by Eloisa James
It was her hips and her brains that had prompted the duke to go through with his promise, as he’d told her coolly on the day she’d turned fifteen. Her parents had thrown a garden party for their daughters, and to everyone’s enormous surprise, His Grace had joined them. Rupert had not accompanied him because he’d been only eleven years old at the time, and barely out of short pants.
“My son is a buffle-headed idiot,” the duke had said to Olivia, staring at her so hard that his eyes bulged a bit.
Since her opinion accorded with the duke’s, Olivia had deemed it best to say nothing.
“And you know it,” he had said, with distinct satisfaction. “You’re the one, my girl. You’ve got the brains, and you’ve got the hips.”
She must have twitched, because he’d said, “Hips mean children. My wife was rail-thin, and look what happened to me. There are two things I want in my daughter-in-law, and one is hips and the other is brains. I don’t mind telling you that if you didn’t have those two assets, I’d toss over my promise to your father and look about until I found the right woman. But you’re the one.”
Olivia had nodded, and since then she had never doubted that she would marry Rupert someday. His Grace, the Duke of Canterwick, was not a man who permitted mere technicalities—such as Rupert’s or her feelings—to stand in the way of a decision.
As the years passed and the duke didn’t bring his son to the altar, even as her parents grew more and more nervous, Olivia still didn’t worry. Rupert was a buffle-headed fool and he wasn’t going to change.
Her hips weren’t going to change, either.
When a carriage bearing the ducal crest was finally observed to have turned into Clarges Street, her father took up a position at Olivia’s right shoulder, while her mother sat beside her, her profile to the door, and twitched her skirts into place.
The duke entered the room without allowing their butler to announce him. In fact, the Duke of Canterwick was not the sort of man who would ever allow another man—other than royalty—to precede him. He looked like what he was, a man given to labeling ninety-nine percent of the world’s population insolent upstarts.
A particularly observant person—such as Olivia—might have noticed that in reality the duke’s nose entered the room first. He had a magnificent proboscis in the front, a doorknocker of a nose. But he made it work. Olivia rather thought that it was the way he held his head high and his chin forward.
He looked as if his presence was the only thing that made other people visible, though even she had to admit that this particular notion was more than unusually far-fetched on her part. “ ‘A lady does not stoop to fanciful notions,’ ” her mother would have said, quoting, naturally, The Maggoty Mirror.
Alas, fanciful notions were all that seemed to run through Olivia’s head, even as she curtsied with consummate grace and gave the duke a smile nicely calibrated between awe and respect.
Rupert, on the other hand, got a smile pitched between familiarity and respect (the latter entirely feigned).
“There you are!” Rupert said, with his usual enthusiasm.
Olivia curtsied again, and held out her hand. Since he reached only to her shoulder, Rupert didn’t have to bend far to kiss her glove. It was unfortunate that he had inherited his father’s nose but not the duke’s dominating personality; his nose just seemed to force one to pay more attention to his mouth. Which invariably hung open, his lower teeth visible in a glistening pout.
She was never happier to wear gloves than when receiving Rupert’s salutations. He invariably left a wet spot on the back of her hand.
“There you are,” he repeated, straightening with a huge smile on his face. “There you are, there you are!” Rupert was given to statements that meant nothing at all.
In fact, as Olivia agreed with his statement—indeed, here she was!—she puzzled over the differences between Rupert and his father.
The Duke of Canterwick was very intelligent. What’s more, he was ruthless. It was Olivia’s considered opinion that most people allowed feelings to get in the way of logic. Canterwick didn’t.
Given that level of clear thinking, it was rather odd that his son was not only patently disadvantaged when it came to thought, but also given to excesses of emotion. Rupert made people think uneasily that he was about to burst into song—or worse, into tears. You definitely thought twice about mentioning a recent funeral—even for an elderly great-aunt—if Rupert was assigned to sit beside you at a meal.
“And here’s Lucy!” he said, even more enthusiastically. Lucy was a very small, rather battered-looking dog whom Rupert had found abandoned in an alley a year or so before.
Lucy looked up at Olivia with an adoring expression, her thin, rather rat-like tail whipping from side to side like a metronome set to molto allegro.
“No meat pies today,” Olivia whispered, leaning down to pull up one of Lucy’s long ears.
Lucy had the best manners of them all. She licked Olivia’s hand even given that disappointment, and then trotted after Rupert.
He was bowing and scraping before her parents, which gave Olivia an excellent view of his potato-shaped nose and pendulous lower lip. It occurred to her, not for the first time, that she was set to marry the sort of man whom people wished were invisible. Or if not invisible, at least silent. She swallowed hard.
“Now,” His Grace announced, “I would never be clear in my conscience if I wasn’t absolutely certain that Miss Lytton wished this union with my son as dearly as we do. A promise between schoolboys should not force a young person into holy matrimony.”
“Told him that myself,” Rupert said, with palpable satisfaction. “No one could force me into marriage. My own decision. Clippings don’t answer.”
“No one is trying to clip your wings,” his father snapped.
Mr. and Mrs. Lytton looked at their prospective son-in-law with identical expressions of alarm and confusion.
“My son means to say that he is deeply enthusiastic about marrying Miss Lytton once he has returned from his military service,” the duke clarified.
Mrs. Lytton’s eyelashes fluttered madly.
“First I’m going to do our name proud,” Rupert put in. “Glory, and all that.”
The duke cleared his throat, glowering at his son. “The question of the moment is not your intent to prove your military prowess, Son, but whether Miss Lytton cares to wait for you until you have returned. The poor lady has been betrothed to you for some time.”
Rupert’s face twisted into an almost comical expression of anxiety. “Must win glory for the sake of the family name,” he said to Olivia. “What I mean to say is, I’m the last of the line. The rest all killed in the Culleron Door.”
“Culloden Moor,” his father said. “The Jacobite rising. Fools, every one of them.”
“I completely understand,” Olivia said to Rupert, resisting the impulse to draw her hand away from his.
He hung on with a tight grip. “I’ll marry you as soon as I come back. Trailing glory, you understand.”
“Of course,” Olivia managed. “Glory.”
“There is no need to worry in the slightest about my daughter,” Mrs. Lytton told Rupert. “She will wait for you without a second’s thought. For months, nay, for years.”
Olivia thought this was a bit much, but obviously she was not in charge of the timetable. If her parents had their way, she would indeed wait another five years for Rupert to wander back to England, wreathed in glory—or, more likely, ignominy. The idea of Rupert in a war was distinctly frightening: men of his type should not be handed a penknife, let alone anything as lethal as a sword.
“Now, now, my dear lady,” the duke said to Mrs. Lytton. “One can hardly trust a mother to plumb the depths of her daughter’s heart.”
Mrs. Lytton opened her mouth to dispute this statement; without question, she considered herself to have plumbed the depths of Olivia’s heart and found there nothing but an engraved plaque that read Future Duchess of Canterwick.
But the duke raised a hand, politely but firmly. Then he turned to Olivia. She dropped another perfectly calibrated curtsy.
“I shall speak to Miss Lytton in your library,” His Grace announced. “Meanwhile, Rupert”—he all but snapped his fingers—“do inform Mr. Lytton about the situation in France. My dear sir, the marquess has been studying the situation with some fervor, and I’m sure he can enlighten you as to the grave dangers posed by the debacle on the other side of the Channel.”
They left the room on a stream of Rupert’s babble. Olivia allowed herself to be seated when they reached the library; the duke stayed in his favorite posture, feet spread, hands behind his back, as if he were standing on the prow of a ship.
He’d have made a good ship’s captain, now Olivia thought on it. That nose would have come in handy when it came to smelling the storm winds, or sniffing out rotten goods in the hold.
“Just in case you’re worried, my dear, Rupert will be going nowhere near the French shore,” His Grace announced.
Olivia nodded. “I am very happy to hear it.”
“He’ll be landing in Portugal.”
“Portugal?” Olivia echoed, thinking that she had been right: Rupert was indeed being kept a whole country away from the battle.
“The French are fighting in Spain at no great distance,” the duke said. “But Rupert is landing in Portugal, and there he will stay. He wishes to be at Wellington’s side, but I simply cannot allow that.”
Olivia inclined her head again.
The duke shifted from foot to foot, the first time that Olivia had ever seen him show the faintest hint of uncertainty. Then: “He’s a biddable lad, as you’ll discover. Generally does what he’s told, without much fuss. He learned to . . . He can even dance now. Not the quadrille, of course, but most of the rest. But when he does get an idea in his head, he simply won’t let go of it. And here’s the problem: he’s convinced himself that he will not marry until he achieves military glory.”
Olivia didn’t twitch an eyebrow. But the duke read something more subtle in her face.
“Astonishing, isn’t it? I blame his tutors for spending altogether too much time beating the history of our family into his head. The first duke led five hundred men into battle—and the best way to describe that engagement would be a glorious and epic defeat. But of course we put a different gloss on it amongst ourselves. Or at least those fools of tutors did. Rupert wants to lead a troop of men and come home covered in glory.”
Olivia was suddenly aware of a feeling of pity for the duke, something he would undoubtedly resent.
“Perhaps he might lead a small skirmish?” she suggested.
“Precisely my thought,” the duke said, sighing. “It’s taken a bit of maneuvering, but he’ll be heading up a company of one hundred men.”
“And what will he do with them?”
“Lead them into battle,” the duke said. “In Portugal, a nice distance from any soldiers who might be inclined to fight back.”
“Ah.”
“Of course, anytime I let him out of my sight, I worry.”
Olivia would worry too, if she had the faintest affection for Rupert. He was just the type to commit suicide. Oh, he wouldn’t have it in mind as such. But he would wander into the Whitefriars with a jeweled snuffbox in his hand and a diamond set in his cravat. Suicide.
The duke thumped his walking stick on the flagstones before the fireplace, rather as if he were trying to even out the stone. “The truth of it is that I’m concerned about the possibility that Rupert won’t go through with the marriage if I force him to the altar.”
Olivia nodded again.
The duke looked at her fleetingly and then gave the flagstone at his foot another good prod. “I could deliver him to a church, obviously, but I would be unsurprised if he said no at the crucial moment, even if I filled St. Paul’s with witnesses. He’d cheerfully explain exactly why he didn’t want to say his vows, and he would certainly be happy to tell everyone that he planned to marry you after he achieved—” His voice broke off.
“Military glory,” Olivia finished his sentence for him. She was feeling very sorry indeed for the duke. No one deserved to be humiliated like this.
“Precisely.” Another thump sounded, along with the distinct sound of splintering wood.
“I have no doubt but that the marquess will return from Portugal satisfied with his prowess,” Olivia said. It was true, too. As long as someone was at Rupert’s shoulder who could describe marching down a country road as valiant subjugation of an (invisible) enemy, Rupert would come home happy.
“I’m sure you’re right.” The duke leaned his splintered walking stick against the fireplace and sat down opposite Olivia. “What I have to ask you is something that no gentleman should ever address with a young lady.”
“Something to do with common law?” Olivia inquired.
His brow creased. “Common law? What does that have to do with anything?”
“The old law and the new law? My parents said something about older and newer rules pertaining to betrothals . . .”
“English law is English law, and to the best of my ability, common law has no bearing on a betrothal.” The duke gave her a clear, penetrating look. “Women shouldn’t be meddling with matters of the law. Though you must develop some familiarity, because God knows you won’t be able to let Rupert make decisions on his own. But I’ll teach you all that. As soon as you’re married, you’ll come to the estate and I’ll start training you.”
Olivia considered it a great triumph that her smile didn’t slip, even though her heart was racing and a panicked voice in her head screamed: Training? More training?
His Grace didn’t notice her silence. “I’m going to have to teach you how to be a duke, since Rupert isn’t up to the task. But you’re smart enough for it. I saw that when you were fifteen.”
Olivia swallowed and nodded. “I understand.” Her voice sounded rather faint, but the duke wasn’t listening anyway.
“You may not know this, but our title is derived from an ancient Scottish dukedom,” he said. He still didn’t meet her eyes. He reached over and picked up his cracked walking stick and held it in his lap, examining it as if he thought it might be worth repairing.
“I am aware of that fact,” Olivia said. The duke obviously had no idea of the extent of her knowledge of the Canterwick holdings and history. She could have told him the name of his second cousin thrice removed’s firstborn child. And the name of that cousin’s seventh-born child, the one notorious for having been born in the common room at the Stag’s Head Inn after his mother had drunk too much ale.
“Due to our ancestral roots in Scotland, a case can be made that Scottish inheritance rules apply.”
“Ah.”
The duke pressed down deliberately on his knee, and the walking stick broke in two. He did not raise his eyes. “If you were to conceive a child now, before my son goes to Portugal, that child would be legitimate under Scottish law. I want to be quite clear about this, however: you would not become a marchioness until my son returned and wed you. There are those who might say unkind things about you, as they would of any woman carrying a child without the benefit of matrimony, although, of course, you would be put immediately under my protection.”
“Yes,” Olivia murmured.
“I would give Rupert no chance to refuse his duty. In fact, if a happy event were to occur, I would immediately send proxy marriage papers after him, to be signed in Portugal. As long as there was no mishap as regards the papers—and I see no reason why there should be—you would be a marchioness before the child was born.”
He paused. “In the event that something were to happen to Rupert before the proxy papers could be signed, you would have the satisfaction of being the mother of a future duke.”
Olivia had a terrible impulse to quote a choice line from The Mirror of Compliments: “Nothing is more precious than a virgin’s honor!” But she remained silent, not even venturing to p
oint out that the baby might be a girl, a possibility that didn’t appear to have occurred to the duke.
“Whether or not a child ensues, I will gift you with a jointure and a small estate of your own,” Canterwick continued.
“I understand,” Olivia managed. If she understood him correctly, the duke had just offered her an estate in exchange for losing her virginity out of wedlock. It was an astonishing thought.
“I have tasked Lady Cecily Bumtrinket to accompany you to the country. You cannot stay at Canterwick Manor, of course, until either the proxy papers are signed or my son returns to marry you. It wouldn’t be proper.”
“Lady Cecily Bumtrinket?” Olivia repeated. “Could I not simply remain at home until either of these events occur?”
“It wouldn’t be appropriate for you to remain here any longer.” The duke glanced about the room with just the faintest hint of indifferent disdain. “You and your sister will stay at the Duke of Sconce’s estate until we are able to resolve all the little legalities. The dowager duchess planned to invite a young lady to the country in order to assess her befittedness for the position of duchess. I convinced her that your sister was also a suitable candidate. Her invitation is a tribute to your parents, as I shall inform your mother shortly.”
Olivia murmured, “Georgiana will be gratified by the confidence shown in her.”
“And so she should,” the duke stated. “I have taken the liberty of informing Madame Claricilla on Bond Street that she is to outfit both you and your sister as befits your new station, within a fortnight. You must learn, my dear, that we dukes tend to keep to ourselves. We may crossbreed, rather like dogs and horses, but we prefer to keep each other’s company.”
Olivia’s mind was reeling. Apparently she was part of a crossbreeding experiment. And she was to stay with the Dowager Duchess of Sconce? The very duchess who had written that dreadful tome, The Mirror of Compliments?