CHAPTER ONE
Twelve years later
BALDWYN SINCLAIR, THE DUKE of Paisley, gazed out the window, blinking his heavy eyelids, and watched the snow-covered landscape slip by. As rare as it was, the sun was shining, casting a blinding reflection off the pristine white ground, causing him to blink and turn away from the window.
The wind was quiet. It was an eerily calm winter day, far from normal in that part of the country. The calm before the storm was more like it.
His grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Durbin, had summoned him back from Scotland. For what, he did not know, but one did not ignore a request from her grace.
It was only a matter of hours now until his impending arrival at her London home. She never retired to the country for the winter anymore. The old woman much preferred to stay ensconced in her townhouse, wreaking havoc on the lives of any relative foolish enough to reside within the city limits.
Bile choked his throat in direct proportion to his anxiety as he considered one more time what the old crone could possibly want with him.
Baldwyn should have been safe in Scotland. After all, his cousin, the Duke of Banbury, was well within her reach and could surely keep her meddlesome hands occupied for several months.
Why hadn’t he accepted that commission when he had the chance? He could have been away on the Continent fighting against the evils of the French rather than the evils of her grace’s machinations. Staring down the barrel of Napoleon’s cannon would have been preferable.
He closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall of the coach. It would be wise to rest now. No doubt his grandmother had already arranged for him to attend a winter event that evening and would have him racing to ready for it the moment he set foot in her front door. Taking a slow, deep breath, he soothed his frazzled nerves and allowed himself to drift into a fitful sleep, propped against the blue satin-lined wall.
“Your grace.” The voice of his valet broke through his haze of sleep. “We have arrived.”
Baldwyn groaned with anguish as he opened first one eye and then the other.
“Munro,” he muttered in disgust, “I have told you of my feelings on being awakened with bad news, have I not?”
“Yes, your grace,” Munro offered. “However, in matters such as these, I believe your wrath is less daunting than that of the dowager’s.”
Baldwyn sighed. One couldn’t argue with that logic.
The massive stone structure rose ominously above him, as he stepped down from the carriage and squared his shoulders in preparation for the onslaught he knew he was about to endure.
His Hessian boots suddenly felt like they were encased in the stone path as he endeavored to move toward the stairs leading to the front entry. Dread weighed in the pit of his stomach. Where was Napoleon’s cannon when he needed it?
At the door, his grandmother’s loyal old butler answered Baldwyn’s hesitant knock almost immediately, as if he had been stationed there with the express purpose of tethering the duke the second he laid eyes on him.
“Good afternoon, Perkins,” Baldwyn managed to grunt.
“Your grace.” Perkins bowed and held out the tray for his hat and gloves. “Her grace awaits you in the blue salon.”
“May I not refresh myself before the torture commences?”
Perkins’ emotionless expression was fixed firmly in place. “Her grace wishes to begin the moment you arrive.”
Petulant little man.
Baldwyn directed an ironic smirk at the smug butler. He knew, of course, it wouldn’t have any effect. Perkins would be far more concerned with what his mistress would do to him if she discovered her instructions had been ignored than anything the Duke of Paisley might threaten to do.
He turned to the blue salon, and with one last deep breath of free air, he threw the doors open and strode in with Scottish bravado.
“Guid efternuin, Grandmother! Ye ur lookin' brammer as ever!” He knew the native brogue would infuriate her; nevertheless, he raised his voice to a ridiculous volume as well, knowing full well she would take it as a direct insult to the condition of her hearing.
“Bite your tongue, boy. We are not deaf. Nor are we in the presence of the wild Scottish savages you spend your time with these days.” Her icy steel blue glare bore into his face. Oh, yes, he had succeeded in incurring her wrath in less time than it would take to seduce a whore.
Inwardly, he winced but showed no sign of contrition as he drifted to her and planted a light kiss on her pale cheek as though he was as innocent as the driven snow.
She waved him off.
“Oh, posh!” A bemused grin tainted one corner of her mouth.
For all her fearsomeness, Baldwyn knew she adored him.
However, all the adoration in Europe would do nothing to shield him from her matrimonial schemes. Which, no doubt, was the only thing short of Napoleon laying siege to Mayfair that would incite her to send for him in the dead of winter. Cursed ducal obligations to propagate the family name. He groaned and shook his head.
“You shall cease those unearthly sighings, young man, and sit down. We have important family matters to discuss. And there is no time to waste. The Montmouth Winter Ball is this evening. Word has already been sent that you shall be in attendance.”
Baldwyn slumped into the royal blue wingback chair and eyed her with suspicion.
“What are these important family matters, Grandmother? Please. I wish to be enlightened.”
“Your tone says otherwise, Baldwyn. Remember to whom you are speaking.” She was seething now. He had pressed her too far.
“Of course, Grandmother. I apologize. Please, continue.”
The dowager lifted her head and glowered down her aristocratic nose at him. Again her steel blue gaze sliced right through him, sending a sudden chill stampeding down his spine. He took the cup of tea offered by the maid and sipped, hoping to cover his momentary lapse in ducal composure.
“I have wonderful news for you.”
That is debatable.
“I have arranged a betrothal.”
The tea turned to sludge in his throat and he choked, spewing the mouthful he had just drawn from the cup all over the table before him. He glanced up in time to see the fresh brew dripping from the dowager duchess’s chin.
Her stoic glower told him all he needed to know. Death awaited him.
The maid was at the old woman’s side in an instant, fear radiating from her crisp green eyes as she dabbed at the duchess’s tea-bathed face. Baldwyn rose to offer his aid, but his grandmother’s hand shot up, freezing him in place.
“Sit down, Baldwyn. We shall complete the business at hand.” She wrenched the linen cloth from the maid’s hands and swatted her away. As she continued, she patted her forehead, cheeks, chin, and neck with the cloth.
“As I was saying, I have arranged a betrothal contract between you and the daughter of Lord Marks.”
Baldwyn’s blood curdled in his veins. Shock held him prisoner where he was, tying his tongue until finally he forced out, “Betrothal! You’ve gone mad!”
“I said sit down.” Her gaze leveled on him once more, compelling him to his seat.
“How did you—? What makes you think—? You have no right!” he stammered like a fool.
“I have every right. Lord Marks and I have come to an agreement. You shall marry the girl. You shall produce an heir. And you shall conduct yourself as the duke you are expected to be.”
“Lord Marks’ daughter is a child, Grandmother. A child with mousy brown hair and braids. And straight as an—” He stopped mid-sentence. It was humiliating enough without divulging his preferences to his grandmother.
She arched a malevolent eyebrow.
The last time he had seen the child had been five years previous upon a visit to Lord Marks’ country estate to discuss a business venture. She had loitered about underfoot the entire afternoon, vying for his attention. Her father had indulged her every whim and seemed to view everything she said or did
as an enchantment of sorts. Baldwyn had simply rolled his eyes, concluded his business, and took his leave at the first opportunity.
But the girl was not content to be pleasantly tolerated by a gentleman nine years her senior. She preceded him out of doors and lay in wait behind a hedge, and as he rode past she ambushed him, hurling crudely formed mud balls dangerously close to his head. Fortunately, her aim left something to be desired, though by pure dumb luck, one of the misfired projectiles struck square in his horse’s eye. The animal reared, taking Baldwyn by surprise and sending him flailing all the way to the ground. The few strategically placed bruises would have been humiliating enough, but through some horrifying twist of fate, his horse had recently dropped a steaming pile of dung in the precise location he found himself sitting.
Naturally, no doubt to the delight of the devilish pixie, he had to immediately return to the house to clean up and change before he could leave again. But it was already late, so he was forced to remain for the night, enduring an evening of unending prattle as the girl begged for his particular attention.
Even now as he thought on the tragic memory, his head ached and his backside throbbed.
Baldwyn massaged his temples in slow deliberate circles, hoping to erase the reminiscence from his mind forever.
“Lady Anastasia is no longer a child, Baldwyn. And you have responsibilities.” His grandmother’s voice broke through his anguish.
“Regardless, Grandmother. It would have been nice to have a choice in the matter.”
“You were given ample time to select a suitable bride. It is I who had no choice.”
“Are there no other options?”
“None. The deal has been made. The announcement shall be made tonight.”
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AN UNLIKELY DUCHESS
by Nadine Millard
published by Blue Tulip Publishing
PROLOGUE
“YOU KNOW, OLD CHAP, ‘tis not a bad sort of life.” This sentiment was expressed rather drunkenly by the gentleman being propped up, unsuccessfully for the most part, by another young gentleman in much the same state.
The two were exiting one of the more reputable gaming halls lurking on the wrong side of London. The Black Den, known as much for its light skirts as the light pockets people suffered when exiting, had become a regular haunt for the two friends since the beginning of the Season.
These were no ordinary gentlemen. They were considered the catches of the Season and, as a result, had suffered greatly at the hands of ambitious mamas with steel in their eyes and marriage on their minds.
The more drunk of the two, and younger by two years at twenty-eight, was Lord Carrington, future Earl of Ranford, whose seat would be a magnificent estate in Ireland. Having spent much of his twenty-odd years in England attending the best schools and then sowing his oats under the pretence of wife catching, the young lord had no real desire to be shipped off back to Ireland to waste away with no society or activity to speak of.
However, his father was getting on in years, and it was time to return home and learn the ropes before the mantle and responsibility fell to him.
The older, and even more of a catch as far as the mamas were concerned, was none other than the future Duke of Hartridge. The title alone was enough to have debutants swooning. Added to that his colossal wealth and number of properties, and even Prinny himself would not have caused as much of a stir as when Charles Crawdon, Marquess of Enthorpe walked into a room.
The gentlemen had been suffering the machinations of debutantes and their mothers since the start of the Season. Only that evening, the Marquess had literally had a young girl thrown at him by her mama in the hopes that the scuffle would look like some sort of scandal, therefore forcing an engagement.
He would rather face the entirety of the French army than the mothers of the ton hell bent on having their girls wed.
And whilst Henry Carrington had suffered his share of near misses, nobody was terribly thrilled about a son-in-law who would leave the country. After all, what was the point in having a peer in the family if one could not parade him around in front of one’s friends? But he was still an Earl, so he was in their sights.
And so it was that the young scoundrels, determined to paint themselves as disreputable rakes, though not quite brave enough to suffer the collective wrath of their fathers, frequented places like the Black Den, and associated with the demimonde and the women who had neither the means nor inclination to trap them into marriage.
Outside, the biting wind helped to revive the gentlemen somewhat, and as they awaited the arrival of the ducal carriage they were both contemplating the same thing.
“The end of the Season is fast approaching.” Lord Carrington was the first to break the contemplative silence.
“Yes, it is.”
“Your father expects an engagement.”
“So does yours,” Enthorpe bit back.
“Indeed he does.”
There was a slight pause, and then a desolate sigh.
“I think our days of rakishness are numbered.”
“Had they even begun?” Enthorpe enquired dryly.
“Not as much as I had hoped. I suppose I just do not have it in me to seduce widows and ruin debutantes.”
“No,” answered Enthorpe rather regretfully, “nor do I.”
Another pause.
“So, who will you marry then?” This time Enthorpe broke the silence.
“Perhaps Lady Mary. She is a good sort. I think we would rub along rather well together. She has indicated, quite forcefully, that a quiet life in the Irish countryside would be no hardship to her. It may as well be her as anyone. And you?”
“The Lady Catherine, I think,” was the eventual answer after some minutes pondering the question. “I must consider the duties of a duchess when making my decision. Nobody knows the rules of society as much as she. She is pretty and pleasant. And it will please my father to align ourselves with that family. She is on his list of acceptable wives.”
Neither of the men spoke in terms of asking these women. They knew, everyone knew, that a refusal would be completely out of the question for any of the ladies in Town.
There was an air of finality about the conversation between the two young men. They both knew they were on the cusp of respectability and their days of misadventure would soon be behind them.
Thus, it was with a fond nostalgia that the conversation continued once they were safely ensconced in the warmth of the ducal carriage and making their way back to Mayfair.
“It has been a good ride Thorpe,” said Lord Carrington fondly.
The marquess grinned. “It has been at that Carry.”
“I wonder how many brats you will have,” Carrington quipped.
“Less than you I warrant! An heir and spare is all I require, though I believe ladies have a fondness for daughters too.”
“I shall want at least four to fill up that museum of a house in Offaly. As long as one of them is a boy I shan’t mind about the others.”
“Boys will be infinitely more manageable than girls, Carry.”
“Nonsense. Girls are pliable and pleasing. They do as they are told quietly and without fuss.” Carrington answered this firmly and with confidence, having had no experience of sisters or close female cousins.
The marquess, however, had grown up with sisters and smirked at Carrington’s innocence and naivety.
“And what of the trouble of marrying them off?”
“Well, what of it? I shall give them their Seasons and they will marry.”
“My dear Carry, do think of the Season we’ve just had. You will subject your daughters to the likes of us?”
“I had not thought of that,” answered Carrington, his sudden look of consternation confirming that he’d forgotten that his daughters would not be exempt from the ups and downs of the marriage mart.
The marquess gave him a moment to digest this new piece of information and to re-evaluate his desire for
girls.
“I’ve got it,” he announced so suddenly that Enthorpe almost jumped out of his skin.
“Damnation, Carry! You almost scared me to death!”
“Apologies, old man. But I’ve got it.”
“Got what?”
“The solution, of course.”
“To what?” the marquess asked in exasperation.
“Why, the marrying off of my children,” announced Carrington in a booming voice. “I shall just marry them to yours!”
Now, neither of these young men were hair brained or stupid. However, both were very firmly in their cups and, in such a state, the idea seemed ideal. Having enough sensibilities between them still to actually hash out some details, they decided that since the duke’s heir probably should live where his actual dukedom was, it would be more appropriate to marry off a daughter of the earl’s to a son of the duke’s.
And, as young men of vast wealth and power are wont to do, they immediately called upon the duke’s solicitor and forced that poor man out of his bed to draw up a legally binding contract that would secure the futures of their children. And all this before either man was engaged.
Thus, both men went on to marry their intended ladies and start on the children they were to produce, safe in the knowledge that at least two of them could look forward to a very agreeable match…
CHAPTER ONE
Offaly, Ireland, 1815
“REMIND ME AGAIN WHAT we’re doing here.” The command, issued in a bored drawl came from Edward Crawdon, Duke of Hartridge.
The ducal carriage was bouncing along a rather bumpy, if beautiful, road in the Irish countryside, carrying its passengers to stay with Very Dear Friends. A term oft used by his mother and usually, as in this instance, meaning people Edward had either never met or could not remember.
His mother speared him with a steely glint and slightly raised eyebrow, designed to quell his stubbornness even from infancy.
“I told you dear. Several times. We are to visit our very dear friends, the Carringtons.”
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