“I know that, but it’s not as though I have a choice,” Frederick pointed out. “One cannot just decide who will be one’s heir, or at least one of the previous dukes would have chosen his favorite bottle of brandy or perhaps a particularly juicy roast of beef.”
“I can be intoxicating,” Griffith replied, waggling his eyebrows at his cousin. “And I am certainly rare.”
Fred laughed as he shook his head, and then his expression turned serious. “I know this is the last thing you want, Griff, but it is the only thing that can be. You’ll have to make the best of it and hope I don’t die before you’ve learned everything that has to be done.”
“How long?” he asked.
Fred glanced to the side, his lips pressed into a thin line. “I have six good months, if the doctors are correct, to teach you all you have to know.”
Six months. Unless the doctors were wrong. No more months at sea. Griffith felt as though he were being strangled by responsibility, but he couldn’t refuse, and not just because it was the law.
It was the right thing to do, to take up the reins of responsibility. To spend Frederick’s remaining months reassuring his cousin that the dukedom wouldn’t be falling into complete disrepair. Perhaps he could find time, at some point, to engage in more improper procedures that would suddenly be proper because he was too important to impugn. He’d definitely be able to rescue as many people on land as he had at sea, cold comfort though that was.
“I’ll do it, Fred. I’ll make certain you’re proud of me.”
It was an oath and a promise, even as it was a death knell for everything Griffith wanted and worked for just the day before.
“I know you will.” Frederick wheeled over to his desk, gesturing for Griffith to follow him. “We have to get started, six months isn’t a very long time.”
After an hour, Griffith was regretting every altruistic bone in his body, his horror growing the longer Frederick laid out all of Griffith’s new responsibilities.
Not only did he need to learn everything possible about the estates and the people whose lives he would be directly affecting, he also would have to venture into Society.
“I can’t just hole up here?” Griffith said, glancing around Frederick’s sickroom. “They want to meet me as little as I want to meet them.”
“That is where you are wrong, cousin,” Frederick said with a grin as he looked up from the accounts he was showing to Griff. “You’ll dazzle them with your adventures, and they will have no choice but to welcome the black sheep into the fold. The flock, I should say,” he continued. “Those Society vultures will welcome you into their glittering den.”
Griffith shook his head. “Clearly you would much prefer to be a member of the animal kingdom than a duke—sheep, vultures, a den?”
Frederick paused, his expression growing serious. “There was one time when I wished I was as brave as you, Griff. Running off and doing whatever I wanted, regardless of who it affected.”
Griffith winced at the implicit criticism—it affected me, his cousin might as well have shouted. Had he even thought about that when he’d run off?
He had to admit he had not.
“I understand,” Frederick continued. “I know you don’t want to do this, but it’s your duty. It’s not something you can run away from.”
Not like you did before, Frederick didn’t have to say.
He couldn’t run away. Not this time. If only the thought of facing Society didn’t make him want to run faster than he ever had before.
“Damn it,” Griffith muttered, glancing back toward the door.
The butler emerged, nodding to Griffith as he shut the door behind him.
“Thank you for coming,” the man said in a stiff tone of voice. “His Grace has been concerned he would not find you.” In time, he didn’t need to say.
Griffith wanted to ask so many questions—how long had Fred been ill, what was his diagnosis, how many doctors had he seen already—but he could tell that the butler would not divulge his master’s secrets. And honestly, Griffith wouldn’t have respected him if he did.
Damn it.
He wished Clark were here. He needed to talk it out with someone. He was accustomed to having a full crew to navigate whatever course he’d set.
That he would have to do this on his own made it even more unpleasant. If only he had a compatriot to help him steer this particular course.
“I need to see him immediately.” Both men turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, a voice that spoke in a peremptory commanding tone, speaking at the front door.
“Excuse me, my lord,” the butler said, walking swiftly toward where a footman was trying to hold back the woman.
“He is here, isn’t he?” Griffith saw the top of a hat, and then a pair of wide, dark eyes peering at him over the footman’s arm. “There you are. Lord Viscount Captain. I need to speak with you.”
Griffith walked toward her, recognizing the lady from the day before. Stubborn little thing. “You’d better let her in,” he said. “She might have a hat pin on her.”
The butler turned to Griffith, a questioning look on his face.
“Never mind that,” Griffith said quickly. “Just show her into one of the rooms and bring us tea.” He wished he could ask for something stronger, but he didn’t want to perturb the butler more than the man likely already was.
“Of course, my lord.” The butler gestured for the woman to enter, then led the way down a side hallway and opened a small room that appeared to have been a lady’s receiving area. Was Frederick married? There was so much he didn’t know about his family anymore. But apparently was about to learn.
“Thank you,” the woman said, raising her nose as she entered the room. A timorous maid followed, only to start at the woman’s next words. “I’ll speak with the viscount alone, Becky. You may sit and wait for me in the hall.”
The maid glanced from her mistress to Griffith and back again, a clear look of terror on her face. Because of Griffith’s size or her mistress’s cavalier regard for her own reputation, Griffith couldn’t tell.
“She’ll be fine,” Griffith said to the maid as he stepped into the room, closing the door behind them.
He turned to the lady, who was, as he’d seen the day before, remarkably pretty. What drew his attention immediately was her mouth—her lips were lush and full, with an enticing curve—not to mention that mole—that almost made him step forward and kiss her.
He would have, if this were yesterday and he was still merely Captain Davies. Even with the threat of a hat pin.
But now he wouldn’t presume. He already hated being a gentleman.
“You know who I am, my lady,” Griffith said. “Perhaps you can introduce yourself? And explain why you require my assistance so urgently?”
She spoke in a stiff tone of voice. “I am Lady Della Howlett.”
The name meant nothing to him, of course. Although it was a confirmation that she was, indeed, a lady, which meant her being at the pub yesterday was entirely untoward.
It was a damned good thing he had been there to rescue her, or she would have been in serious trouble. Not that she would acknowledge that, it seemed.
Griffith gestured for her to sit, then went and sat in the sofa opposite. The room was so small that their knees nearly touched.
“Well, Lady Della Howlett,” Griffith said, stretching his arm over the back of the sofa, “what do you want?”
“You,” she replied.
Chapter 3
He was even larger than she’d recalled. If she were anybody but herself she would have been intimidated by his size—he had to be well over six feet tall, with broad shoulders, perhaps the broadest she’d ever seen, and long, long legs that threatened to touch hers as he sprawled on the sofa.
But Della was not easily intimidated.
“Me?” he replied in an incredulous voice, leaning forward to stick his face close to hers. He glanced up to the ceiling as though exasperated. “You are not the o
nly one. Perhaps it’s a sickness that’s going around.”
He was exceedingly attractive in addition to all that size. Even though he was currently spouting nonsense.
Although she should not be noticing his appearance right now. But she couldn’t help it; he had long dark curly hair, far too long for Society’s liking, and it was clear he hadn’t shaved in some time, judging by the thick stubble on his face. His eyes were dark also, and focused on her so intently she felt his gaze throughout her entire body. His mouth was lifted in a sly grin, as though he knew how he was affecting her.
He probably affected every woman who saw him the same way. Imagine all that force and power engaged in—stop it, Della! she chided herself.
“Yes, you.” Della dragged her eyes away from his face to look in the corner of the room. There was a bookshelf with what appeared to be discarded knitting, and she wondered if this enormous viscount-captain had a wife. And if he did, Della envied that woman more than she would like to admit.
But this wasn’t his house, was it?
None of that mattered. Focus, Della. “The thing is,” she began, directing her words to the knitting, “you were the captain on the HMS Royal Lady three years ago.”
He laughed. “I know that,” he said in a condescending tone.
Hmph. “And the ship capsized.”
“I know that as well,” he interrupted, his tone less obnoxious.
“And some of your crew was lost.”
She waited for him to say something cutting, but apparently even he could be silenced. “One of the crew members was a Mr. Henry Wattings. I am hoping you can tell me what you know about what happened to him.”
“What happened?” he repeated. “What do you mean? He wasn’t one of the lost crew members, I know that.”
She turned to look at him again. His expression was just as intent, but it was far more somber than before. “Wattings returned to London three years ago. I set him up with letters of reference, and I thought he was headed south.”
Della exhaled. At least this behemoth hadn’t said Sarah’s husband had been lost at sea, as they’d feared.
“What is this about?” he continued. “Why is a lady such as yourself interested in the fate of a black seaman?”
Disappointment flooded through her. She hadn’t realized how much she had been hoping for a miracle—Mr. Henry Wattings? Oh, he is currently in the prime of health aboard my ship now, even as we speak. Allow me to take you to him.
“Thank you for your time,” she replied, not answering his question.
She rose, and he leapt up also, meaning they were a bare six inches apart from one another. She addressed him midchest. “I was hoping you could help me find him, but since you apparently were last aware of his whereabouts three years ago, you can offer me no assistance.”
She dipped her head in thanks. The feathers on her hat likely poked him in the eye. Serves him right, she thought. Although why she had such a visceral reaction to him she couldn’t say—or wouldn’t say.
Because she knew damn well it was because he was so large, handsome, and forceful. Entirely everything that had gotten her in so much trouble before. Everything she had promised herself never to fall for again.
So much for not saying.
“Hold on a moment,” he said, putting his hand on her arm. “If Wattings is missing, I want to help you find him. But I have obligations. Obligations,” he repeated, as though to himself.
His expression shifted, and she could see when he arrived at some sort of conclusion in his head.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Her eyes snapped up to meet his. He was grinning down at her, as though he knew how she might interpret his words. She felt her cheeks heat, and quickly returned to staring at the knitting. Much safer. With the added bonus that the knitting needles would make an excellent makeshift weapon, if she needed to defend herself.
“I need a woman,” he continued.
So . . . was her initial interpretation correct?
She began to move toward the knitting, but his grip tightened. “Wait, I’m explaining this all terribly,” he said in an amused tone. How could he find any of this humorous?
“You certainly are,” she replied as she shook his hand off. “If you will excuse me?”
“I will help you find out what happened to Wattings if you do something for me.”
“You’re still not explaining all that well,” Della said through a clenched jaw. Was it possible he was that dense not to realize what he was implying? No, of course he knew. Hence his laughing tone of voice. Was it possible he was that much of a lout?
Entirely possible.
“Do you mind sitting down?” he asked as he sat again. Not waiting for her to sit first. So perhaps her assessment of him as a lout wasn’t far from the mark.
“Of course. Do explain,” she said in a prim voice. Della lowered herself into her chair, placing her hands on her lap.
“It turns out I will be reentering London Society. As the heir to the Duke of Northam.”
“Fascinating,” Della murmured. She wished she could restrain her response to him, but she couldn’t. It was either maintain her antagonistic facade or leap on him.
She knew which option she should take, even if it wasn’t the one she wanted to take.
But he was speaking. She had to concentrate on what he was saying, not how he made her feel.
“I have faced battleships, fearsome storms, and the most voracious boll weevils while at sea. None of them terrify me as much as the thought of all those unmarried Society ladies discovering there is an eligible duke’s heir in their midst.”
She had to laugh at his horrified tone.
“It’s not a laughing matter,” he said, even though his expression acknowledged that it indeed was. “I want you to be my guide and to let these women believe I am already spoken for. Already engaged to be married, in fact. You will not, of course, be obliged to marry me. I would make it a part of our bargain that you do not.”
“You’re that irresistible?” she said, accompanying her words with an eye roll. Even though she knew the answer to the question.
“It’s not that, although yes, I do believe I am,” he answered, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. “It’s that someone who is in line to inherit a dukedom, no matter what he looks like, would be irresistible. I do not want to end up accidentally married. I don’t want to be married at all.”
He sounded so decided she had to wonder what had set him against the tradition. He couldn’t have had the same experience as she; he was a man after all.
But that was not her concern.
“So am I to understand that you want me to pretend to be your betrothed so that young ladies won’t fling themselves at your head?”
“Something like that, yes. And in exchange I’ll help you find Wattings.”
“That sounds like a wonderful bargain,” Della said as she stood again, “but there is a flaw in your plan.” She hesitated, but she had to be honest. Even to this loutish viscount. “I am not accepted in polite Society.”
He howled in laughter. Not the response she was expecting.
“That makes it even more perfect!” He had a wide grin on his face, and if he weren’t currently irking her so much, she’d find herself smiling back, his smile was that infectious. “So when we break things off, it will be entirely understandable.”
Hmph. She didn’t like the thought of being used for her unacceptability, but if it meant he would help her . . .
Damn it.
“Pardon me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. He spoke in a serious tone, markedly different from how he’d just sounded. “I mean to say I would very much appreciate it if you could do me a good turn, and I would endeavor to do you one as well.” He spread his hands out as he continued. “You can be returned to Society, and perhaps you can find yourself a husband, after you have convinced all those fine people of how you’re truly not that bad. I am very persuasive,
as you can tell,” he added with a wink. “Consider it my continued rescue of your fair person.”
She didn’t want any of that, although being accepted back into Society would help her sisters, at least. She definitely did not want a husband, but that wasn’t any of his business. What she did want was his help, and she was fairly certain he wouldn’t assist her with finding Mr. Wattings if she didn’t assist him with this.
He gazed at her, one brow raised as he awaited her response. One corner of his mouth lifted as though aware she had no choice, not if she wanted his help.
“I accept,” she said. “With a few stipulations.”
“Name them.” His tone was confident, as though there was nothing she could say that would make him change his mind.
“You might have me as a pretend betrothed, but I will not be told what to do, what to wear, or how to behave.”
The brow rose higher.
“Not that I am going to behave improperly, of course,” she added hastily. She would definitely have to restrain herself around him, for example. “I am a duke’s daughter, I am cognizant of what is acceptable. But you have to promise you will allow me to make my own decisions at any time.” She felt the tightness at the thought of being controlled again rise in her chest, and she had to take a deep breath to push it away.
“It’s not usual to make this kind of request. I suppose you don’t want to tell me why?”
Della gave a vehement shake of her head. “No, I do not. It has nothing to do with our bargain. And I do promise I will behave faultlessly and hold up the facade that we are truly betrothed.”
He shrugged. “I have no intention of forcing you to do anything, so I agree.”
She exhaled. She was going to do this, wasn’t she?
“And we’ll need to come up with some story of how we met.” He nodded. “And, of course, how we’re going to break it off.” Even the thought of not having a planned escape from a pretend betrothal made her anxious.
Never a Bride Page 4