She blinked up at him. ‘I think it may be because they don’t want my inheritance to pass out of the family. Although to start with I thought it was because they thought I actually wanted to marry—’ She pulled herself up short before speaking the name of her intended. ‘Only lately,’ she said, looking at the butterflies flirting above the rows of cabbages, ‘I have started to suspect that they have been deliberately preventing me from meeting anyone else.’
‘Hence the lack of court presentation, or a Season in London?’
She nodded. ‘They haven’t let me out of their sight since the night of the fireworks, if you must know. Your invitation to drive out came as a great shock to them. As did the invitation to attend this...’ she wrinkled her nose in distaste ‘...bride selection process, or whatever it is.’
‘It is a chance to get to know you,’ he retorted defensively, ‘and several other eligible young ladies who have come to my notice, a little better, in less formal surroundings than London can offer.’
‘So I suppose you will be taking them all for walks about the place without chaperons,’ she said drily, indicating their own isolation.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said with a shudder, before striding to the gate at the far end of the kitchen gardens. Because any of the others would take advantage of the situation. Shamelessly.
As he opened the gate for her, it struck him that they trusted each other to about the same extent. She would no more compromise him into marriage than he would repeat the confidences she’d shared with him. But before he could point this out, she’d caught sight of the kennel buildings and set off in that direction, leaving him to follow in her wake. She was spurred on, no doubt, by the high-pitched bark of her little dog which even he could recognise above the deeper calls of his hunting hounds.
His kennel man, Barnes, was nowhere to be seen, but he knew his way round the set-up well enough to guess that he’d place Miss Underwood’s dog in a pen by itself. Though even she could follow the sound of Snowball’s persistent yapping to a small run at the far end, which she did, giving a little cry of joy when she saw her dog above the partition, and then running into the pen and dropping to her knees. Her dog launched herself at her mistress with enthusiasm. Miss Underwood laughed as the dog licked her face.
And he suddenly knew just what the peacock must feel like when the little brown peahen wandered off to peck at grain, in the dirt, rather than take any notice of his magnificent display. He could actually feel his tail feathers shrinking and drooping.
She cared nothing for his title, his lands, or his wealth. All she cared about was this little scrap of fur.
The one to whom she confided her troubles, her hopes, her ambitions.
Although, she had begun to confide in him, too, had she not?
‘You know,’ he said, strolling closer, determined not to be outshone by a dog, ‘I would not have brought you here if I did not think you might be worthy of the title.’
She looked up at him over her shoulder, her lips pursed. ‘I mean no disrespect,’ she said in a highly disrespectful tone, ‘but I’m already attempting to avoid marrying a man who thinks I should be grateful for the honour of being considered.’
Ah. He’d been flaunting his peacocky feathers at her again, instead of using his head.
But then, was it so surprising that he was a little awkward at trying to make a woman look at him for himself, rather than those showy feathers? He wasn’t a handsome man. He had only to look in the mirror to assure himself of that fact. Nor a particularly pleasant one to judge from the way Lady Margaret had started flinching whenever he looked her way. Yet he’d had women falling over themselves to attract his notice ever since he’d been old enough to notice women. The other four girls he’d abandoned in the drawing room had probably half-fainted with excitement when they’d received the invitation to come here. He was sure any of them would do just about anything to become his Duchess, even, in the case of Lady Margaret, attempting to conceal the fact that he scared her.
But Miss Underwood, on the other hand...
‘Just what exactly do you want from a husband, then, if not the rank and wealth that I have to offer?’
A dreamy look came to her face and then it vanished, as though she’d wiped it away with a handkerchief.
‘Well, to start with, I would want a man I could trust.’
Well, she already trusted him, to some extent.
‘Someone who would be completely honest with me.’
Honest, yes, he could give her honesty. Could she handle it, though, that was the question?
‘Someone who would respect me. And who I could respect, too. But most of all, I...well, never mind.’ She hunched her shoulder and turned back to her dog.
He recalled that dreamy look and saw that what she wanted most of all was something he was not prepared, nor equipped, to give.
‘You want romance,’ he sneered. ‘Love.’
‘Well, what is wrong with that?’
‘People of my rank do not marry for love. Or not if they have any sense. It always ends in disaster. Love leads men like me to make mésalliances with milkmaids, or actresses,’ he said, thinking of Livvy’s mother with a pang of regret. It had hurt him to break things off with her, but he’d had to put a halt to things when he’d begun to grow genuinely fond of her. For one thing, his father had still been alive and it had been imperative to stay strong and alert at all times. If he’d started to soften or grow too distracted by a woman...he grimaced as an image from his past seared into his memory. His father with those bloodstains on his shirtsleeves; bending over him in his bed at night, seizing him by the collar of his nightshirt, asking him whose bastard he was, flinging him to the floor.
He passed a hand across his face, as though he could wipe away that memory, as well as the regrets he still harboured over the way he’d ended things with Ruby. Perhaps, if he hadn’t been so abrupt with her...
Miss Underwood stood up, finally, and came to his side. ‘Have I said something to upset you?’
‘How could you?’
‘I don’t know. But you looked, for a moment...’ She reached out one hand as though to offer comfort. Dammit, but he wanted to take it.
He took a step back. He did not need comfort. He had not needed anything, from anyone, since that nightmarish night his mother had died. He’d only escaped meeting the same fate as her, he was sure, because he’d taken refuge under his bed. And he’d been too small for his father to ferret him out, desperately though he’d tried. Eventually, thwarted of his prey, his father had sat down, placed his hands over his face and sobbed.
The proud aristocrat, fêted in society for being such a paragon of virtue, had sat on the bedroom floor, in his bloodstained shirtsleeves, sobbing like a child, while Oliver had cowered under his bed, praying for deliverance.
It had come the next morning, in the shape of an under-housemaid.
‘Your poor mama met with an accident during the night,’ she’d said, lifting up the edge of the trailing coverlet. ‘Your poor father is prostrate with grief. Did he frighten you? Never mind, here’s some bread and honey for your breakfast.’ She’d put the plate on the floor, as though he were a dog, and had then set about opening cupboards and pulling out his clothes. ‘He’s decided the best thing for you is to go and stay with a nice family who will take care of you, until he’s got over it.’
She’d made the family sound good. And the bread and honey had looked good. So he’d crawled out far enough to take hold of the food, since he was certain to starve if he stayed under the bed for ever. But he’d kept an eye on the door all the time, lest his father should take it into his head to storm back in again.
But the housemaid had been lying. The family she’d taken him to later that day had not been particularly nice. And during the next nine years, they’d lied to everyone else in that godforsaken little hamlet he’d had to c
all home, claiming he was the child of a distant member of their own family.
By the time he left, he’d found it safer to assume that everyone lied as a matter of course. He’d trusted nobody.
And nothing that had happened to him since then had given him any reason to change his opinion. Especially not the way Ruby had, after all her protestations of love, concealed his own child from him.
So why was he suddenly taking everything Miss Underwood said at face value?
‘Now that you have seen how unlikely it is that my hounds will eat your dog,’ he said, ‘perhaps you had better return to your room to change so that you are fit to be seen in Lady Sarah’s rooms? Lady Sarah may be very kind, but some of the others would look at you askance if they saw you...’ he looked pointedly down at the dirt in which she’d been kneeling ‘...looking so unkempt.’
She shot him a look that would have made a lesser man flinch, then bent down and made a futile attempt to brush the dirt from her gown. She glared at him when he held out his arm and, even when she took it, she walked all the way back to the house in stony silence.
Objective achieved. He’d resisted the temptation she represented. He’d restored her to a safe distance.
So why didn’t he feel content?
Chapter Eleven
Sofia wasn’t all that surprised when the Duke snapped his fingers at the first footman they encountered when they reached the house and ordered him to escort her back to her room.
What on earth had she been about, revealing the size of her inheritance? It was the equivalent of flaunting her wares. It certainly hadn’t been the muddy paw prints on her gown that had made him look at her with such disdain. He hadn’t looked at her like that when she’d first knelt down, or when Snowball had been frisking about and covering her face with doggy kisses. She might as well have hung a placard round her neck proclaiming Slightly tarnished heiress on offer.
He’d never respect her now.
‘Oh,’ she groaned, leaning back against the door to her rooms the moment she was inside. And then kicking it with her heel. For, apart from anything else, she was going to have to change her gown again. And there was nothing in her trunk that she...
Hold on a minute. Where was her trunk? She’d left it standing at the foot of her bed when she’d gone down to that bilious drawing room, the lid open, and the contents exploding out of it in all directions. But she couldn’t see it now, even though she could see her bed through the open bedroom door.
Puzzled, she pushed herself off the outer door to her rooms, crossed her sitting room and went into the bedchamber. She saw the trunk at once. It was standing on end in a small space between the wardrobe and the window. And inside the wardrobe, she discovered when she yanked open its door, were all her clothes, either hanging from pegs, or neatly folded on the shelves.
Well. That housekeeper might be a bit of a dragon, but she was definitely efficient. And it could only have been one of the Duke’s staff who’d unpacked for her. The one maid they’d brought with them from Nettleton Manor, Marguerite, considered herself her aunt’s personal maid and would never deign to unpack for Sofia, let alone help her to dress for dinner.
Still, at least it meant that Sofia was well able to wriggle out of her soiled gown and into the beautifully ironed topaz silk she normally wore for dinner, completely unaided.
All that she needed then was somebody to show her the way to Lady Sarah’s rooms. And yet again, she discovered the Duke’s household was run so efficiently that she’d scarcely rung the bell to summon one before an impeccably dressed and bewigged footman appeared at her door.
As she followed his stately progress through the house, she started to wish she had a more modish gown. Even the portraits on the walls looked more fashionably dressed than she was. And some of them were centuries old. Wearing hand-me-downs had never bothered her much before. But then, she’d never had to walk into a room full of titled girls who were all competing for the Duke’s favour and who would therefore all no doubt be dressed to the nines.
Just as she was wondering if she could make some excuse for returning to her own room, the footman stopped, and knocked on a set of double doors.
A maid wearing an apron and starched cap opened it and ran a disdainful eye the length of Sofia’s figure.
‘Miss Underwood,’ said the footman firmly. ‘She is expected.’
The maid’s haughty stare paused at the side of Sofia’s face, which was a hotchpotch of purple and green, and gave a disdainful sniff, but she did stand back to let her in.
Sofia stepped into a sitting room that was at least twice the size of hers. And which had tall windows overlooking the front drive and the sweep of the immaculate green lawns flanking it. She realised several things in swift succession. Her own rooms, from what she’d glimpsed out of her windows while dashing past, overlooked the courtyard across which coaches rattled up to the house. And they were at least one floor higher up, not to mention at the far end of one of the wings, nowhere near the main part of the house.
The Duke had done the equivalent of sticking her in the attics.
While she was standing stock-still, taking in the magnificence of the rooms contrasted with what she now saw was the simplicity of her own, Lady Sarah came gliding across the velvety carpet, both hands outstretched as if in welcome.
‘Dear Miss Underwood,’ she cooed. ‘We have all been on tenterhooks, waiting for you to make your appearance.’
The comment made Sofia glance at the clock standing on the marble mantelshelf and noted that it was indeed several minutes behind the time she ought to have attended. And also that she could have stored her trunk and half her belongings in Lady Sarah’s fireplace. Three other young ladies were already sitting on various chairs scattered throughout the room, staring at her with unabashed curiosity.
‘But of course, you were with His Grace,’ said Lady Sarah with a suggestive little smile. ‘Naturally, you could not bear to tear yourself away.’ She tittered, then added, ‘Though I can see that you made all speed with your toilette to make up for it.’
Sofia’s hand instinctively went to her hair to straighten it, before smoothing over her skirts. The maid had already made her feel self-conscious about her black eye. Though even if her skin had been unblemished, and she taken hours and hours over her toilette, she would never have measured up to all the lace and pearls and pedigree on display in this room.
‘Now, dear Miss Underwood,’ said Lady Sarah, linking her arm through Sofia’s. ‘I shall make you known to everyone. After all, that is why we are all gathered here, is it not?’
One of the other young ladies, who had silvery blond hair and a rather sharp nose, made a noise that expressed her disagreement in a way that Aunt Agnes would have described as extremely vulgar.
‘You must take no notice of Lady Elizabeth’s ill manners,’ said Lady Sarah haughtily. ‘The rest of us are very glad to make your acquaintance.’
‘I have nothing against meeting this country miss,’ said Lady Elizabeth, setting down her teacup with a snap. ‘What I dislike is you using her as a pretext for gathering us all here.’
‘Why,’ said Lady Sarah, laying one hand upon her bosom in a rather theatrical manner, ‘whatever are you implying?’
Lady Elizabeth got to her feet. ‘Since you have not the wit to understand without me saying it plainly, it is this.’ She advanced upon them with eyes flashing militantly. ‘You have no right to act as though you are the hostess in this house.’
‘I am doing no such thing!’
Sofia had managed to slide her hand out of Lady Sarah’s grasp when she’d pressed her own to her bosom. And now she took a step to one side, for good measure.
‘Yes, you are. Taking this poor girl up and making her believe you have her interests at heart...’
‘But I do! Only think how uncomfortable it must be for her, knowing nobody in so
ciety, when we are all such good friends...’
‘Friends? We may have attended the same functions during the Season and we may be on nodding terms. But by no stretch of the imagination would I ever describe us as friends.’
‘Oh!’ Lady Sarah recoiled, with a tragic little wail.
‘Have no fear, I shall not stay to spoil your little party,’ sneered Lady Elizabeth. She then turned to Sofia. ‘Nothing against you. We may grow to like each other, we may not. But a word of warning. Do not be taken in by this...’ she shot Lady Sarah a look of loathing ‘...person.’
So saying, she strode to the door, opened it herself and marched off.
‘Oh,’ cried Lady Sarah again, tottering to a sofa and sinking on to the cushions next to a girl of fragile mien. The fragile girl took her hand and patted it.
‘There, there,’ she said soothingly. ‘Pay no heed to Lady Elizabeth. We all know what a good-natured, kind person you are. Don’t we?’ She turned rather protuberant, pale eyes to the other girl in the room. Who mumbled something that might have been assent through a mouth full of cake.
‘I don’t know what I can have done to incur Lady Elizabeth’s enmity,’ said Lady Sarah to the room at large. ‘I just hoped that we could all embark upon this house party in a spirit of...fairness. I mean, it would be dreadful, positively dreadful, if we permitted our desire to win His Grace’s favour to develop into the kind of rivalry that must surely give him a disgust of us all. Also, we must not forget, one of us is going to be a duchess, in due course, and will become a very, very powerful lady. It would not do to make of that person a bitter enemy.’
The other girls nodded and murmured that Lady Sarah was very wise.
But Sofia couldn’t help wondering if they’d noticed that when she’d spoken of the future Duchess, Lady Sarah had made little gestures with her hands that hinted she believed she would be that person. Had they heard the subtle threat implicit in the warning not to incur the wrath of the future Duchess?
Or was Sofia just being fanciful?
A Duke in Need of a Wife Page 9