He sighed. “She does. I would have told her, Aunt, but by the time I realized it . . . she had already left.”
“Then I suggest you waste no time in assuring her. Her sister, Lady Woodall, made some mention of family leaving for Wiltshire. You’ll have a harder task ahead of you if you must go all the way to Wiltshire to court her.”
Charlie nodded. “The committee meets tomorrow, but the day after, nothing shall keep me from St. James’s Square.” On impulse he leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Thank you, Aunt.”
“It was my pleasure.” She turned to go, then turned back. “Do you know,” she said quietly, studying him with perceptive blue eyes, “I believe your father would be very proud of you—of all three of you, but of you in particular.”
“Don’t—” he tried to say, but she put one finger on his lips.
“He would be,” she said again. “I knew him longer than you, and I had the advantage of not being his child. Francis could be as stubborn as a goat, but it was always in defense of what he thought was right. And when he was wrong, he admitted it and tried to atone for it.”
“I can’t atone for what I’ve done.”
“Nor can your father,” she whispered. “You must forgive him, Charlie.”
He was quiet for a minute. “I do.”
She smiled. “That is all he would ask of you. He never gave quarter, but neither did he ask it for himself. I promise you, he blamed himself for your estrangement more than he ever blamed you. Just because he never humbled himself to beg your pardon doesn’t mean he didn’t feel the breach every bit as keenly as you did.” She stepped back and pulled on her gloves. “Now repay him by learning from his mistake. Go marry that girl at once. Your father, and your mother, would heartily approve.”
Charlie stared at her, then began to laugh. “I intend to, Aunt Margaret.”
Chapter 24
The next day and a half seemed to last an eternity. The hearing passed in a long, mind-numbing blur. Charlie was thankful he had missed the first few meetings and motions on the petition and counterpetition. Sir Richard Chalmers, his barrister, laid out the claim in a droning voice that would have put the worst professor to shame, but driving each salient point relentlessly home. He swept aside every counterpoint raised by Augustus’s counsel, while Augustus sat in the gallery across from Charlie looking more and more annoyed. Even Charlie could tell his petition was based on rumor and greed more than any solid footing, but he had duly received his hearing. The presentation of Reverend Ogilvie’s register produced a jolt to the committee, and then the letter from Mr. Thomas another, opposing, jolt. When the committee’s decision was finally read aloud, there was no great surprise, but an enormous relief just the same.
“Resolved, that it is the opinion of this committee that the claimant hath every right to the titles, honors, and dignities claimed by his petition . . .” Charlie didn’t hear the rest as men leaned over to congratulate him. From across the room, Augustus gave him a tight-lipped nod before disappearing into a crowd of his own supporters.
“Well done, Durham,” murmured his Uncle Dowling, clapping him on the shoulder. “Well done indeed.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all he managed to say before being surrounded by well-wishers. There was more to it, of course, as the committee’s decision must still be sent up to the full House and then on to the Crown, but that was a formality now. And with the dukedom decided, Charlie was besieged by peers maneuvering for another vote in favor of their projects. Under his father’s gimlet eye, he hadn’t been at liberty to indulge in politics, which made him a complete blank slate now.
But finally, he was free. When he went to bed long after midnight, it was with a sense of satisfaction. Durham would be his. And tomorrow, hopefully, so would Tessa.
By the time his carriage stopped in front of a neat town house just off St. James’s Square, his heart had sped up and an irrepressible smile had fixed itself on his lips. It had been over a fortnight since he’d seen her—too bloody long—and he all but jumped out of the carriage, not even waiting for his footman to open the door.
The butler opened the door as he reached the step. He took one glance at the Durham town coach behind Charlie and swept the door all the way open, bowing low. “Yes, sir?”
“I’ve come to see Lord Marchmont.” Charlie handed over one of his new calling cards, no longer his father’s but his, engraved simply, DURHAM.
“Yes, sir, indeed.” The butler showed him into an elegant parlor and vanished with inelegant speed. Too impatient to sit, Charlie circled the room, oblivious to his surroundings.
Had she read the papers? Did she know everything had been settled? He remembered her reaction to the news that it was a dukedom he would inherit, and his smile grew wider. That led to a recollection of what followed, and by the time the butler came hurrying back, Charlie had almost forgotten why he ought to see her brother first, instead of just demanding the butler fetch Tessa herself down.
“This way, Your Grace,” said the butler, sounding a bit winded. “His Lordship will see you.”
Lord Marchmont was waiting in the main drawing room. He had a genial, pleasant face, with Tessa’s coloring but none of her direct boldness. In fact, he looked a bit worried as he bowed. “Your Grace, what an honor.”
“How do you do, sir?” Charlie returned the greeting. “I beg your pardon for calling at this hour, but I have something of a most urgent nature to discuss with you, and I confess, I could not wait.”
Marchmont blinked nervously. “I see. No trouble at all, none whatsoever. Won’t you be seated?”
Before they could sit down, there was a minor racket outside, then the door was opened by a very lovely woman. She had to be Tessa’s sister, Charlie realized; they looked quite similar, although Lady Woodall’s hair was dark blond and she was a few inches shorter than Tessa. And her eyes were a normal, ordinary shade of green, not the clear lustrous peridot that sparkled in Tessa’s face. Lady Woodall raised one hand to her bosom at the sight of them in patently false surprise. “Oh! Forgive me, I did not know anyone was in here.” She turned a blinding smile on Charlie as she came forward, not sparing a second glance at her brother. “I am Marchmont’s sister.”
“How utterly delightful to make your acquaintance.” Charlie bowed and raised her hand to his lips.
Marchmont cleared his throat. “Your Grace, this is my sister, Lady Woodall. Louise, His Grace the Duke of Durham.”
“It is an honor,” she said, sinking into a deep curtsy. If her eyelashes fluttered any faster, there would have been a breeze. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”
“Er . . .” Eyebrows raised, Marchmont looked at Charlie, who smiled.
“Not at all, madam. In fact, I’ve come hoping to see your sister, Mrs. Neville.”
“Tessa,” said Lady Woodall, as if she hardly dared to believe it. “You’ve come to see Tessa?”
Charlie bowed his head. “I have indeed.”
Marchmont cleared his throat again. “Ah, yes. She’s not at home at present—”
“She’ll be home at any moment,” Lady Woodall said quickly, shooting him a severe look. “May I send for refreshment? Some tea? Some breakfast? Or even a brandy?”
He smiled at her eagerness. “Thank you, no.” He hesitated, then decided he didn’t care about propriety very much right now. “I’ve come to court your sister, Marchmont.”
“Er . . . yes.” The viscount looked anxious. Lady Woodall made a happy chirp.
“I daresay it’s no surprise to you that I’ve become very fond of her, since our chance meeting in Bath.” Charlie wasn’t sure what she had told them, but he was quite certain Mrs. Bates would have related every detail of his time with them.
“Oh yes, Mrs. Bates has told us so much of your kindness to her and Tessa in Bath, and later in Frome,” gushed Lady Woodall in confirmation. “Let me add my th
anks, Your Grace, for our entire family. We do worry so much about her, gadding about on her own—”
“Louise,” said Marchmont firmly, and his sister closed her mouth at once, although a bit sulkily. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you, Your Grace, to hear that my opinion of your suit matters very little,” he said to Charlie. “My sister knows her own mind, and if she’s opposed, there is nothing I can do to help you.”
Charlie raised one eyebrow. “Do you think my cause is doomed?”
“No, no, no!” burst out Lady Woodall. “Heavens, the very thought!”
“I don’t know,” said Marchmont, frowning at her. “You will have to ask Tessa.”
“I’m sure she will be so conscious of the honor you do her,” began Lady Woodall, at which Charlie laughed.
“Indeed, madam. I know exactly how honored your sister will feel.” He winked at her. “I’m hoping to persuade her anyway.”
Marchmont’s face eased. “Well, perhaps you’ve got a chance then.”
“Splendid!” Lady Woodall beamed at them both. “Shall we sit down and have some tea while we wait?”
Fortunately, Charlie was spared a reply by the sound of the door below opening and closing. He caught the excited treble of Eugenie Bates’s voice, and his heart jumped a pace. Tessa must be with her. Marchmont knew it, too; he was already turning toward the door when it opened and Mrs. Bates came in.
“Lord Gresham!” she cried, her face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, no—forgive me,” she said hastily, blushing pink. “You are Your Grace now.” And she started to curtsy.
“None of that between old friends,” said Charlie, striding forward to take her hands. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mrs. Bates.”
“A very great pleasure, indeed.” She paused and glanced over her shoulder. “But I suspect you’d rather see someone else. Tessa was right beside me, where did she go?”
At that cue, she stepped into the room. Charlie’s grin faded away and for a second he was lost, drowned in those crystal clear green eyes that saw right through him. She stood just inside the door, poised and composed, her hands clasped before her, and in that moment no one else existed in the whole world.
Marchmont cleared his throat. “You’ve a caller, Tessa,” he said unnecessarily.
“Yes, I see.” Without taking her eyes from his, she dipped a curtsy. “Your Grace.”
“Well,” said Lady Woodall after a moment. “Come in, Tessa, come in.”
“Louise dear, would you come assist me in the dining room?” said Mrs. Bates. “I saw the most cunning way of arranging flowers in Bond Street, I must show you at once before I forget it.” With surprising speed, she bustled across the room and towed Lady Woodall out before that lady could make more than an incoherent protest.
Marchmont cleared his throat once more. “Yes, well, ring if you require anything.” And he followed the ladies.
Tessa barely stirred as her family left, but as her brother closed the door behind him, a flush brightened her cheek. “You’ve settled everything, then.”
“With the title,” he said. “Yes.”
She nodded once. “Good. I was glad to see it in the newspaper this morning.”
“Were you? Why?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it and frowned. “You wanted the title, now you have it. Are you not pleased?”
“Oh, yes—about that.”
She swallowed. “And—And your visit to Lord Worley?”
He drew a deep breath; yes, it was best to tell her now and get it over. “He sent the letters because I had an affair with Lady Worley.” The flush faded from her face, but her expression didn’t change. “It was years ago,” Charlie said. “I regretted it at once.”
“You wanted to marry her,” she said softly.
“A very long time ago,” he agreed. “I was young; foolish.”
“I know how that feels,” she murmured.
He nodded, steeling himself to tell her the worst. “My father prevented the match, but he couldn’t order me to be sensible. I succumbed to that youthful infatuation when I met her again as Lady Worley, three years ago. I had too much to drink and she said she still loved me, and I . . .” He paused again to take a breath. “ . . . and I was still a fool. Too late I saw that she was merely miserable with her husband, and I was conveniently at hand. I went away and didn’t see her again, and vowed never to carry on with another married woman. And if that had been the end of it, I suspect Worley wouldn’t have cared much, but . . . she had a child. Worley’s heir.”
Now she was as pale as snow. “Is it your son?” she whispered.
“There is no way to know. Worley believed the child his for a year, and quite possibly he’s correct.”
Tessa swallowed. “What do you believe?”
He hesitated. “I do not know,” he confessed at last, “but I devoutly hope the child is Worley’s own.” She didn’t say anything. “Can you forgive me?” he asked. “It is a hard thing for anyone to overlook.”
“So is mad, deranged behavior in church,” she said. A bit of color came back into her face. “Worley still ought not to have done what he did.”
“It would have been much more sporting for him to shoot me.”
“Don’t say that!” she exclaimed, and Charlie felt hope—and relief—surge in his heart.
“It would have been more honest,” he said. “And I’ve come to value forthright honesty very highly.”
She smiled, but it faded quickly. “Are you still in love with her?”
“With Lady Worley?” Charlie shook his head. “I don’t believe I ever was—not truly. But I never really understood that until I met you.”
She darted him a wary look before her gaze dropped, veering from side to side. “Is there anything else you wanted, Your Grace?”
“Want? Yes,” he said. “I want you to call me Charlie again, not ‘Your Grace’ as if you’re a housemaid.”
“It wouldn’t be proper,” she said after a pause. “This is London, not a country village.”
“Ah. And we’re very proper here in London, are we?” He crossed the room as he said it, hoping this change in her was due to her sister, the last fortnight’s separation, the shock of his confession . . . anything other than a change in her affections. “Where is the woman who called me a lazy, arrogant, ass?” he cajoled. “I’ve missed her.”
She glanced up, the familiar fire in her eyes, and he kissed her. His hands cupped her cheeks, and without a word she melted against him. Charlie’s heart leaped as that feeling of connection sizzled through him again, the sense that now he was complete. He gathered her close and took his time, making up for all the kisses he had lost over the last few weeks apart from her.
“I missed you,” he breathed, his lips whispering against her throat, her neck, the delicate skin of her eyelids. “Desperately. Tessa, darling, can you overlook my many faults and marry me before I go mad without you?”
Tessa felt an almost physical thump as she came back to her senses. As usual, all her sense and hard-thought decisions went up in smoke when he touched her. She took a step backward, to clear her head. “I—I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I should.”
He grew very still. “I cannot change what I did, Tessa, but—”
“Oh!” Her face felt hot. “Neither can I! It would be unfair for me to hold it against you, when I have been guilty of deeds every bit as unwise. No, I . . . I fear I would be an embarrassment to you,” she tried to explain as logically as her aching heart would allow. “Sooner or later, just as I was during that dinner in Frome. I didn’t understand what the gentlemen were about; I said the wrong thing and made a fool of myself.” She paused, then forced out the next painful admission. “I do that quite a lot, you see. I speak my mind and perplex everyone around me. My family has been mystified by me for years, but they’re loving and
kind and they can overlook it now.” That point had helped persuade her this was the right choice; if even her blood relations found her odd, it would only be a matter of time before Charlie did, too.
“You don’t mystify me,” he said. “Not beyond what I can bear, or find fascinating.”
“But it would matter to you if I were your duchess. You need someone who can throw grand parties and be a model of elegance and I can’t do it.” Her voice trailed off to a whisper at the end.
He looked at her for a moment. “Are you truly afraid?”
She managed to give a tiny nod. “Yes.” She hated confessing it, but it was true. It was better to make the cut now, when she would have only happy memories of him, than to watch his understanding turn to impatience and then disgust. She had never regretted not marrying Richard Wilbur, and in time, surely, she would cease regretting this.
“Are you afraid of being a duchess, or of marrying me?”
“They are the same,” she tried to say, but he made a dismissive sound.
“No. You talk of grand parties and elegance, but nothing of love.”
Her heart jumped at the word. “It must be obvious that I love you.”
He assumed a comically astonished expression. “Obvious? You just refused to marry me.”
Tessa scowled at him. “Because it makes no sense for you to marry me, Charlie! We had . . . an affair, discreet and brief.”
“If all I wanted was an affair,” he said, “I wouldn’t have begged my aunt to call upon you when I could not. I wouldn’t have come to ask your brother’s permission, very properly, to marry you. I wouldn’t be standing here arguing with you about my fitness as a husband—”
“You’ll make a splendid husband,” she said quickly. “I—I fear I won’t make a good wife.”
He stared at her in obvious bemusement. Tessa kept her chin up. Her reasons were very logical, and he would understand eventually. That was why they would never suit, not really. Abruptly his dark eyes softened and one corner of his mouth curled up. Instinctively she backed up a step, recognizing the danger. She found it impossible to resist Charlie when he looked at her this way.
The Way to a Duke's Heart: The Truth About the Duke Page 29