When a Duchess Says I Do

by Grace Burrowes

  “To hell with despair. You’re a Wentworth.” Quinn yanked Duncan into a hug and thumped him once on the back. “Tomorrow, we save your duchess, or my duchess will take matters into her own dainty hands.”

  The duke ascended the steps as if such affection was normally exchanged among the Wentworth family members. He didn’t look back, didn’t stop at the top of the stairs. He proceeded in the direction of the apartment he shared with Jane until he was lost around the turn in the corridor.

  While Duncan stood alone in the shadows at the foot of the stairs, trying to put a name on the emotions rioting through him. Surprise, certainly. Teaching Quinn to read had been easy—the duke was as bright as his younger brother, and equally determined. A handful of Sundays explaining phonetics, reading the Book of Common Prayer with Quinn, and he’d puzzled out the rest for himself.

  Becoming Stephen’s tutor had set a wonderful puzzle before Duncan: How to occupy an overactive mind when that mind was housed in an underactive body? How to foster emotional maturity in a youth who was treated as a perpetual toddler?

  Those tasks had given Duncan’s life meaning, and had also brought him joy. He’d had no idea Quinn felt a sense of indebtedness, though if Quinn did, Stephen likely did as well.

  “Perhaps,” Duncan muttered, taking the steps slowly, “this is what it means to be a family—to be a Wentworth.” A sense of belonging, acceptance…a knowing of one’s place and cherishing that place.

  And some fine day, Matilda might be a Wentworth, too, provided Duncan could checkmate Atticus Parker at daybreak. Duncan ascended the stairs, his heart full of hope—the lone comfort against all the ills to escape from Pandora’s box.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Matilda passed her night in useless speculation. Why should an exhausted seamstress who’d been given nothing for her trouble take the time to rouse a ducal household long after dark? Would Parker go through with the ceremony? Would the ceremony be real or a sham?

  Where was Papa? If he’d left the country, then Matilda need no longer be as concerned for him, and could focus all her worry on herself and Duncan. Parker could have Duncan arrested, and Duncan—untitled, without significant wealth, too honest for his own good—would face the very fate Matilda had tried to spare him.

  And yet, she could not defeat Parker on her own, and if any truth had emerged from all of her pondering and fretting, it was that Parker was her enemy, and likely the Crown’s as well. She had no evidence, no logical syllogism upon which to base that conclusion, other than the fact that a doting swain did not lock his intended in her chambers each night.

  “Is Your Grace awake?” a maid called from beyond the bedroom door.

  “I am now,” Matilda muttered. “Come in.”

  The next sound was metal on metal—the lock being opened—and then the maid came in bearing a tray.

  “Good morning, Your Grace.” She set the tray beside the bed. “Would you like to sit by the fire, or will you have your tea in bed?”

  The clock on the mantel said the hour was just past seven. Outside, daylight had barely begun its advance against darkness.

  “I’d prefer chocolate,” Matilda said. “You may return this tray to the kitchen.” Anything to push the morning’s schedule back by even five minutes.

  The maid was well trained—or accustomed to the whims of aristocrats—and showed not a trace of irritation. “My apologies, ma’am. Is there anything else you’d like me to bring up from the kitchen?”

  What took significant preparation? What would not be on hand, ready for the breakfast meal?

  “A compote of sliced oranges, pears, and apples, with a dash of cinnamon and a sprinkling of chopped walnuts.”

  The maid curtsied at the door, the tray on her hip. “Very good, ma’am.”

  Her departure was followed by another soft snick of metal on metal.

  When the food arrived, Matilda ate slowly. She sipped her chocolate slowly, finding the brew too rich and too bitter. She demanded a final adjustment to the bodice of her dress, though that was in hopes of seeing the seamstress—Mary was her name—who’d been the only possible ally on hand the previous night.

  Mary was straightening a hem that had never been crooked on a gown that was too lovely to be worn by a reluctant bride, when Parker’s voice rang out from beyond the sitting room door.

  “Her Grace is to be in the family parlor in ten minutes. I’ll send the footmen to haul her down bodily if her nerves should overtake her good sense.”

  He sounded far too pleased with himself, probably because the ceremony would go off exactly as scheduled.

  The modiste was boxing up the last of the embroidery supplies and refusing to meet Matilda’s gaze. Madam Foucault was a spare, gray-haired woman, and though she dressed with understated grace, her mannerisms were those of a general commanding an army on short rations.

  “I do not want to marry that man,” Matilda said. “You are my witnesses that he’s coercing me to the ceremony.”

  Madam turned a tired, pitying expression on her. “Nerves, Your Grace. All brides have nerves. You donned that dress willingly enough.”

  And as slowly as I could. “I am the widow of a duke. I do not have bridal nerves. I need to leave this house without being forced to marry that man.” Mary had given no indication that she’d been able to find the Wentworth town house, much less speak with Duncan.

  Madam closed the lid of a quilted box. “Then you should not have accepted his lordship’s suit if you did not want to marry him. Men are entitled to rely on the encouragement we give them. And if you changed your mind, why did you permit yourself to be fitted for that dress, hour after hour? His lordship is the son of a marquess, a colonel, a war hero. I could name you a dozen young women who’d marry him and be grateful.”

  “I am not among them. Should I be grateful to be kept prisoner? Grateful that the only choice a woman can claim—the power to refuse a suitor—has been denied me?”

  Madam stacked three boxes on the sofa, one atop the other. “Mary, cease fussing. Our work is done, and if we want to be paid, we’ll ignore Her Grace’s little bout of indecision. Take the boxes down to the kitchen.”

  Mary sent Matilda one glance—apologetic?—and rose. “It’s a lovely dress, ma’am. A queen would be happy to wear that dress when reviewing her knights on parade.”

  “I am not a—”

  Mary regarded her far more directly than a seamstress should regard a duchess.

  “I’m told the queen is the most powerful piece on the chessboard,” Mary said. “Not that I’ve ever played.”

  Madam glanced at the clock. “Mary, cease nattering and take these boxes downstairs.”

  “Somebody left a pin near my right shoulder blade,” Matilda said. “I cannot speak vows while I’m being stabbed in the back. Mary, you will remove the pin for me.” She infused her order—it was not a request—with all the dignity a duchess could command.

  Madam looked torn, then she swept a curtsy. “Best wishes, Your Grace. Mary, see that the duchess is made comfortable, then gather up the boxes.” Madam tapped twice on the door, which was opened from the far side, then departed.

  “Come,” Matilda said, marching into the bedroom and moving behind the privacy screen.

  “Two footmen wait right outside your sitting room door,” Mary said quietly when she and Matilda were alone. “You wouldn’t get ten paces down the corridor if you fled. I have a message for you.”

  “From Mr. Wentworth?”

  “Aye, Your Grace. After I left here last night, I’d barely reached the street corner when a strapping blond fellow came up beside me and told me I shouldn’t be abroad so late on my own. Had an accent, and he wasn’t threatening me in the least.”

  Duncan was a fine strapping fellow, but he had no accent and wasn’t blond. “The fine fellow was watching this house, I take it?” Thank you, Duncan, for not losing me or losing heart.

  “The fellow was a footman to the Duke of Walden, and he took me to
Mr. Wentworth straightaway. Mr. Wentworth said that your knights will charge before the ceremony, and you weren’t to do anything to put yourself in harm’s way.”

  The ceremony was scheduled to start in six minutes.

  And yet, Duncan would not fail her. Was incapable of failing those he cared for, regardless of their station or the danger to himself.

  “Then I’d best take myself down to the family parlor. Thank you, Mary. You might well have saved my life.”

  Mary’s features were too finely drawn to be pretty, her figure lacked the curves bestowed by regular, ample nutrition, but she had a lovely smile.

  “Seamstresses hear everything,” she said. “We see everything, and I knew you weren’t a happy bride. His Grace said I might have my own shop.”

  “You’d rather have the handsome footman?”

  “To be honest, I might like both, Your Grace.”

  “Then I hope you get them.” Because for a woman to have both the man she loved and something meaningful besides—a home, a shop, a calling—ought not to be an impossible dream. “Thank you again for your aid. It’s time for you to leave, and for me to cry off at the altar.”

  Mary gathered up the boxes and accompanied Matilda into the corridor. One footman went with the maid, the other stayed right at Matilda’s elbow as she descended the stairs. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed eight times as she reached the bottom of the stairs.

  “This way, Your Grace,” the footman murmured, turning to the left.

  Matilda disdained to take his arm. “No need to direct me. I can hear the colonel shouting plainly enough.”

  * * *

  The war hero expected to be obeyed, and Duncan delighted—delighted—in the fact that nobody was obeying him.

  “But, my lord,” a footman sputtered, “the gentleman said he’d brought the ring, and every wedding requires a ring. You said we was to be certain that nothing interfered—”

  “He’s not a bloody jeweler,” Parker bellowed. “Those two aren’t a jeweler’s bullyboys.”

  Quinn and Stephen were the pair in question, the duke looking ferocious despite his Bond Street tailoring, while Stephen examined the heavy gold handle on his sword cane.

  Over in the corner, the priest paged through his prayer book and pretended to ignore the verbal altercation.

  “In fact,” Duncan said, “you are correct, my lord colonel. I am Mr. Duncan Wentworth. I have with me Lord Stephen Wentworth, and Quinton, His Grace of Walden, whom I am honored to call my cousins. We are under the impression you intend to hold a wedding.”

  “And what bloody bedamned business is it of yours if I do?” Parker was resplendent in his regimentals, and they nicely matched his choleric complexion.

  “Why?” Duncan asked. “Why marry a woman who does not seek to marry you?”

  The priest looked up.

  “You know nothing of the situation,” Parker said. “Her Grace welcomed my suit and welcomes the protection marriage to me will afford her.”

  Matilda entered the room, a footman trailing. She was magnificently attired in a dress of pale green that had purple, red, and blue flowers embroidered on the hem, cuffs, and cream underskirt. Her hair had been done simply—a braid coiled into a chignon, and she wore no jewelry.

  To Duncan she had never looked lovelier, or more furious.

  “Your Grace.” Duncan bowed, Stephen and Quinn doing likewise, while the priest murmured a greeting.

  “My Grace,” Matilda said through gritted teeth, “has been a prisoner in Colonel Parker’s keeping since he took me from a Berkshire coaching inn two days ago.”

  “You came with me willingly,” Parker retorted. “I have a special license, and I say we must be married.”

  The priest cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should give the couple privacy.”

  “A fine idea,” Parker began. “Her Grace has been through an ordeal, and a few minutes to discuss—”

  Duncan snatched the prayer book from the priest and tossed it to Stephen, who caught it one-handed.

  “I beg to differ, Reverend. You just heard Her Grace state that this man all but kidnapped her and kept her a prisoner. Now you suggest that the duchess be left alone with him. How thoroughly did the colonel bribe you to inspire such a lapse in your calling?”

  A flush crept up past the priest’s collar. “How dare you speak to a man of the cloth so disrespectfully?”

  “He dares,” Quinn said, “because he is a man of the cloth himself, and if you don’t listen to him, I’ll see you and your bishop defrocked by nightfall.”

  “Best run along,” Stephen said, waving the prayer book. “Fast as you can. His Grace has a temper.”

  “The lady is not willing,” Duncan said. “Ask her for yourself.”

  The priest’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Madam?”

  “Your Grace.” Duncan, Stephen, and Quinn all spoke at once.

  “I beg your pardon. Your Grace, are you inclined to marry Lord Atticus?”

  “I most assuredly am not.”

  The priest looked to Parker. “I’ll be going. Your special license will be valid for another—”

  “Out,” Duncan said, motioning toward the door. “And don’t come back. The rest of you fellows, leave us.”

  The footmen all but scampered for the door.

  “You gain entry to my house under false pretenses,” Parker said. “You disturb nuptials in which you can have no interest, and you order my staff about. Who the hell are you, and why shouldn’t I have you thrown in jail?”

  Matilda was pale and outwardly composed. Her eyes were shadowed and a vein throbbed at her throat. Temper, perhaps, along with fatigue and worry.

  Damn Parker for all of that, and for betraying England.

  “You are the only person here who deserves to go to jail,” Duncan said, “and in point of fact this is your brother’s house. I doubt very much that he’d object to my calling under these circumstances, and his lordship would thank the Almighty that the nuptials were not yet in progress.”

  “The lady will marry me if she values her freedom.”

  “Your freedom is at issue,” Duncan said. “Marital privilege means you could not testify against Her Grace. Could not testify that you found her translating a message that purported to deal with troop movements or military maneuvers. Marital privilege also means she could not testify against you.”

  Matilda stared at Duncan for a moment. “Of course.”

  Parker pointed a gloved finger at Matilda. “She’s a traitor. She learned of a plot to invade France, and said nothing about it to anybody. She instead absconded with the evidence, refused to confide in me, and I well know she was protecting her father. She made her choice—family over honor—and I seek only to protect her from the consequences of that choice.”

  Parker was nigh shaking with righteous conviction, or possibly with fear.

  “My lord,” Duncan said, “do have a seat. The game is up. You have been found out, and you must face the consequences.”

  “I never mentioned a plot to invade France,” Matilda murmured, turning a puzzled gaze on Duncan.

  Parker had gone silent, and as pale as new snow under winter moonlight.

  “Think back, Your Grace,” Duncan said. “When Parker came courting, a house full of valuable art and usually bustling with too many servants was all but deserted. Why else would that be, except by design? He arrived early for a regular call, you say, but, again, why? He was wandering where he shouldn’t have been, sneaking about the premises. You said you don’t know how long he lurked in the corridor, observing you.”

  “This is preposterous,” Parker muttered. “Wild accusations intended to protect a traitor.”

  Duncan had left the parlor door open, and he hoped the entire staff was eavesdropping.

  “You are a younger son, my lord,” Duncan said. “Your brother bought your commission and expected you to make your way in the military. Perhaps during your stint in Paris, perhaps in Amsterdam, somebody approac
hed you offering coin for a few tidbits of gossip. Gossip is harmless. Coin is necessary. You decided you could take that coin without compromising your honor.”

  “Be quiet,” Parker said, sinking onto a tufted sofa. “For the love of God, shut your mouth.”

  For the love of Matilda, Duncan wasn’t nearly finished.

  “Taking the money was easy, leaving that little game proved impossible. Perhaps a woman was involved, or possibly even a child. You did take the money, and then your new friends made it plain that they owned you. You disobeyed them at the cost of your life. They would not do you the courtesy of a knife in a dark alley. They’d instead turn you over to your superior officers.”

  Parker looked up. “Where could you possibly come by such wild, ridiculous notions?” He was blustering, and badly.

  “You don’t deny these ridiculous notions,” Duncan retorted.

  Stephen pulled the trigger on his sword cane, so the bayonet snapped into view. “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “The mechanism wants maintenance.” He fiddled with the cane’s handle and folded the knife out of sight.

  Parker’s shoulders slumped while Duncan waited as patiently as he’d ever waited for the slowest of his scholars. Quinn remained standing near the door, as motionless as a cat waiting for a pigeon to wander just two steps closer. Matilda, too, held her silence.

  “I never told them anything that mattered,” Parker said. “Never told them more than talk overheard in the officers’ mess or the gentlemen’s retiring rooms. Nothing important.”

  “But you took their money,” Matilda said. “Why, Atticus?”

  He dropped his head into his hands, the picture of adult male misery. “They made it so easy. Passed me a bit of coin, for my trouble. Their objective was to prevent war—surely that was in England’s best interests?—and they reminded me that my king didn’t care one whit what became of me or any other soldier in uniform. Kings don’t care, emperors don’t care, generals don’t care. We’re pawns to them. That’s simply the truth.”

  “And sometimes,” Duncan said quietly, “family doesn’t care either? What did you do with the plans you found on Wakefield’s desk?”