wide. “My grandfather!”

  He glanced over his shoulder. Mr. Mayer was still facing the side garden, his back to the room. Oliver placed Grace’s hand on his arm. “Mr. Mayer, if you’ll follow us?”

  As they traversed the corridors, he kept Grace firmly at his side. Partly to annoy her grandmother, but mostly because he loved the sensation of her warm fingers upon his arm and the scent of jasmine in her long black hair. He hadn’t planned to wed—and she certainly hadn’t wished to marry him—but he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. She’d undoubtedly have been much better placed with any other toff in the ton, but no other man would dedicate the rest of his life to making her happy as Oliver fully intended to do.

  She might not want him. She might never love him. But just this once… He’d like to matter to someone.

  He’d like to matter to her.

  He gave her hand a quick squeeze as they entered the office, then turned to fetch plumes and ink as promised. He offered Mrs. Mayer his chair, but she waved it away.

  “Mr. Mayer needs it more than I do. Go on and sit, you old fool. Lord knows your knees aren’t what they used to be. Try not to break a hip getting over there.” Although her words were harsh, her tone had softened. Her husband clearly needed the chair more than she did, and the old woman was ensuring he took it.

  Oliver watched as Mr. Mayer sank wearily into Oliver’s leather chair.

  These people might be horrid to Grace, were unquestionably not going to win awards for empathy and compassion, but on the other hand… They were here. In the same room. They looked at her. Spoke to her. Wished to meet her intended before giving their permission. Had offered to provide a dowry.

  He could not like them, of course. Whether they cared for Grace or not, they had literally burned the lines of communication with her mother, and that was something he could not forgive.

  Mrs. Mayer slapped the contract onto his desk.

  Oliver took a closer look at the small print. One thousand pounds, to be deposited into his account the same morning as the wedding. Not a penny more, not a moment earlier. Marriage within two months time, or the contract is void.

  Fine. He dipped his plume into the ink and signed. Mr. Mayer did the same.

  Grace went very pale and very still, as if up until the moment of signing, a small part of her had expected angels to swoop in and brush the compromise away. Oliver’s heart twisted. He was no angel. All he could do was try not to add to her worries.

  Her voice wobbl
ed as she asked, “Is there… Is there a dowager suite on the property?”

  Mrs. Mayer snorted as if the idea were preposterous. “I will not be returning to this hovel, child. Make no great efforts on my account.”

  “I would visit,” Mr. Mayer put in. “With a rifle. I think I saw pheasant behind the property.”

  Oliver ignored the interruptions. It was obvious whom Grace had meant. “Your mother?”

  She nodded. “Perhaps she could make it. If we send enough money to cover doctors and medicine, and a companion to help her pack her bags—”

  “What money?” Mrs. Mayer pursed her wrinkled lips. “You were caught with this paragon of society in the Seville family library during a soirée. You don’t get prize money. You’re fortunate you even get banns instead of a trip to the anvil.”

  Grace’s mouth fell open. “Fortunate! You have to allow Mama time to get well enough to attend the wedding. She’s my mother. And she’s dreadfully ill. I don’t even know—”

  “I don’t have to do anything,” Mrs. Mayer said coldly. “I have chosen to donate one thousand pounds of my own money to the gentleman you chose to give liberties to. With what money are you going to send for your mother, child? You haven’t a farthing, and Carlisle here has even less. This is it. The contract is signed. What’ll it be, girl? A swift wedding, or a life of spinsterhood at home with your beloved grandparents? Don’t you think you’ve already caused us enough trouble?”

  Fury shone in Grace’s pale green eyes, despite the blur of unshed tears. “It’s no wonder my mother left home and never looked back. You’re hateful.”

  “Left home?” Her grandmother snorted. “Tossed her out, is what we did. Much like you, she was too free with her favors. Why do you think you were born seven months after the wedding? I’m half surprised there was a wedding. I presume even in America, they know how to count.”

  Grace gripped the sides of her skirt, her knuckles white with anger. “You’re saying…My father…”

  “Was someone you never met. Not that it matters. You shan’t repeat all of your mother’s mistakes. I presume you’re smart enough to avoid a seven-month baby, but just in case—you won’t be leaving the house until the day of the wedding.”

  “But grandmother, I didn’t— Lord Carlisle and I never—”

  “That’s what she said, too. Load of rubbish, wasn’t it? That’s why I’ve already reserved the church for your wedding. The date is set.”

  “I’m not my mother! You can’t punish me for something she may or may not have done twenty-two years ago. She forgave you. Why can’t you forgive her?”

  “She never asked me to,” her grandmother replied bitterly. “I’m her mother. That’s all it would have taken.”

  “Liar.” Grace’s voice was cold. “Forgiveness is something that happens in your heart. An organ I doubt you possess.”

  Oliver pulled her into his arms, holding her from behind. Her shoulders remained stiff and unyielding.

  “Don’t be nice to me,” she muttered, twisting free from his arms. “Don’t you dare be sweet and sympathetic or I won’t be able to keep the tears from falling. She doesn’t deserve to see me cry.”

  He let her go.

  She was right. Her grandparents didn’t deserve her tears, or her smiles, or any part of her. They didn’t deserve Grace at all. He was glad her mother had run off to America. Her father sounded like a wonderful, kindhearted man, no matter the biology of their relationship. And her mother was a saint. Imagine, growing up under the same roof as this dour-faced dragon, and still managing to raise a daughter as extraordinary as Grace.

  “See you at the wedding?” he asked softly. He would wait years, if she wanted. Dowry be damned.

  When she glanced up at him, her eyes had dried but her voice was hollow. “I’ll be the girl in the veil.”

  He nodded. “I’ll bring the flowers.”

  Her crooked smile broke his heart.

  When she walked out the door, she took a piece of his soul with her.

  In dismay, he realized that the fate worse than marrying someone he didn’t like might be marrying someone he did.

  Chapter 14

  After Ferguson had secured the latch and the sound of carriage wheels faded into nothing, Oliver called all his servants into his office. When his father was alive, no more than a dozen people might’ve wedged themselves in amongst the chairs and cabinets and rolling secretaries. Now it was only Oliver, and a single desk. They could’ve danced the minuet with room to spare, if they’d been of a mind to.

  Of course, no one felt like dancing. Oliver was about to do one of the hardest things he’d ever done in his life, and his trusting, hardworking staff… Well, who knew where they’d be tomorrow. All he could hope was that they found somewhere better than here.

  He rose to his feet. He would hold his head high and meet everyone’s eyes. He would not strip them of their dignity.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began. His voice was low, but steady.

  No one moved. All eyes were fixed on his.

  “It has recently come to my attention that my father—God rest his soul—left the earldom in a state of arrears. You no doubt noticed when your wages were no longer forthcoming, and you all helped when I was forced to take action to repay those debts.” He waved a hand toward an empty wall where three perfect rectangles indicated where a triptych of oil paintings had once hung. “The unfortunate consequence is that the maids now have less surface area to dust.”

  The smiles were quick, but nervous. No one laughs while awaiting the axe to fall.

  He picked up the stack of sealed notes on his desk and began to call out names. “Ferguson…John Coachman…Millie…”

  “What is this, my lord?” asked his valet when it was his turn to pick up his document. He held it by the very edge, as if it were poisonous to the touch. “Are you sacking us all?”

  Oliver shook his head. “Not exactly. I’m giving you all your freedom. Freedom to do whatever it is that’s right for you. All of you are now in possession of a glowing, personalized letter of recommendation. You are absolved of the need to give notice. You may leave right now, or at any time in the future. It is my hope that with these letters, each of you can easily find employers who deserve you.”

  His cook’s round cheeks flushed. “We’re no longer welcome here?”

  “You are always welcome here,” Oliver said fiercely. “This is your home as much as mine. You are the only family I have ever had. It is because I love you all that I am giving you the means to leave. There are no chairs to sit on and barely enough wood for the fire. I will have a wife in a few weeks’ time and I don’t know how I’ll even feed her, much less find money for your wages. I’m doing my best to invest wisely, to improve efficiency, but it may not bear fruit for another year at least. How can I ask you to stay on, in conditions such as those?”

  “You don’t have to ask us,” said Ferguson, his voice gentle. “You said it yourself. We’re a family.”

  The cook stared at Oliver in bewilderment. “I could no more leave you to starve than I could starve my own children. I cooked for you and your father before you, and if the Lord grants me enough life to do it, I intend to cook for your sons, too.”

  His valet shook his head as if the very idea was preposterous. “Why do you think we stayed on, when it was clear your father couldn’t pay us? It wasn’t for him, my lord. We stayed because of you.”

  Oliver’s throat tightened. They’d stayed for him. He now knew exactly what Grace had meant about the danger of kind words when one is desperately trying to hold one’s feelings inside. As he stared at the sea of earnest faces, his head spun in wonder. No matter how many times it had felt that way, he had never been alone.

  “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I…thank all of you.”

  Millie the upstairs maid flashed him a saucy grin. “We love you too, my lord.”

  Before he could respond, she and the other giggling chambermaids were out the door and g
one.

  As all of his servants made their bows or dipped their curtseys, Oliver felt each one as though it were an embrace. He’d gone through his entire childhood without once being hugged, or ever feeling like his home was a sanctuary. For the first time in his life, it was.

  When the last of his staff had taken their leave, he made his way from his office to the Hall of Portraits. This time when he gazed up at the Black Prince, it was not with hate or with envy, but with a sense of finality. The Prince was family as much as anyone… But he could do the most good by saying good-bye. Oliver had servants to feed. Debts to pay. A bride to cherish.

  What was one more empty rectangle on the manor wall?

  Chapter 15

  Grace balled up her latest letter and hurled it into the fire. What was the point of writing letters? Her grandparents refused to post them and she had no means or money of her own. Even if she did, the wedding was less than a week away. By the time her note arrived, the ceremony would already be over.

  She couldn’t even give her correspondence to Lord Carlisle to post anymore. Her grandparents hadn’t let her leave their sight from the moment the contract was signed. Not that she could run into him casually, even if she could leave the house. According to the scandal sheets, he hadn’t been seen in weeks. Grace lowered her forehead to her writing table and sighed.

  Was that her fault, too? That he was no longer attending events? Or had he simply run out of money? She could easily imagine him giving up all comforts and diversions in order to save his pennies for once they were married.

  Her shoulders sank. At times like these, she missed her mother so sharply and so completely that it felt like her heart was empty and the yearning endless. Her mother would hug her and tell her she loved her, and hold her tight. But Mama wasn’t here. Grace didn’t even know if she was still alive. The first chance she’d get to sail back to America wouldn’t be for another week. Not until the day after the wedding.