Читать книгу Unlaced At Christmas: The Christmas Duchess / Russian Winter Nights / A Shocking Proposition - Elizabeth Rolls, Christine Merrill - Страница 7

Chapter Two

‘What the devil?’ It was all the Duke of Montford could manage to get out before the broom hit him a second time. He raised an arm to take the majority of the force, but the bristles still slapped sharply against the back of his head. The blow was surprisingly strong coming from such a petite woman.

‘Take your licence back to your master and tell him what he can do with it,’ she said, raising the broom again.

It was the last straw, a strangely appropriate metaphor given the instrument that struck him. ‘I have no master other than the Regent.’ He turned, stood and grabbed the broom handle on the next downswing. ‘Now find Mr Marsh. I must speak with him.’

‘I am Mrs Marsh,’ she said in a glacial tone, not releasing her hold on the other end of the broom. ‘State your business, sir.’

They stood for a moment, gazes locked. ‘And I am the Duke of Montford. I have come with the special licence for my nephew’s wedding.’ He did not add, ‘And put down the broom.’ With the mention of his title, it should not have been necessary.

‘You are not,’ she said, with such conviction that he almost doubted his own identity. She kept a firm grip on her end of the handle. ‘The duke is estranged from his nephew and was not expected here.’

Montford winced. It was perfectly true. But to hear it spoken as common knowledge was still painful. ‘What better time than at a Christmas wedding to mend the relationship between myself and my heir?’ It was one thing to maintain a cordial distance from young Tom and quite another to ignore his marriage. The boy was a blockhead for choosing to marry in the country at such an inappropriate time of year, of course. But when had he been anything but a blockhead? ‘He asked for help with the licence. I obliged. Now I have come to meet the girl who will be the next duchess and give my good wishes.’ If she was anything like her mother, she was comely enough. He must hope that she was better tempered.

‘The next duchess?’ Mrs Marsh smiled with incredulity. ‘Then you will not be looking in this house, Your Grace. There will be no wedding. Now put on your boots and be on your way.’ She released the broom and pointed a dire hand at the licence. ‘And throw that thing into the fire.’

‘I beg your pardon, madam.’ He tugged on the broom again and delivered the words with the faintest hint of warning to remind her that this was no way to treat a peer.

‘You heard me, unless you are as deaf as your nephew is dishonourable. Throw that thing into the fire and leave my house this instant.’

‘I most certainly will not.’ He grabbed the broom and threw it aside. ‘I went to some trouble procuring it to allow for the Christmas Day wedding your daughter desired.’

‘Well, you can unprocure it. It is not needed. Take it to London, or take it to the devil for all I care. But it and you are not welcome in this house.’

What had Tom done now? When he had realised that he was likely to die childless, Montford had informed the young man of his future and offered advice and guidance. In response, his heir had announced that he was of age and past the point where he need seek approval of his decisions. He would do just as he pleased, now, and at such time as the title fell to him.

It was just what Montford feared most. He calmed himself, for there was no reason to fan the flames. ‘Please, madam, enlighten me. Was there an estrangement of some kind that might still be mended?’

To this, she did nothing but laugh. ‘Estrangement? No, why should there be? Everything was as right as rain until the third reading of the banns. There was a disturbance in the church. An objection,’ she said with a dark look.

‘Who could possibly object, if I did not?’ he said, equally surprised.

‘You nephew’s wife seemed to think she had the right,’ Mrs Marsh replied, wiping her hands upon her apron as though she had touched something distasteful. ‘His Scottish wife. His pregnant Scottish wife. If you wish to meet your next duchess, I suggest you go to Aberdeen.’

The duke dropped the broom and sat down in the chair, for the moment as overwhelmed as the housewife.

She stood over him, clearly unwilling to give way. ‘We will have to return to that church on Christmas morning for services. There will be no wedding, of course. Just shame and embarrassment, and the gossip from the congregation. We are already the talk of the High Street. It is likely to get much worse as more people learn of it.’ She waved an arm around the house. ‘Here am I with the larders full of dainties, a wedding cake already baked and a daughter locked in her room who will not stop weeping.’

It was worse than he could have imagined. He would not reject a Scottish bride, or a child born barely to the right side of the blanket. But he could not allow the title to fall to a man who would flirt with bigamy as a solution to an awkward first marriage. ‘And I suppose your daughter is compromised,’ he said gloomily.

‘How dare you, Your Grace.’ Mrs Marsh grabbed for the broom again, and he snatched it out of her reach. ‘Perhaps things are different in London, where chaperones are easily duped. But I know better than to allow my only daughter to be alone in the company of a gentleman, no matter how august his family connections. I did not allow so much as a kiss to pass between them.’

He held up the hand that did not already hold a broom. ‘My apologies, my dear Mrs Marsh. My statement has more to do with my knowledge of my heir than your lovely daughter. The boy is a moron in most things, but can be sly when it is least convenient. I find it hard to believe that he did not at least attempt...’

‘Of course he attempted,’ she said with a frown. ‘But I am a very light sleeper.’ She looked significantly at the broom in his hand and smiled as though reliving a fond and violent memory.

‘Very well, then.’ He sighed with relief. ‘All is not lost.’

‘So you say,’ she said with a huff. ‘The truth will not matter, when all is said and done. Gentlemen of good family are unlikely to take my word for her virtue. What mother would not lie if she felt her daughter’s happiness was at stake? They will assume the worst. No man will want her now that she is notorious.’

She was right, of course. It was a disaster for the Marsh family and a black mark on his own. A greater calamity lay ahead. Since he would be dead when his nephew took the coronet, there would be no way he could clean up the future messes that were made, as he would with this.

It was not fair. He thought of the row of graves in the family cemetery, two large and two small. He had vowed that there would be no third attempt to get a son of his own.

Now it seemed there was no choice.

When he spoke, it was slowly and with some care. ‘I cannot mend a broken heart. But I think there is a solution that will solve all other problems to your satisfaction. If you would do me the honour of allowing me to pay court to your daughter, I will make an offer and marry her myself, assuming she is agreeable to it.’