‘It is a very good copy,’ Lady Margaret persisted. ‘We were just commenting on the brushwork, were we not? But what do you make of this painting, Miss Underwood?’
Sofia cocked her head to one side. ‘I think he looks very bored, considering he is sitting on a wildly rearing horse,’ she said. ‘It makes me wonder what he’s thinking about.’
Lady Margaret curled her lip.
‘Sitting for a portrait is a tedious business,’ said Oliver. ‘You may note a similar expression on the faces of many of the people here. Take the children in this picture, for example,’ he said, drawing them along the gallery to the reason he’d arranged to bring her here. ‘It is of my father, as a child, and his sisters.’
‘By,’ said Lady Margaret, ‘Gainsborough?’
Well, Lady Margaret might be showing off her vastly superior knowledge of art, but Sofia, to judge from the way she stiffened upon catching sight of an eight-year-old Aunt Mary, had seen exactly what he’d wished her to see.
‘So...they are your aunts? Those little girls,’ said Sofia.
‘Yes. The family likeness is uncanny, is it not?’
‘Unmistakable, I should have said.’
‘Indeed. You will notice those particular brows, and the nose, crop up again and again throughout the generations on display here. In the females of the line.’
‘Not the men?’
‘Not as often, for some reason.’ He paused, choosing his next words with care. ‘You will notice that my father, when he was a boy...that is, it is generally held that he favoured his mother’s family.’
‘But the girls...’
‘Yes. The girls in my family do tend to have dark eyes, straight brows and that very prominent nose.’
‘How unfortunate,’ put in Lady Margaret, with a titter.
‘Why would you say that?’ Oliver had almost forgotten the dratted woman was there, for a moment, so intent had he been on gauging Miss Underwood’s reaction to the sight of the infant Aunt Mary, who was the image of Livvy.
‘Only, that feminine beauty is...that is, people think... I mean, some people think...females are more attractive if they have less, er, dramatic features.’ She faltered and fell silent, finally discerning that she’d irritated him. Which irritated him even more.
She didn’t even have the courage of her convictions.
‘I dare say,’ he said coldly, indicating the portrait hanging to the right of his Aunt Mary’s, ‘you find these children far more attractive, then, aesthetically speaking, Lady Margaret?’
A flush gilded Lady Margaret’s cheeks as the four of them inspected the three blonde, angelic-looking creatures gathered about the skirts of a strikingly beautiful woman in rather wispy robes.
‘Who are they?’ Sofia finally asked, cutting through the strained, tense silence. She alone needed to ask the question, since she was the only one who did not know.
‘These are the children of my father’s second marriage. And,’ he added, ‘their mother.’
She looked at his stepmother. Looked at him. ‘Your stepmother,’ she said in a voice that sounded...off, like a wineglass that didn’t ring like a bell when tapped, because there was a crack in it.
‘Correct,’ he said. And then, because he wondered what was going on behind those dark, hardening eyes, he asked her, ‘What do you make of this portrait?’
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lady Margaret preen. She probably thought Sofia was about to make a colossal fool of herself, since she knew so little about painters that she hadn’t even recognised the name of the one who’d done the copy of King Charles.
‘The little boy looks as if he’s about to run off and get into mischief,’ she said thoughtfully, her gaze fixed on the smile tugging at one corner of that little pink mouth.
‘He still does,’ said Oliver.
Lady Margaret tittered. Again.
He could never live with that kind of laughter.
‘The Marquess of Devizes,’ she said, ‘is notorious for his escapades.’
Had the foolish girl no idea how badly she was offending him? Was she so intent on scoring points over Miss Underwood, by flaunting her superior knowledge of his family, as well as art, that she’d completely lost all reason? Or did she think that by insulting that side of his family, she was demonstrating some kind of loyalty to him?
Not that he cared. With every minute that passed, she was confirming his decision to strike her from his list had been the correct one. For his own sake, as well as hers.
‘What do you make of the girls, Miss Underwood?’ he said, ignoring Lady Margaret’s tactless remark about his rakish half-brother. ‘Since your prophecy regarding my half-brother’s character was so accurate.’
‘Well...’ She studied them for a moment or two.
He’d always thought the painter had tried to make them look as though they were little copies of their mother, though he hadn’t quite succeeded.
‘They both look rather...’ she paused ‘...well, as though they are looking down their little noses at the man who is painting them.’
Lady Margaret clucked her tongue in disapproval. But then both his sisters were now married to powerful, influential men. Only his scapegrace brother, apparently, was safe to criticise.
But Oliver felt his mouth pulling into a smile. ‘You have it in a nutshell. They do, both, still look down their little noses at the rest of the world.’
‘What a pity,’ she said, taking a step back as though she wanted to take in the whole family a bit better. ‘When their mother looks as though she’s a rather nice person.’
Which she was. ‘Say, rather, that she is an amiable goose.’
She gave him a strange look. ‘It sounds as though you feel sorry for her,’ she said.
‘As do most people who meet her,’ he replied. Himself included. ‘Very pretty, of course. Which is why my father married her.’ His stomach churning at the mess his father had left behind him, he urged the whole group along to the next picture. At which Miss Underwood frowned.
‘I take it,’ he said to her, ‘this picture does not meet with your approval?’
‘Oh, no, it isn’t that,’ she said. ‘It is just that I was thinking the next one would be one of you. I mean, these are your nearest relatives, are they not? And there is a painting of your father’s second family. So I assumed...’
‘It is never a good idea to assume anything about my family,’ he said witheringly.
‘I beg pardon. I didn’t mean to offend you. I just wondered...that is...’
‘What Miss Underwood means, I am sure,’ put in Lady Margaret smoothly, ‘is that we were hoping to have sight of a portrait of you, as a child.’
‘Then you are doomed to disappointment,’ he said. ‘For there are none.’
‘None? How...? I mean...’
‘I was sent away the day after my mother died,’ he said. ‘My father did not invite me to return here, to Theakstone Court, until I was twelve.’
‘How tragic,’ put in Lady Margaret in a thrilled voice. ‘The poor man must have been so distraught he could not bear to be reminded of his first wife by the sight of her son.’
Well, that was the story Oliver’s father had put about. The one everyone still believed.
‘That’s awful,’ said Miss Underwood. ‘It must have been like losing both of your parents at a stroke. How old were you?’
‘I was not four years old, so I hardly remember it,’ he lied. That night was seared into his memory with terrifying clarity. ‘However, I do have a very clear recollection of the foster family upon whom I was thrust, which has given me a very firm resolve never,’ he said, looking her directly in the eyes, ‘to see any child suffer the same fate. Not if I can help it.’
Miss Underwood stared right back at him, her chin lifted in a challenging way. But what was she challenging?
His determination to flout convention by bringing his illegitimate daughter to live at his principal seat? Or something else entirely? He could not tell. And he had to know.
But he could not ask her outright. Not here, in front of Lady Margaret and the foppish poet. Not anywhere else in the house, by daylight, when they risked being overheard by anyone who might care to stroll past.
Which was why he’d arranged the meeting later on, out in the grounds where nobody would be strolling.
But it would be hours before they could be alone to discuss the matter freely. That was, if she kept the assignation he’d proposed in the note she’d tucked up her sleeve.
Lady Margaret shot him a confused look. ‘So, do you plan to open an orphanage of some sort? That is most commendable,’ she then gushed, ‘given your own history...’
‘I think Miss Underwood understands me upon this point,’ he said, cutting through. And then, because he was impatient to hear her views and could not wait until midnight, he risked asking her, ‘Since you lost your own parents at a young age, tell me, do you think it is better to pay strangers to look after an orphan child of noble birth? Or to send her to live with her nearest relations?’
‘Ah,’ she said. And thought for a bit before continuing. He liked that she was choosing her words carefully; that she didn’t just blurt out the first thing that popped into her head. ‘I think it depends, very much, upon the relations in the case. And the strangers. I mean, some people naturally like children and some don’t. Even if they are closely related, that doesn’t make them good guardians.’
‘Whatever can you mean?’ said Lady Margaret.
But Oliver could guess. Bringing her here, because he could not bear to think of her with strangers, had not won him any points, necessarily. He needed to prove that he was the best option for Livvy.
Which he would take damn good care to do, tonight.
* * *
Sofia laid her hairbrush down on the dressing table and turned her head from side to side.
Neat as a pin. She might be the most simply dressed female at table, but at least tonight she wouldn’t look as if she’d dragged on her last clean gown and rushed down to dinner without pausing to look in the mirror. Although there was no doing anything with the bruises, which were more green than purple, today.
She gathered up her reticule and was making her way to the door when it opened and Aunt Agnes came in.
Sofia flushed and lifted her chin.
‘No, no, I haven’t come to find fault,’ said Aunt Agnes, shutting the door. ‘I was just checking to make sure Marguerite had managed to get the tea stain out of your topaz silk so you could wear it tonight. Very strong views, she has, about what I pay her to do and serving anyone but myself is one of the...but never mind that.’ She clasped her hands together, as though she felt ill at ease. ‘If I had known, when we set off from Nettleton Manor, that we would end up staying in a ducal household, and with such fellow guests, I would have made sure you had more pretty gowns.’
An apology? From Aunt Agnes? If she weren’t afraid of creasing her gown, Sofia would have collapsed on the nearest chair.
‘There simply wasn’t time,’ Aunt Agnes continued, in that same, definitely apologetic, tone. ‘Besides, your Uncle Ned is so firm about not dipping into your capital.’
So firm, that they’d sometimes struggled to support her while in the midst of launching their own daughters into society, on what she suspected was a very modest income. It had meant wearing an awful lot of gowns that had been passed from Betty to Celia before reaching her.
‘My family accused me of marrying down when I chose Ned, but say what they will about him—’ and Uncle Barty said plenty ‘—they will never be able to say we took you in so that we could feather our own nest. And you’ve never really wanted for anything, have you?’
Only yesterday she’d mourned the lack of a pony. Only, how would it have looked if Uncle Ned had bought her one, when he hadn’t been able to provide mounts for his own daughters?
‘No, no, I haven’t,’ conceded Sofia meekly. For she’d always been so grateful for being allowed to stay with the family, in spite of all the difficulties her arrival had caused them, that she’d never liked to ask for things she knew they could ill afford.
‘So, there is no justification for the Dowager Lady Tewkesbury,’ said Aunt Agnes, her voice rising a little indignantly, ‘to accuse me—us—of being poor guardians?’
‘What? I mean, no, of course not, Aunt Agnes.’ They had been strict, very strict with her. At least, Aunt Agnes had been, especially at first when she’d been so determined to eradicate the vulgarity and hoydenish manners she’d apparently picked up when ‘following the drum’.
‘Then you have not been complaining, loudly, about our treatment of you?’
‘No! Who...? I mean...’ But then her mind flew back to the speculative expression on Lady Margaret’s face, earlier, when she’d been trying to let the Duke know that she didn’t think he was doing all that well with his daughter if she felt she had to hide up a tree when he rode into view, without mentioning her by name. Could it have sounded as though she was complaining about her own family circumstances? And could Lady Margaret then have repeated that information to her mother?
Very probably.
But she couldn’t explain much to Aunt Agnes without revealing the existence of the Duke’s daughter, which she didn’t feel right about doing, not without asking him first if she might.
Nevertheless, she did owe Aunt Agnes some sort of explanation.
‘We were speaking of the Duke’s own upbringing earlier,’ she therefore said. ‘I think Lady Margaret took some remarks I made about his foster family and twisted them to...to...well, I cannot think why she would have done such a thing.’
‘Well, I can,’ said Aunt Agnes, managing to sound both cross and relieved at the same time. ‘To sow discord. The cat. But we shall show her,’ she said with a militant light in her eyes, ‘show them all that they have not succeeded. We will go down to dinner arm in arm to show them we are the best of friends in spite of all their efforts. And what is more, that we don’t give a fig for any of ’em!’
Her stance reminded Sofia of the way she’d dealt with all those people who’d prophesied she’d have her hands full with any child of Captain Underwood’s, and reminded her of the reason she’d worked so hard to ensure her aunt would never regret taking her in.
And so she didn’t hesitate to do exactly as she was told.
Chapter Seventeen
Sofia’s heart was thudding as she sped along the corridor by the kitchens. From the moment she’d unfurled the note the Duke had given her and read his very precise directions to a structure called the Italian Summer House, along with the time he wished to meet her there, she hadn’t been able to help thinking that if she heard that any of the other bridal candidates were planning on sneaking out after dark to meet him, she’d assume they were up to no good. And she was sure that it was not at all wise of her to be scurrying down deserted corridors and stumbling about moonlit gardens, either. But there was absolutely no other way she could speak to him about his little girl without someone else overhearing. Not given the number of eagle-eyed chaperons watching every girl’s movements, zealously ensuring none of them could steal a march on any of the others by indulging in a private tête-à-tête.
Even Sofia. Even though nobody really thought she stood any hope of ever becoming a duchess. Least of all Sofia herself.
Her decision to risk her reputation, by doing as he’d asked, had put her all of a fidget, the whole evening. Occasionally she’d been distracted by the way the ladies circled each other with backs arched and claws extended. And seeing Uncle Ned drawing the men to him with his good nature and down-to-earth attitude, the way tavern keepers drew thirsty farmhands at the end of a day’s haymaking, had been enlightening. But, fascinating though it was to observe
everyone else, she couldn’t stop thinking about the upcoming rendezvous.
In the end, even though curiosity had stifled circumspection, Sofia didn’t want to risk having her reputation ruined by giving the appearance she was rushing out to some secluded spot at the fringes of the formal gardens for an assignation, which meant that rather than following the Duke’s directions faithfully, she made a detour to the kennels to collect Snowball. If by any chance somebody did happen to see her, then she could tell them she couldn’t sleep and was taking her dog for a walk. They’d think she was touched in the upper works, but that was better than being branded a hussy.
Snowball was so delighted to be let out of canine prison that she made hardly any objection to exploring formal shrubberies and flower beds, rather than the woods which were full of rabbits and other game.
It was rather difficult to make out the map by moonlight, but eventually Sofia reached a curving length of tightly clipped yew, about twice her height, behind which she hoped she’d find the Italian Summer House.
When she rounded the end of the hedge, she saw a structure resembling a miniature temple, gleaming white in the moonlight. It sat on an island of grass in a sea of gravel. Between the columns, which resembled rather depressed-looking women in flowing draperies, were several heavily shuttered windows and a stout wooden door. It all combined to make the place look rather funereal.
Nevertheless, since she’d come this far, she might as well just step inside. And if it was too dark and dank and gloomy, she could come straight back out again and wait for the Duke in the porch area.
Only, the moment she pushed open the door and stepped inside, he materialised from out of the shadows, making her jump. Snowball let out one warning bark and took up a protective stance in front of her.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Duke. ‘I did not mean to startle you.’
‘No, no, not at all,’ she said, pressing her hand to her heart, which was thumping wildly. ‘It was just that it was so dark, I did not think anyone was here.’
‘I did not wish to draw attention to ourselves by leaving a lantern lit. I do not mind the dark, you see. But if you are nervous...’
A Duke in Need of a Wife Page 14