She shuddered. They’d left her alone again once she’d learned to creep about quietly, like a little brown mouse, and only weep where nobody could see her.
She glanced at Jack’s handsome profile and straightened her drooping posture. She’d done enough cowering and putting up with things so as not to cause trouble. It did not matter how disappointed Aunt Agnes was going to be, she was not going to marry Jack and that was that.
Just as she’d reached that momentous decision, Snowball caught sight of a cat sitting on a branch of a tree, insolently twitching its tail at passers-by. And took exception.
‘God dammit,’ snapped Jack, when Snowball started barking. ‘Can’t you get that mutt to be quiet? She’s startling the horses!’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Sofia insincerely, while Jack hauled at the reins to prevent the horses from bolting the last few feet of the road, straight across the promenade and on to the very beach. And far from giving Snowball the signal to be silent, she merely told her to be quiet. Snowball, sensing that Sofia didn’t mean it, threw herself wholeheartedly into the role of protector of innocent curricle passengers from dangerous cats.
‘A cat, you know,’ Sofia explained, as Snowball turned round and put her front paws on the back of the seat so that she could continue to bark as the cat receded into the distance.
By the time Jack finally got the horses back under control and the curricle bowling along the seafront at a decorous pace, he was fuming. ‘I can’t believe I permitted you to bring that mongrel with us,’ he said. He then proceeded to deliver a series of pithy remarks about dogs of dubious heritage, women with no brains, the temperament of hired horses and people who let dangerous cats roam the public highways. Or words to that effect.
Normally, having someone rant at her in public would have reduced Sofia to tears. But even though she did feel a touch hurt by the things he was saying, another part of her was rejoicing that there was no way even he could propose to her after having given her such a blistering scold.
The thought must have occurred to Jack as well, because all of a sudden he went quiet.
‘Anyway, that’s...well, you’re a very silly girl but...that is, can’t expect you to think of horses when you...that is...’ He cleared his throat. Thought for a bit. ‘This seems like a tolerable little resort. Assemblies, and card parties and so forth going on, so I believe. So, I, um, think I may stay for a week or so. Dare say we shall see quite a bit of each other,’ he said, with resignation. ‘You’d like to dance with me,’ he said patronisingly, ‘wouldn’t you?’
Once upon a time she’d have been beside herself at the prospect of standing up with Jack. Now, it gave her great pleasure to be able to inform him that her aunt hadn’t yet permitted her to attend a single assembly in this seaside town.
‘Besides,’ she added, ‘we will all be going to Theakstone Court the day after tomorrow. Didn’t Aunt Agnes tell you?’
‘Well, of course she did,’ he snapped. His level of resentment confirmed Sofia’s suspicion that their aunt had warned him he needed to step up to the mark before she had the chance to have her head turned by the prospect of a coronet and that he would really rather not have been put to so much bother.
‘Tell you what, though,’ he said, ‘by the time you come back, your eye will have healed up nicely. Shan’t be ashamed to stand up with you then.’
Sofia gritted her teeth.
‘That will give you something to look forward to, while you’re at that stuffy old Duke’s house, what?’
Something to look forward to? Ooh, the arrogant, insufferable...
‘Because I have to say, Sofia, that you are not likely to gain much enjoyment from such a party.’
‘Oh?’ The word slipped between her teeth like a dagger. ‘And why would that be?’
‘Out of your depth in such company, I shouldn’t wonder,’ said Jack, in blithe ignorance of her seething resentment. ‘I’ve been on the town for some time now,’ he said pompously, ‘and believe me, those tonnish affairs can be deadly. Poisonous tongues, some of that set have. And they will all have known each other from birth. You’ll be glad to get away in the end, I dare say. But then, just remember, I will be here, waiting to cheer you up.’
Well, she sniffed. That was what he thought.
Chapter Eight
Oliver turned away from the window for the third time that afternoon and stalked to his study door. This wouldn’t do. It was past time he went to the yellow drawing room. He had no business loitering round windows to see if the carriage containing Miss Underwood might, finally, be bowling up the drive.
He’d never regretted inviting her here as much as he did right this minute, as he was striding along the corridors to where the rest of his guests were already eagerly awaiting him. He’d known he’d made a mistake during that last unsatisfactory drive out with her. But it had already been too late. Because of Perceval’s efficiency, the invitation had not only gone out, but been received and accepted before he’d returned to Burslem House.
All he could do was regard it as a salutary lesson on the folly of acting on impulse. He really should have stuck to his original plan, rather than making that last-minute and poorly thought-out alteration.
But then that was the effect Miss Underwood had on him. She could overset his carefully arranged plans by the mere act of looking a trifle wistful. Without even knowing she was doing it, that was the worst part!
One of his footmen, whose name eluded him, opened the door of the drawing room and sprang aside only moments before Oliver reached it. The inexperienced footman was still drawing breath to announce him, when Oliver almost cannoned into Lady Margaret Pawson, who’d been looking up at the section of frieze painted just above the lintel.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Your Grace,’ she said, sinking into a deeply apologetic curtsy. Had he been paying more attention, he would not have had to come to such an abrupt halt. ‘It is just that this mural is such a fine example of tromp l’oeil, I could scarcely drag my gaze from it...’ She faltered to a halt, flushed, clasped her hands at her waist and lowered her head.
He realised he was scowling at her. Dammit, it was not her fault she’d caught the brunt of his ill humour. That was all down to one Sofia Underwood.
Nevertheless, he did not care for the way she was shrinking from him, merely because he had frowned in her general direction. If she was that timid, then he couldn’t possibly marry her. Her nerves would be in shreds in a matter of weeks. And although he couldn’t help looking fierce and speaking abruptly when he was annoyed, he wasn’t a brute. He would take no pleasure in making his wife flinch from him, or watch him with wide, anxious eyes to discern his mood, the way his poor stepmother had watched his father.
In spite of that decision, he had no wish to humiliate her by making it obvious. It would not be good ton to let her, or, even worse, anyone else, suspect that he’d mentally crossed her off his list.
‘Allow me to introduce you to some of the other guests, Lady Margaret,’ he said, deliberately gentling his tone as he extended his arm. The hand she laid on his sleeve was still trembling, though. Dammit, was he really such an ogre? Miss Underwood had certainly hinted that she suspected as much. Not that she shrank from him or trembled if he frowned directly at her. No, she flung up her little chin and demanded he explain himself.
Blast the woman, invading his thoughts at the most inopportune moments.
‘Are you acquainted with Lord Smedley-Fotherington?’ he asked Lady Margaret, pulling himself together as he reached the slender young man’s side. Thank goodness he’d taken the precaution of inviting the languid poet for the express purpose of keeping young ladies occupied while he spent time getting to know the other bridal candidates. Since they both had pretensions to being artistic, he hoped they’d have plenty to say to each other. To his satisfaction, Lady Margaret visibly relaxed the moment Smedley-Fotherington bowed
over her hand, as though recognising he posed no threat.
Although it was irritating to have mistaken a woman’s blushing responses to him in London as merely shyness, at least it was gratifying to see that his method of selecting his future Duchess was already garnering results.
Having foisted Lady Margaret off on to the young fop, he circulated among his other guests, making sure to spend the same amount of time with each family, so that none could claim they were ahead in the Duchess Stakes. Still, he managed to keep half an eye on the door at all times. He wanted to know the exact moment Miss Underwood arrived, so that there would be no chance of her catching him unawares. He wasn’t going to be able to avoid running into her over the course of the week. But he was tolerably sure that after this first meeting was over, he would be able to treat her exactly the same as he would treat all his other guests. With punctilious politeness.
He was not going to let anyone suspect he now believed he’d made a mistake in inviting her here. A man of his rank never betrayed his feelings in public. It was the cardinal rule. He would treat her with the exact same courtesy he would extend to all the other girls who’d come here hoping to be selected for the position of his Duchess.
Although Sofia didn’t, did she? Hope to become his Duchess, that was.
Not that he cared. What did the opinion of a mere country miss matter to him? She had not hurt him by the way she’d practically shuddered at the prospect of becoming his bride. Nor insulted him with her thinly veiled insults about him being the kind of man who might be concealing all sorts of vices.
In fact, it showed she had more sense than the rest of these debutantes put together, he reflected bitterly, glancing round the room. Men could, and routinely did, conceal their worst flaws from the women they married until it was too late for them to do anything about it. His own mother being a case in point. Not that she had actively sought to become his father’s Duchess, by all accounts. It had been her socially and politically ambitious parents who’d arranged the match with his father and they clearly hadn’t cared about the third Duke’s vices, hidden or otherwise.
Although his father had hidden his true nature pretty well. His reputation, even now, was that of a mentally acute man who had never shirked the slightest of his duties, nor indulged in the corrupt practices that ran so rife in high circles. The only person to openly speak ill of him was his stepmother. And since she was such a flighty, feather-brained creature, nobody paid any heed. The series of scandals and scrapes into which she’d fallen since she’d become a widow hadn’t helped her cause, either. People were saying that if her late husband had behaved harshly, she’d undoubtedly provoked him.
It was while his mind was full of his poor stepmother, and what ills she’d had to endure at the hands of his late father, that the door opened and there she was. Sofia.
‘Viscount and Lady Norborough, Miss Underwood,’ said the footman who was clearly not up to his job. Although he had reminded Oliver that he ought only to think of her as Miss Underwood.
She stood on the threshold looking around the room a little wide-eyed.
She was nervous.
And just like that, his feet were carrying him across the room before he’d given them permission.
‘Welcome to Theakstone Court,’ he said, ruthlessly forbidding his hand to extend in her direction.
He couldn’t stop his heart from hammering in his chest, though. Just at the sight of her.
Which put her ahead of the field once more. For she was the only one of the runners who heated his blood this way; the only one he’d take to his bed with relish, rather than out of a sense of duty to prolong his line; the one who might, if she decided he might suit her, become a far better wife than all those who cared nothing about the man behind the title. Because that was the way she was considering his proposal—as an offer to become his wife, not his Duchess. She’d made that very clear during that last outing.
A strange yearning sensation came over him.
He thrust it aside. He was on the hunt for a woman with the necessary qualifications to become his Duchess.
And come to think of it, if he was going to consider Miss Underwood, then she’d really have to smarten herself up. The colour of her outfit did not suit her. The style was several years out of date. Nor did it fit her about the shoulders. In short, she looked downright provincial, rather than elegant and sophisticated like the other ladies he’d invited here.
The problem was not insurmountable, however. He could swiftly correct that defect in her by hiring an experienced dresser. A dresser who would know how to select clothing that brought out the soft warm brown of her eyes, flatter her creamy complexion, accentuate, rather than disguise, that athletic frame...
‘I trust,’ he said, wrenching his mind from imagining the body that lay beneath her unflattering, unfashionable gown, to address her uncle, ‘you had a pleasant journey?’
‘Damn offside leader lost a shoe outside Hebden. Had to root out a blacksmith. Made us damnably late,’ said Norborough, reaching out to shake Oliver’s hand. ‘My lady was all of a twitter,’ he said, eyeing his wife with amusement, ‘but as I said to her, can’t do anything to prevent horses losing their shoes just when it’s most inconvenient. Duke knows how it is. He won’t mind. Eh?’
‘Not at all,’ he said, noting the way Miss Underwood’s aunt was blushing for her husband’s manners. Or, rather, lack thereof.
‘And you arrived safely,’ he pointed out, ‘and in good time to meet my other guests before it is time to change for dinner.’
Miss Underwood shot him a look loaded with resentment which he was at a loss to account for when he took her arm and led her, and therefore her aunt and uncle, to the highest-ranking of his other guests, the Marquess of Sale.
‘Lord Sale, allow me to present...’
‘Good God, if it ain’t Tubby Hetherington,’ burst out Viscount Norborough before Oliver had the chance to present him properly. ‘Haven’t seen you since...when was it?’ He stretched out his hand.
Oliver watched with surprise as the usually stiff-rumped Marquess took that hand and allowed Norborough to pump it enthusiastically. ‘Torkington’s dunking, I seem to recall,’ he said, astonishing even his own wife by allowing his lips to melt into the approximation of a smile.
‘Torkington, yes. Ha-ha! What became of him, do you know? After they pulled him out of the Isis?’
‘Last I heard...’ said the Marquess, lowering his voice and leaning in close to Norborough’s ear and murmuring something that caused the two men to draw closer still, before wandering off, leaving Oliver alone with a set of four offended females.
‘Lady Sale,’ he then said, in an attempt to soothe the feathers ruffled by Lord Norborough, ‘may I present Lady Norborough and her niece, Miss Sofia Underwood.’
Perhaps not surprisingly given the way Lord Norborough had just borne her husband off, Lady Sale did no more than accord Lady Norborough a brief nod.
Her daughter, however, he noted with approval, gave Miss Underwood a friendly smile as she dipped a curtsy.
‘How lovely to meet you,’ said Lady Sarah, dimpling prettily. ‘You must find time to come to my room before dinner. All the girls are going to be there.’ She waved an elegant hand vaguely about the room, as if to encompass all his younger guests. ‘I thought, you know,’ she said, turning an earnest face to his, ‘it would help Miss Underwood to get to know us all in an informal setting, since she is a stranger to polite society. It must be so hard for her to have to attend an event such as this, without having the benefit of a London Season beforehand.’
She was correct. Why hadn’t it occurred to him? Perhaps that accounted for Miss Underwood’s peculiar behaviour in the curricle that day. Perhaps it wasn’t him that she had an aversion to. Perhaps she just felt ill equipped to mingle with members of the haut ton. After all, she’d never so much as been to London, let alone
been launched into society.
‘Thank you, Lady Sarah,’ he said, regarding the Marchioness’s daughter with more warmth than he’d been able to summon up for her thus far. ‘It was most thoughtful of you to offer to take Miss Underwood under your wing.’ For that was what she was clearly doing. ‘Most kind.’
And kindness was going to be a trait he must absolutely insist upon in his Duchess. Perhaps the most essential trait.
Chapter Nine
Kind? Kind! Lady Sarah was not being kind. She was doing what Jack’s sisters used to do when grown-ups were watching—disguising a put-down by delivering it with a smile. Reminding her that she was out of place in this room since she was a stranger to polite society and therefore totally unfit to become a duchess.
Not that she needed much reminding. Sofia had never seen, let alone set foot in, such a palatial residence. From the moment their hired carriage had lurched under the massive ornate stone archway that marked the entrance to the grounds of Theakstone Court, she’d felt like a trespasser. The feeling of not being worthy of setting foot on any part of the estate increased the closer they’d driven to the house itself. It put her in mind of the way she’d felt when she’d first seen Nettleton Manor. Surely people who lived in a house as grand as that, with so much land surrounding it, would never let a grubby little orphan across their threshold? Only, the Duke’s principal seat was far larger and hidden deep within a much, much bigger estate. The central block alone was about twice as big as her parish church. And then there were wings branching out on either side.
A Duke in Need of a Wife Page 7