“There you go,” said Charlie at once. “I wasn’t sure we were speaking of the same man.”
Once they reached London, as expected, it was a frenzy. Every newspaper and gossip sheet was full of the Durham Dilemma, with excited descriptions of the dueling heirs, as one rag labeled Charlie and his cousin Augustus, who had also petitioned the Crown for the dukedom. The lawyers were practically living in Durham House, and they fell on Reverend Ogilvie’s register and Mr. Thomas’s letter like a horde of locusts. Every day, the barrister, Sir Richard Chalmers, came to prepare the case, with the supervision and insight of the attorney, Sir James Wittiers, and Charlie spent hours closeted with them, reviewing every word of his petition to the Crown. It was already facing intense scrutiny, and a single mistake in the lineage exposition now could undo all the good of Mr. Thomas’s letter. In addition, a steady stream of callers passed through the drawing room—from genuine friends come to offer support, to rabid curiosity seekers come in search of spectacle—and Charlie had to receive them all with the austere composure of a duke. At this stage, he knew that nothing must be left to chance, and presenting the image of a duke, calm and utterly assured of his right to the title, would reinforce the hard evidence he had for the committee.
But worst of all, he couldn’t visit Tessa. To call on her now would mean turning the blazing glare of public attention on her, and he couldn’t do that. He struggled to put his thoughts into a letter, but found no way to write what his heart felt. He wondered how she was, if she had grown any fonder of London. He wondered if she’d ever found a good source of coffee, and if she liked it better than what he made for her. He wondered if she really had left him, preferring that their affair remain a secret, fleeting thing. He didn’t think about that possibility for long, though; as more and more of his honors and responsibilities settled upon him, the more certain he became that he wanted Tessa at his side to share them. Every time the lawyers raised an argument, he wished he could puzzle it out with her. Every night when he watched Edward head to his own suite, arm in arm with his own wife, Charlie wished he had Tessa’s hand in his. He missed her more than he’d ever thought possible.
Finally, in desperation, he turned to his Aunt Margaret, Lady Dowling, running down the stairs to stop her when he learned she had just called on Francesca, Edward’s wife. Aunt Margaret was his father’s younger sister, but nothing like Durham. From the moment she learned of his break with Durham eleven years ago, Margaret had opened her home and her arms to him. Of all his family, she alone seemed to understand him, and Charlie hoped this would be no exception.
“I need a favor,” he said bluntly, deeply relieved to catch her without her friend Lady Eccleston. Lady Eccleston was a charming woman, and very amusing when one wanted to trade gossip, but Charlie thought he’d rather publish his intentions in the gossip papers than tell her. Lady Eccleston never could keep a secret.
“Anything,” his aunt said at once. “Shall I send for Dowling?”
“No, I ask it of you.” He hesitated. “There is a lady . . . Well, I haven’t had a moment to spare since arriving in London, but I want to know . . . Well, I want to know if she’s well,” he finished lamely. “Would you call on her and send my compliments?”
“I am to be an emissary,” she said in some surprise. “Who, pray, is this lady?”
“She’s not like London ladies,” he said, fixing a stern look on his aunt. “And I prefer her that way. If you alarm her on any count, I shall never forgive you.”
“Go on.” Margaret looked highly intrigued now.
“The moment I can call on her, I will,” he went on. “If I went now, it would draw an unseemly amount of attention to her, and I don’t want to expose her to that.”
“Consolation to every woman’s heart,” his aunt murmured.
He flexed his hands, which he’d curled into fists. “So you think I ought to go, no matter what? Hang it all, I should. I’ll tell Chalmers and Wittiers to bugger themselves for an hour—”
Margaret laughed. “No! Of course I will go to her. But you must tell me who she is.”
Charlie gave a shame-faced grin. “Oh, right. Tessa Neville. The woman I hope to marry.”
The commotion began not long after Tessa returned from her morning walk. Louise wasn’t keeping a carriage or horses in town, so the main exercise available was walking. After a couple of days, Tessa began to miss the wild hills around Frome more than she ever would have expected. There was no peace in London; everywhere she walked, at every hour, there were hundreds of people about. She felt oppressed by the tall, close houses with the long windows that seemed to peer down upon her as she paced the pavements around Pall Mall. The parks were better, but then Louise fretted that she was so far from home, and might get lost or set upon by footpads, or even worse, miss a caller at home. A compromise was finally brokered by Eugenie, where Tessa would take two turns around St. James’s Park with Mary in tow and then content herself at home for the rest of the day.
The truth was, Tessa didn’t care when or where she walked; she only wanted to leave London. She knew Charlie had arrived—all the newspapers were full of it, reporting in breathless, overwrought detail about his demeanor and activities and the upcoming hearing about his title—but he hadn’t come to see her. Not even a note had arrived in St. James’s Square. She told herself he was much too busy, as she’d known he would be, but that didn’t offer any comfort at all. Even Eugenie had quit mentioning his name, and if Eugenie gave up hope, Tessa knew it might as well have become an impossibility.
Tessa wasn’t good at wrestling with her emotions. Normally she considered her options, practically and rationally, and then acted. Being caught in this half-life, desperately longing to see him yet afraid of what he might say if they met, wishing she could flee to Rushwood as much as she wanted to stay in London where there was still a chance he might visit, was shredding her nerves and paralyzing her from any action at all, which was utterly foreign and demoralizing. In addition, there were no accounts for her to mind in London, no problems to solve, no organization to oversee, nothing at all to distract her from her misery. Louise wanted her to attend soirees and pay calls on people she didn’t know and sit in the parlor, sedately embroidering. Tessa began to think she really would go mad, and then that it wouldn’t be so bad, as a bout of madness would persuade Louise that she must go home with William.
She was staring blindly at the pages of one of Eugenie’s novels when the uproar broke out below. Uproars were not uncommon in Louise’s house—William had removed himself to a hotel after a violent tempest over some dresses made up too snugly to fit—and Tessa had long since decided her best course was to avoid them entirely. But that was scotched when Eugenie knocked on her door and barged in, bright pink and out of breath.
“Oh my dear,” she gasped, “oh, my dear!”
“What is it?” Tessa asked in genuine concern. She put aside her book and got up to urge Eugenie into a chair. “Has something happened?”
Eugenie nodded, fanning herself with her handkerchief. “Oh, yes—or is about to—oh, I don’t know! But I wanted to warn you—”
“Of what?” Tessa could barely speak; her heart leaped into her throat. Had Charlie come? She didn’t even dare ask the question.
“Not Lord Gresham,” said Eugenie, sending her heart back down with a thud. “But almost as incredible—oh, dear, you must prepare yourself—”
“For what?” Tessa began to panic. She ran to the window and craned her neck to peer out. A town coach stood in the street below, but she couldn’t see any identifying marks. “What, Eugenie?” she demanded, whirling back around.
Before Eugenie could find breath to reply, there was another furious knock on the door and Louise burst in. “Oh my stars!” her sister cried in a whisper. “The Countess of Dowling is below, asking to see you!”
Lady Dowling was Charlie’s aunt. A slow burning knot of hope ignited
in Tessa’s chest. “Now?” she asked stupidly.
Louise rounded on her, white-faced and determined. “Yes, now! Fix your hair!” She seized the bell and nearly tore it off the wall. “Tell Mary to find a decent dress. Pinch your cheeks. Eugenie, you’re also wanted.” The older lady’s mouth dropped open, and the pink drained from her face. “I’ve never met a more elegant lady—her dress! Heavens above, if only she had called a week ago, when I might have changed my order for that sapphire riding habit to have such a collar! And her manner—so elegant! I daresay that drawing room has never held such a noble personage in all its history!” Louise advanced on Tessa, her rapture turning into fierce admonition. “Tessa, if you bear me any sisterly love at all, be gracious and polite. Lady Dowling is bosom bows with Lady Eccleston, who is nearly the hub of all gossip in London. They move in the highest circles. I have no idea why she’s come to see you, of all people, but please, please, please impress her!”
“I know who she is, Louise.” Tessa ignored the rest of her sister’s plea. “She is Lord Gresham’s aunt.”
Louise froze, her eyes perfectly round. “His aunt,” she whispered numbly. “His aunt.”
“Am I really wanted?” asked Eugenie in a small, stunned voice.
“Yes,” said Louise in the same blank tone.
Tessa inhaled deeply. She had no idea why Charlie’s aunt might have come to see her, but she wasn’t going into the parlor alone. “Yes, Eugenie, you must come with me. We mustn’t keep the countess waiting.”
They went downstairs together, Eugenie wringing her hands, Tessa pale and rigid with nerves. At the drawing room door, she smoothed her hands down her skirt, took a deep breath, and went in. “Good day, Lady Dowling.”
A handsome older woman turned at her voice and smiled. Her silver hair was arranged simply but elegantly, and her dress was the same, a dark blue pelisse that Tessa would have liked to own herself. Her blue eyes twinkled kindly. “Mrs. Neville, Mrs. Bates. Do forgive me for imposing on you.”
“Not at all.” Tessa came forward and dipped her curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh my, yes, indeed, my lady,” added Eugenie, hovering close to Tessa’s side. “A pleasure.”
“Not half so great a pleasure as I feel, to meet you,” replied the lady. Her sharp gaze touched Tessa’s face a moment before moving to Eugenie. “I’ve been told we have much in common, Mrs. Bates. My nephew has told me about his meeting with you. I do hope he wasn’t impertinent.”
“Oh, no, my lady, he was decorum and charm itself!” cried Eugenie, blushing pink again. “The model of a gentleman!”
Lady Dowling laughed. “I am relieved to hear it! He’s as dear to me as my own son is. Indeed, I would never presume to call upon you if he had not assured me you wouldn’t think it too much amiss.”
“Not at all,” said Tessa, wishing she could simply ask why Lady Dowling had come. “I hope—I hope he is well,” she couldn’t resist saying.
The countess’s expression softened at the longing in her words. “He is in very fine health,” she replied. “But I think in another way, he is rather unwell.”
Tessa was frozen. She wished she dared look at Eugenie for help. “Oh,” she murmured, not knowing what else to say.
“He is quite miserable that the lawyers have taken up every moment of his time,” Lady Dowling went on. “He bade me call upon you and bring his compliments.” She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “I realize I am a poor substitute for him, but he does hope to call on you himself soon, if he is welcome.”
“Of course,” Tessa said immediately, then blushed hotly. “That is, you are very welcome, and not a poor substitute at all.”
Lady Dowling laughed again, her face gentle with understanding. “My dear, you have nothing to fear from me. If anything, I must be the nervous party; one false word and I shall be disowned by my own blood.”
“Charlie would never—that is—I’m sure you have nothing to fear.” Tessa wanted to smack her own forehead. She sounded like an idiot.
“Don’t be so certain. The Durham men are quite implacable once their minds are set. The affections of an aunt would count for very little if I were to spoil his name with you.”
Tessa sat mute from tension and uncertainty and hope. Did that mean . . . ?
“Mrs. Neville . . .” Lady Dowling hesitated. “If I may be so bold, I would like to offer an old lady’s advice to a young lady: give Charles a chance. He is in earnest.”
Tessa wet her lips. “About what, my lady?”
She smiled. “I will leave it to him to tell you—and if he dithers about it, ask him directly. I suspect you prefer it that way.”
Blushing, Tessa managed to duck her head. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Very good.” Lady Dowling beamed at them. “Is this your first visit to London, Mrs. Bates?”
“Oh, yes, my lady,” said Eugenie with an anxious glance at Tessa.
“I hope you will be able to see all the sights. London was quite overwhelming when I first came here, and now it is even more so. Have you viewed the Bridgewater Collection? My nephew Edward tells me it is not to be missed.”
Tessa sat, half attending to the conversation between her companion and the countess. She recognized the same light, effortless charm Charlie possessed in Lady Dowling, and she watched Eugenie’s face light up as it had all those weeks ago at the York Hotel. It made her yearn for him even as it made her fear his visit. He was in earnest, the countess had said; that did not sound like something one said about an affair, and Tessa was quite sure London gentlemen didn’t conduct affairs via family proxy. But then that would mean he meant marriage, a prospect both thrilling and terrifying to her. The poised, elegant way Lady Dowling held herself made Tessa feel dowdy and clumsy; the easy, gracious way she spoke made her feel curt and rude. She could never call on a stranger and be as warm and amiable as Lady Dowling. It stirred a sort of panic within her, that Charlie must have his aunt in mind when he pictured a duchess, and Tessa knew she could never be that way.
When Lady Dowling took her leave, Tessa almost wilted in relief. Louise appeared in the doorway as soon as the countess was gone, though, dashing all hope of being alone with her thoughts.
“Well?” she demanded. “What happened?”
“Oh, my dears!” Eugenie’s head was on a pivot, turning to beam at first one and then the other. “Isn’t she the most gracious lady? So elegant, and so kind, and so very delightful! And the cut of her pelisse—”
“Yes,” said Louise rudely, waving one hand. “Why did she call on Tessa?”
Eugenie stopped speaking and smiled proudly at Tessa. “Why, she came to give Tessa His Lordship’s compliments. I daresay we shall see him in this drawing room soon!”
Louise sank onto a chair. “In my drawing room,” she repeated with awe. “The Duke of Durham.”
Eugenie nodded. “And what’s more, Her Ladyship says he is in earn—”
“Eugenie,” cried Tessa. “That’s enough.”
“Yes, dear,” said her companion without a trace of penitence. “Quite enough!”
“Tessa.” Louise looked at her with tears in her eyes—tears of joy, proven by the wide smile that split her face. “Tessa, you darling girl. You shall be the making of us! The Duke of Durham!”
Tessa shot to her feet. She couldn’t bear another minute. “I’m going for a walk,” she said, even though she had just returned from a walk an hour ago. Louise was so enraptured she made no mention of the fact that this violated their agreement, and Tessa was out the door as quickly as she could tie on her bonnet and summon Mary, who came running down the stairs in confusion.
This time she headed straight for Green Park, not caring how far from home she went. She cast a nervous eye over the elegant mansions that lined the western edge of the park, the pillars and cornices rising high above the lush garden
s that surrounded them. The particularly elegant building faced in Portland stone was Earl Spencer’s house, she knew; Eugenie had read about the perfection of its design in one of her guidebooks. Charlie’s home must be a good deal more elegant, for he was a duke. Tessa thought of the rambling Tudor house at Rushwood, comfortable rather than beautiful. That was where she fit, in the unfashionable country house, while Charlie fit in the marble-tiled mansions of Mayfair.
Her head recognized all this, but her heart fought back. She loved him; did that count for nothing? And if he loved her, was that not enough to outweigh all the difficulties? She tried to imagine life with Charlie, from the bliss of sharing his bed and waking to his smile every morning, to the agonies of attending balls and soirees and fearing she would humiliate him with her outspoken ways. She thought of the heartbreaking but safe choice of continuing as she was, a supposed widow under her brother’s protection, compared to the dangerous, exhilarating leap of marrying a duke, where so much would be expected of her in return for the joy of being Charlie’s wife.
She walked the park until the shadows grew long and Mary pleaded to go home. The answer was still not apparent to her as they walked back through the streets to St. James’s Square, but Tessa knew one thing with painful certainty: she had no confidence which choice would make her happy.
Charlie all but ran from the room, leaving behind a startled barrister in mid-word, when he caught the sound of Aunt Margaret’s voice downstairs. “Did you see her?” he demanded. “Is she well? Am I welcome?”
Margaret waved away the footman. “I saw her. I must say, dear, she’s not at all like the women you carry on with.”
“I’m done with them,” he said. “What did she say?”
“Not much. I believe I surprised the young lady greatly, and her companion. I felt quite gauche, calling on perfect strangers.”
“Aunt,” he said through his teeth, and she smiled.
“She is well, and I believe you will be welcome. Although . . .” She paused. “Why didn’t you tell her? The poor girl looked drawn and tense. Women do not presume, you know; a man must make plain his love, or we are dreadfully uncertain. And I believe this is a lady who likes to be certain.”
The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke Page 28