Heir to the Duke (The Duke's Sons #1)

by Jane Ashford

  “My wife promised me this dance,” Nathaniel replied. Though still perfectly polite, his tone was steel.

  The Regent glowered at them for a moment. He swayed slightly, and Violet worried that he was so foxed he would stage a scene. But at last, he said, “Humph.” With an irritated wave, he moved down the corridor away from the ballroom, sulky and muttering. From what Violet caught, he appeared to think that she would have been glad to go with him if not for the inopportune appearance of her husband. She let out a long sigh of relief and gratitude. “Oh, Nathaniel…”

  He offered his arm and steered her in the opposite direction. “You must take some care about the prince,” he said. “It is an…unfortunate fact that he will take liberties if encouraged.”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Sad to say, it’s best not to linger alone in his vicinity.” He led her back toward the ballroom.

  “I wasn’t…” But she couldn’t tell him she’d been with Marianne. Who had abandoned her! Because then Nathaniel would wonder where Marianne was and why they’d been standing near the card room and… Memories of her grandmother’s exhausting interrogations rose in her.

  “His…habits require a degree of finesse,” Nathaniel said.

  “How is one to finesse a royal prince?” Violet replied. “Is it treason to shove him?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Can one push him off? ” Violet imagined it again. “What if he fell? Is that some sort of crime or—”

  “Violet!”

  He was gazing down at her with grave censure. As far as Violet could recall, he’d never looked at her that way before.

  “I realize that you lack the…address that might be expected of a female of your age and position. I suppose your grandmother has that to answer for, as well as… In any case, we must both make allowances…” He sounded as if he was arguing with himself.

  “Allowances?” Suddenly, Violet was sorry she’d told him about that childhood incident. “Make allowances?”

  “You must learn to take care.”

  “He pushed himself onto me!”

  They had reached the ballroom. One or two heads turned at her vehemence.

  Nathaniel stopped walking. The country-dance well under way, Violet saw. They couldn’t join in now. He turned toward a corner.

  “Not that way,” Violet hissed. He was heading straight for her grandmother’s perch. She dropped Nathaniel’s arm and looked around. There was no one she knew nearby. Marianne had apparently gone.

  “Violet,” said Nathaniel. He pulled her hand through his arm again. More people were looking at them. Crowds like this could sense upset like a pack of foxhounds on a scent. He’d seen it so often. They were poised, waiting for some tidbit to chew over. He must see that they didn’t get it. Which meant they could not simply leave the ball, as he most wished to do. “We will go to the supper room,” he declared, turning, pulling Violet with him.

  “They won’t have opened the doors yet,” she objected. “Not until the set is over.”

  “We’ll walk slowly,” he answered.

  “Nathaniel?”

  “Smile,” he said. And he followed his own order with an expression that looked stiff and unnatural to her. “We will be a duke and duchess, one day.”

  Old familiar feelings washed over Violet—a sense of perpetual inadequacy, despair at forever falling short. She did as she was told.

  Eight

  Breakfast in the Hightowers’ Brighton parlor was generally silent the following morning, with conversation limited to requests to pass the jam or the saltcellar. To Violet, the scene felt both new and terribly familiar; meals in her parents’ house could be laden with tension like this, especially when she was in disgrace over some infraction. Her whole body tight with nerves, she watched Nathaniel for signs of temper, braced for the sort of unjust scold that made life with her grandmother such a trial.

  They’d stayed until the very end of the ball last night, presenting the image of perfect young nobility, as he had wished. And when they’d returned in the wee hours, Nathaniel hadn’t come with her to her room. Violet had tossed and turned through the remainder of the night and risen feeling both worried and resentful¸ a combination that made her stomach roil.

  The longer she watched him, however, the more puzzled she became. He didn’t appear angry. She got no sense that he was waiting for the servants to be gone so he could rake her over the coals. He seemed much as usual, in fact—equable, polite, silent only because he was absorbed in the packet of letters that had arrived with the early mail.

  Violet looked at the four white squares, neatly lined up on the table. She recognized his brothers’ handwriting by now. The missives came from various parts of England where they lived or were staying, some in answer to his own. Nathaniel’s family were great letter writers, apparently. She envied the kind of closeness this implied.

  For a bit longer, she watched him read. No, he definitely wasn’t angry. “It looks to be a fine day,” Violet said experimentally.

  “Ummm,” was the only reply.

  Violet’s relief came out in a long breath. She really wouldn’t have been able to bear it if her new life had begun to resemble her old one, she realized. But it didn’t. She mustn’t begin imagining that it could. Last night… With the memory, she felt a spark of resentment flicker again. The Regent’s bad behavior had not been her fault. Any more than she could be blamed for the fact that he was royalty and couldn’t be given a good kick when he went beyond the line. “It’s unfair,” she muttered.

  Nathaniel tore his eyes from the page. “What?”

  As a final test of her hypothesis, Violet gave him a brilliant smile.

  Nathaniel smiled back. “What?” he repeated.

  “Nothing. Go back to your letter.”

  He gestured apologetically with the page. “I’ve been waiting for news about James and this shooting.”

  “I know,” said Violet. She rose. “I must speak to Furness about…” She had no ending for the sentence, because it was just an excuse to leave him with his letters, but Nathaniel didn’t appear to notice.

  Violet left the parlor with a bounce in her step. The Regent didn’t matter a whit. She would avoid him in future. All was well.

  For Nathaniel’s part, he hadn’t really noted the lack of conversation, and the arrival of the letters had driven any lingering concern about the previous evening out of his head. The ball had joined a seemingly endless parade of other such occasions, when he’d had to play the duke’s estimable heir, leaving no indelible impression behind. The communications from his brothers, on the other hand, were full of novelty and surprise. He returned to the pages.

  Over a second cup of tea, he read again that Sebastian had developed an absolute detestation for lapdogs. He wondered if Nathaniel knew of any herb or ointment with a scent that would discourage canine interest in one’s trouser legs, without repelling one’s human, particularly female, companions, of course. Could he discover such a mixture and have it sent along posthaste?

  “How, precisely?” muttered Nathaniel. He took a fortifying sip of his tea.

  His dashing cavalry major brother also claimed to be desperately in need of books or games—or anything, really, however costly—that would absorb the attention of girls aged fifteen and thirteen. He begged Nathaniel to provide such distractions without delay. With several underlinings, he emphasized that this was more important than the ointment.

  “Why?” murmured Nathaniel. There was, of course, no response.

  Sebastian closed by saying that he would be most grateful if his elder brother could spare twenty pounds as soon as might be.

  Contemplating this litany of demands without explanation, Nathaniel shook his head. “Sebastian seems to be…” But when he raised his eyes from the page, he remembered that he was alone in the parlor.

  With a shrug, he moved over to the writing desk under the front window and took up the next letter in his pile. Randolph was urgently in ne
ed of a bishop, or better yet, an archbishop. He seemed to think that Nathaniel could easily scrape acquaintance with a power of the church and fulfill his brother’s desire for an appointment much closer to the “center of doctrinal innovation.” Whatever that might mean. Surely Randolph knew far more about how livings were granted than he did? Nathaniel was aware that their father had several in his gift, but they were all currently filled by worthy men of middle age. This had been discussed in the family. Steps had been taken to find Randolph a suitable post, though it had turned out to be quite far north. Now, Randolph was for impatient for advancement. Nathaniel tried to imagine a conversation he might have with an archbishop that would aid his brother. He failed.

  The landlady’s maid came in to clear up the dishes. Against a background of muted clatter, Nathaniel scanned the final paragraph of the letter. Randolph invited him to bring his new bride to Northumberland. He was sure Violet would enjoy the wild beauty of the landscape and exploring the ruins of Hadrian’s Wall.

  “What the deuce?” said Nathaniel.

  “My lord?” replied the maid, turning from her work.

  “Nothing,” he told her.

  Setting the teapot on a tray with the other breakfast things, she went out.

  Violet came through the open door as the maid vacated it. “I am going out to the library,” she said.

  “Would you like seeing the ruins of Hadrian’s Wall?” Nathaniel wondered.

  “What?” She blinked at him, startled.

  “Randolph believes you would.” Nathaniel smiled. His wife wore a fetching bonnet and carried a bright paisley shawl.

  “I don’t know what it is.” She frowned.

  “Something Roman, I believe.”

  “In Italy?”

  “No, Northumberland. If I remember my history correctly, it was built by the ancient Romans to keep back the barbarian hordes.”

  “Oh. Well, I…I’m sure it’s very…”

  “Precisely. A pile of moldy stones. I don’t know what Randolph was thinking.” He glanced down at the neatly written lines. “You are not, by any chance, acquainted with a bishop or an archbishop, I suppose?”

  Violet’s mouth fell open. “Roman?”

  “No, no, Church of England.”

  “I don’t… Grandmamma knows a bishop. She has him to tea now and then.”

  “Ah. No help likely there.” Nathaniel offered a wry look and received blank confusion in return. “It’s nothing. I don’t mean to detain you.”

  Violet hesitated. He couldn’t interpret her expression. Was she worried about something? “Are you well?” he asked.

  “Yes. Yes, of course. Just going to the—”

  “Library.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated, then gave him a nod and went out.

  Nathaniel slit open a third letter and began to read. He hadn’t progressed beyond two sentences before it was his turn to gape in astonishment. His brother Robert, Pink of the ton, master of airy nothings, and perhaps just a bit scatterbrained, wished to know if he recalled the name of a book on the art of disputation. Robert thought he remembered it from his days at Eton, but he could not bring the title or the author to mind. Could Nathaniel find out and send word—or better yet the book itself—to Robert’s London rooms.

  “Disputation?” Nathaniel said to the empty room. And what was Robert doing still in London? He was always off on a round of house parties at this season, when it was quite unfashionable to stay in town. He had, apparently, paid a flying visit to Alan in Oxford, but that was not at all the same.

  From there Robert’s letter descended into a series of snipes at Flora Jennings, who sounded like a disagreeable young lady. Nathaniel vaguely remembered previous mentions of her. A distant cousin…ah, yes, she was the daughter of Aunt Agatha. That was it. No wonder she was prickly. But it didn’t explain what she had to do with Robert.

  He turned the sheet. Robert’s letter ended by inquiring whether Nathaniel realized that the Akkadian language was being used in documents as late as the first century AD?

  “What?” He read it again. That was what it said.

  Nathaniel sat back in his chair and gazed out the window, not really seeing the building opposite or expanse of blue sky. All manner of odd things seemed to be happening to his brothers, and they appeared to expect minor miracles from him. An ointment to keep dogs off you without repelling human females? He was fairly certain there was no such thing. An amenable archbishop? A nameless book? Did they imagine he had nothing else to do?

  For some reason he remembered the wolf skin that had graced the night before his marriage. Though the memory brought a smile, it was followed by a shake of his head. His unruly mob of brothers did not seem to realize that being married made a change. His time was not all his own any longer. He supposed he could make some inquiries about the book, but the bishop was right out.

  The final letter in his pile came from Alan in Oxford. Nathaniel had saved it for last because he thought it would be most important. But when he opened and read it, he found no more information about this matter of a shooting. Alan only said that James had left Oxford to visit the naval yards at Portsmouth. And Alan wondered if Nathaniel knew any admirals who might be willing to authorize a search for information about James’s former crew?

  “Do they think I am some sort of master of ceremonies?” Nathaniel wondered. “In the business of making introductions?”

  Beyond this cryptic request, Alan told him not to worry. Alan! The youngest of them all. Nathaniel had ten more years of experience, yet it seemed to him that James, and others of his brothers, were flocking to Oxford and turning to Alan for guidance. They wanted Nathaniel to do their errands, but told Alan what it was all about. Or perhaps it was Alan’s wife. He paused to consider this idea. That might be it. Ariel had been full of suggestions last season in London.

  Nathaniel was annoyed to realize that he felt jealous.

  And here, at the end of the letter, was a note from Ariel herself. She asked after Violet and invited them to visit later in the summer. Well, he didn’t think they would join the parade of Greshams to Alan’s abode.

  With an unaccustomed irritation, Nathaniel put all the letters aside. He would go out riding, he decided. A good gallop would clear his mind.

  * * *

  Violet sat in a quiet corner of the circulating library, which provided comfortable chairs for reading the latest London newspapers and other periodicals. She was not doing so, however. She held a sheet of paper in her hand. It showed her list of forbidden activities, things she’d been determined to do as soon as she was married. Some were checked off—new clothes, champagne, setting her own schedule and choosing her own friends. She had not yet tried gambling, though she meant to, judiciously. As for flirting… When she’d written that word she hadn’t imagined being accosted by the Prince Regent and feeling pawed over by a mere gaze. Her grandmother had never allowed any man to get her alone, still less to stare down her dress and… Violet was chagrined to discover in herself a morsel of gratitude for that protection. Did she have to reconsider her entire list, perhaps remove some items as impossible?

  Her chin came up, and her jaw tightened. That was ridiculous…completely unnecessary. She could take care of herself. One must have experiences in order to learn. Wasn’t that the whole point of her tally? She would not be put off by a slight misstep. She would simply make certain she never found herself in such a position again. Her desire to expand her life was as strong as ever.

  This resolve somehow led her to thoughts of Marianne. Violet let her hand fall to her lap, the list resting on the cloth of her gown. Her thoughts of flirting had never—in her wildest moments—stretched to taking lovers. Or to observing her friends’ acquisition of them. Was it a failure of imagination that she hadn’t even conceived of such a thing? Had her grandmother made her, in fact, dull and prudish? Going back over the sequence of events that had revealed Marianne’s intention, Violet felt confused. She was worried for her old friend
, and curiously excited at the possession of a sophisticated secret, and sad too. It was an uncomfortable mixture. Was there something she should do? But Marianne had made it clear that she didn’t want advice from a young woman who had far less knowledge of the world.

  Violet couldn’t argue with that. She wasn’t feeling particularly wise and perceptive this morning. She had misinterpreted signals from Nathaniel. She had failed to convey her complete lack of interest to the Prince Regent. And then there was her cousin Delia.

  Violet rested her head on the back of the chair and frowned.

  There was a puzzle that Nathaniel had…not uncovered. Because once you looked, it was right there before your eyes. But…brought to her attention? Suddenly unveiled like a magician whipping back a curtain? She and Delia, two young female members of the same family, with the same relationship to Grandmamma, but being treated quite differently.

  Thinking back on the previous season from this perspective, Violet could remember seeing Delia at many gatherings where their grandmother wasn’t even present. This would have been unthinkable when Violet came out. Grandmamma had been prominent among the chaperones then, brooding from a corner, much as she had last night. Violet had hardly been allowed to take a step outdoors without her along. And she could not recall Grandmamma ever mentioning Delia’s appearance or behavior or the necessity of training or “curbing” her. Violet had to conclude that she was not overly interested in Delia—no more than any usual grandmother would be.

  Why such a difference?

  Violet frowned down at the page in her lap without really seeing it. She didn’t know Delia well. Their homes were far apart, and the seven years that separated them in age had meant that they were always at different stages of life. The gap was less now that Delia was out, but Violet had been busy with wedding preparations during her cousin’s first season. Still, their birth and breeding were the same. Violet couldn’t see a reason for their grandmother to single her out and leave Delia free.

  Violet was the daughter of Grandmamma’s eldest son, but girls had nothing to do with the earldom. Delia was prettier than Violet, and thus more vulnerable to male attentions. From what Violet had observed, her cousin was lively and open and mildly flirtatious. It just made no sense! Rack her brain as she might, Violet could find no reason for the difference in their treatment.