Читать книгу Daring To Love The Duke's Heir - Janice Preston, Janice Preston - Страница 13

The next day was dry but cold after the thunderstorm and Dominic, following a sparring session with Gentleman John Jackson in his saloon on Bond Street, strolled to White’s for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. On arrival, he picked up The Times and appropriated a quiet table in the corner of the morning room, hoping the open newspaper would discourage anyone from joining him. He had important matters to attend to this Season, like selecting a wife—a well-bred young lady with the poise and the correct upbringing suitable for a marchioness, a society hostess and, one day, a duchess. His purpose in coming up to town in advance of the rest of the family was to make a decision about his bride-to-be and here was as good a place to plan his strategy as any.

After being served, he drank a little wine, took one bite of the cold beef and horseradish sandwich and then settled back into the chair, holding the paper but not actually reading. He’d written a list of names last night. Seven in all. He wasn’t interested in a bride straight out of the schoolroom—his Marchioness would already have some town polish with, preferably, at least two Seasons behind her. The highest families were in no hurry to marry off their daughters—they took their time and selected the very best husbands, usually with a view to allying with a powerful family. A huge dowry wasn’t a prerequisite for his perfect bride; he was more concerned with their breeding and background as well as their conduct. These were essential qualities for a lady who would, at some time in the future, occupy the role of Duchess of Cheriton and give birth to the Eighth Duke.

Seven names were too many...he must cut his list to three or four ladies, then he could concentrate on making his final choice, but discreetly; it would not do to raise expectations in the ladies themselves or in society in general. He was under no illusion, imagining himself so perfect that any female would swoon at his feet. It was not conceit, but realism...any one of the ladies on his list would jump at the chance of marrying into the Beauchamps, one of the most powerful families in the land.

He lay down the paper, hooked one hand around the back of his neck and rubbed, sighing. He would be happy when it was all over and he could get on with his life. In his mind’s eye he saw his future stretching ahead of him, and he felt...nothing. No excitement. No anticipation.

Unbidden, Liberty Lovejoy crept into his thoughts and he dismissed her with a silent oath. Wasn’t it bad enough she had invaded his dreams last night...erotic, enchanting dreams that had him waking bathed in sweat and in a state of solid arousal? A woman such as Liberty Lovejoy had no place in his future—to marry well was his duty and his destiny, as it had been Father’s. Dominic was fortunate that he had not been obliged to wed at eighteen as Father had done, when his own father was in failing health and worrying over the future of the Dukedom. Father had put aside any personal inclination by doing his duty and marrying Dominic’s mother, the daughter of a marquess and the granddaughter of a duke. The current Duchess—his stepmother, Rosalind—might be the daughter of a soldier and the granddaughter of a silversmith, but that did not affect the aristocratic lineage of the Dukes of Cheriton.

At least Dominic was six and twenty and had some experience of life, but sometimes—although he would never admit as much, not to anyone—the responsibility lay heavy on his shoulders. Almost without conscious thought, he withdrew the list of names from his pocket, unfolded it and read the names. If he could cross off three names, that would make—

‘Mind if I join you, old chap?’

Hurriedly, Dominic folded the list and shoved it back into his pocket. He looked up into the bright blue inquisitive gaze of Lord Redbridge and inwardly cursed. Of all men, it had to be Redbridge. One of Alex’s friends, he was an inveterate gossip and Dominic could only hope he hadn’t deciphered any of the names on his list. He smiled and gestured to the chair next to his, then reached for his sandwich and bit into it. His leisurely luncheon was about to change into a hurried repast.

Redbridge had no qualms in admitting he had recognised at least two of the names on that sheet of paper and proceeded to not only tease Dominic about its existence, but also badger him about the other names.

‘There must have been half a dozen on there at least, Avon.’ His eyes were alive with curiosity. ‘You can tell me, you know. Soul of discretion and all that. It’d do you good to talk about it. Alex is always sayin’ you’re too buttoned up for your own good.’

Dominic knocked back what remained of his wine and stood up. ‘Your imagination is running amok, as usual, Redbridge. Now, if you will excuse me...?’

Redbridge didn’t take the hint. He stood, too, and exited the coffee room by Dominic’s side. ‘Are you thinking of getting leg-shackled then? Oh, my life—the ladies will be in a flutter! There’ll be neither time nor attention for the rest of us poor sods once the word gets out...it’ll all be about Lord Avon and his list!’

He nudged Dominic with a sharp elbow and grinned hugely. Dominic stifled the urge to grab his neckcloth and slowly choke the wretch. Instead, he halted and turned to face his companion. They were close to the front door of the club by now and Dominic was damned if he’d put up with the man’s inane chatter all the way to his front door.

‘I’ll bid you good afternoon here, Redbridge. And I will repeat what I have already said—your conjecture over that list is entirely wrong. My sister arrives in town today and she asked me to list any ladies I can think of who came out in the past two Seasons, as she will not have made their acquaintance. The truth is as mundane as that. And if—’ he thrust his face close to Redbridge’s ‘—I happen to hear any rumours to the contrary, I shall know precisely whose door to knock upon. Are we clear?’

Redbridge’s mouth drooped. ‘Perfectly.’

Dominic pivoted on his heel and strode for the door, anger driving him to reach home in record time. He barged through the front door of his leased town house, his temper frayed and his nerves on edge. He knew better than to believe Redbridge would keep such a juicy morsel to himself. Half the ton thrived on gossip and this, he knew, would be avidly passed from mouth to mouth. He would have to tread very carefully indeed not to reveal any preference for any of the many eligible ladies in town, but at least there were now two names he could cross off his list—the two Redbridge had read. Dominic would avoid those two as he would avoid a rabid dog and concentrate his efforts on the remaining five.

‘Brailsford?’

‘My lord?’

His man, who fulfilled the roles of valet, butler and footman in his bachelor household, appeared like magic from the kitchen stairs.

‘Send word to the mews for my curricle to be ready for three-thirty. I intend to drive in the Park.’

‘Will you require Ted to accompany you, sir?’

‘Yes.’ He would need a groom up behind if any of the five ladies were in the Park: to hold the horses if he got out to walk or to add propriety if he took one into his curricle to drive her around the Park. He felt heavy...his heart a leaden weight in his chest. But this was his duty; his destiny. And he would not allow himself to shirk it.

* * *

At three-forty, Dominic steered his matched bays into the Park and sent them along the carriageway at a smart trot. Ted perched behind him on the back of the curricle, ready to take charge of Beau and Buck if needs be. As Dominic drove, he scanned the walkers they passed and the small knots of people who had gathered to exchange the latest on-dits. The Season was not fully underway and wouldn’t be until after Easter, but many families were already in town to attend to essential dress fittings and other preparations. He eased his horses back to a walk as he spied Lady Caroline Warnock in a stationery barouche, next to her mother, the Marchioness of Druffield. A couple they had been talking to had just walked away as Dominic drew his curricle alongside and raised his hat.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Lady Druffield honoured him with a regal smile as her daughter bowed her head, her own smile gentle and gracious.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Avon,’ Caroline said. ‘A pleasant afternoon for a drive, is it not?’

‘Very pleasant, following yesterday’s thunderstorm.’

A delicate shudder passed through Caroline. ‘I do not care for the loud bangs or the lightning.’

Lady Druffield patted Caroline’s hand. ‘Such things are bound to play havoc with your sensibilities, my dear. As they would with any lady.’

Unbidden, yet again, an image of Liberty Lovejoy surfaced. She had not been undone by a mere thunderstorm. He could not imagine Lady Caroline standing under a dripping umbrella, nor dodging around a determined footman. He bit back a smile at the memory and he couldn’t resist a gentle challenge.

‘But there is something delightfully elemental about a good storm, is there not?’

He raised an eyebrow at Caroline, whose serene expression did not waver.

‘Of course, my lord. You are so right—a good storm can be most exciting.’

Lady Druffield nodded in approval at her daughter’s response, but impatience already plagued Dominic. He was so easily bored by this sort of dance with words...talking about nothing...being polite and mannerly...and females who hung upon and agreed with every word he uttered. But it was the game they all played, him included. And it was not Caroline’s fault—she had been raised to be the perfect lady and that was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?

‘It is an age since we last met, sir,’ Caroline said. ‘Was it at...?’

She hesitated, her head tipped to one side, a smile hovering around her lips and her fine brows arched. Dominic complied readily with her hint...it would be unladylike for Caroline to admit she recalled their last meeting but he, as a gentleman, was expected to remember the exact place and circumstances.

‘It was at Lord Silverdale’s house party in February, if memory serves me correctly, my lady.’

‘Ah, yes, indeed.’ Caroline settled her dark brown gaze on his face.

‘I am delighted to renew our acquaintance,’ said Dominic.

Caroline smiled and her lashes swept low as she cast her gaze to her lap, where her hands rested in tranquil repose. ‘As am I.’

He might as well begin his campaign. ‘Would you care to take a turn around the Park in my curricle, Lady Caroline? With your mother’s permission, of course.’

Another gracious smile. Not once had she revealed her teeth. Nor had any of those smiles reached her eyes. He wondered if she might show a little more life out of earshot of Lady Druffield. Dominic directed his most charming smile at that lady.

‘But of course. It will be perfectly proper with the groom up behind, Caroline. And I can trust His Lordship to remain in the Park...he will take every care of you, I make no doubt.’

Dominic tied off the reins while Ted ran to the horses’ heads, enabling Dominic to climb from the curricle and assist Lady Caroline from the barouche and into his curricle. Then he leapt aboard.

‘I will deliver her back to you safe and sound, my lady.’ He gave Beau and Buck the office to proceed and they set off at a trot, the vehicle dipping as Ted sprang up behind.

The first person Dominic saw was Liberty Lovejoy. From the direction of her purposeful stride he could only surmise she had been heading straight for him, presumably with the intention of interrupting him despite the fact he was already engaged in conversation. He did not slow his horses. He had nothing to tell her, in any case, because—and guilt coiled in his gut—he had been putting off his promise to speak to Alex. He hadn’t forgotten it—he hadn’t been able to forget it because, since she had erupted precipitously into his life yesterday, he had been quite unable to banish Miss Liberty Lovejoy from his mind.

Liberty’s accusing gaze pierced him as the curricle drew level with her and she raised her hand, as though to stop them. Dominic tipped his hat to her, but did not slow. There was nothing to say and he did not want to say it in front of Caroline.

‘That lady looked as though she wanted to speak with you,’ said Caroline, looking over her shoulder at Liberty. ‘I do not believe I have made her acquaintance...is she someone?’

Someone. Dominic held back his snort. What did that even mean? Well, he knew what it meant, but it did not stop him disliking that too widely held presumption that only ‘their’ sort of people were anyone.

‘She is the new Earl of Wendover’s sister.’

‘Oh. I see.’ Those three words were sufficient to convey Caroline’s opinion. ‘Mama warned me to be wary of his sisters. She said they are not really our sort of people. How do you know her?’

‘I do not know her.’ Officially, her visit to Beauchamp House had never taken place and Dominic had never met either Liberty or her sister. Their transgression of the rules would not become common knowledge through him. ‘I know her identity because my brother is friendly with Wendover.’

‘I see.’ Caroline folded her hands on her lap. ‘I wonder what she wanted to speak to you about.’

‘I doubt very much she wanted to speak to me. I am certain you are mistaken.’

‘Yes, of course. That must be it.’

As luck would have it, two of the other ladies whose names were on Dominic’s list—Lady Amelia Carstairs and Lady Georgiana Buckleigh—were promenading that afternoon so, after delivering Caroline back to her mother, he endured two further circuits of the Park. Not one of the three put a foot wrong or spoke a word out of place. He should be thrilled. Any one of them would be the perfect wife for him. There was little to distinguish between them so far and once he had also renewed his acquaintance with Lady Sarah Patcham and Lady Sybilla Gratton, he would decide which one of them to concentrate on. Then, as soon as his father arrived in London, Dominic would make his offer.

* * *

Two days later Liberty stood to one side of the Trents’ crowded salon with Mrs Mount, and plied her fan, sipping from the wine glass in her other hand. Although the weather was chilly the number of people packed into the modestly sized room for the rout party, combined with the heat from dozens of candles, made the room insufferably hot and stuffy. And the tightness of her corset wasn’t helping, she silently admitted. When she had dressed for the rout in the least outmoded of her evening gowns, it had proved a touch too snug across the bosom, and so she had donned her sturdiest corset and ordered Lizzie—the maid she shared with Hope and Verity—to lace it as tightly as she possibly could in order to ease the fit of the dress. Now the disadvantage of that was becoming clear as her breathing grew shallower.

To distract herself from her increasing discomfort, she focused her attention on her sisters—so charming and pretty, their golden hair shining with health—and she watched with pleasure as young gentlemen vied with one another for their attention. They weren’t bad girls, just a little thoughtless at times, and she knew her tendency to take charge made it easy for them to leave any difficult or awkward matters to her.

Gideon, of course, had declined to escort them and his valet, Rudge, had confirmed his master’s intention to visit the Sans Pareil Theatre once again, causing dismay to ripple through Liberty. She feared she knew the attraction of that particular theatre, recalling how Gideon had waxed lyrical over a certain actress called Camilla Trace.

She leaned towards their chaperon.

‘I am hopeful the girls will both attract offers before the Season is out, Mrs Mount.’

‘Dear Hope and Verity...their popularity is unmistakable,’ said Mrs Mount, ‘but I must implore you not to risk a scandal with any more ill-advised visits, Liberty. I saw Lord Avon a few minutes ago and it seemed to me that, when he noticed you, he deliberately avoided this area of the room.’

‘Avon is here?’

Her pulse kicked—surely just at the prospect of finding out if he had kept his promise? She’d spied him only once since her visit to Beauchamp House, in Hyde Park. She’d tried to catch his eye but, although he acknowledged her, he had driven his curricle straight past her.

‘I wonder if he has spoken to his brother yet?’ She craned her neck to try to see over the throng of people, but it was impossible. ‘I shall go and ask—’

‘No!’ Mrs Mount caught hold of Liberty’s hand, restraining her. ‘Did you not hear what I said? Or perhaps you misunderstand the meaning of his action? He turned away when he saw you. You cannot approach him. He is the most eligible bachelor in the ton. Eyes follow him wherever he goes and tongues will always find stories to spread about him. Merely to approach him is unthinkable and if he were to cut you...oh, my dear, the tales would spread like wildfire and they would scorch your sisters’ reputations in the telling. The gossip columns in the newssheets would not spare your blushes—the upstart twin of the new Earl of Wendover making an overt play for the Marquess of Avon...oh, heavens!’ She plied her own fan vigorously to ruddy cheeks. ‘Do you not understand? Your situation renders it even more imperative that your conduct is above reproach.’

Anger smouldered inside Liberty, heating her still further, and she felt as though she had a furnace inside her. She drank more wine and then tugged discreetly at her neckline in a vain attempt to allow some cooling air to reach her skin. Each breath she drew seemed shallower than the one before.

‘But I am not interested in Lord Avon in the way you imply,’ she said. ‘You know I am not. I am concerned only about Gideon and I wish to know if Avon has spoken to his rascally brother yet.’

‘I know, my dear.’ Mrs Mount patted Liberty’s hand without loosening her grip upon it. ‘But you can do nothing about it until he decides to tell you. And he will not do so here—he will no more risk awakening speculation by singling out an unattached female than he would strip off his jacket and cavort about in his shirtsleeves. Proper conduct is everything to His Lordship, particularly this Season, if that rumour is true.’

‘Rumour? What rumour?’ Despite her dire need for fresh air, or a chair to sit on, or both, Liberty was distracted by this titbit.

‘It is said that he has compiled a shortlist of eligible young ladies who meet the standards he has set—breeding, upbringing, ladylike conduct—and that he will make his selection before the end of the Season.’

The hushed awe of Mrs Mount’s words stirred resentment inside Liberty. No wonder Avon was so top-lofty with people hanging upon his every word and treating him like some kind of god.

‘A shortlist? I presume you mean for a wife. Why on earth does he need a shortlist?’

‘Avon’s bride must possess the very best bloodlines, perfect manners and be of exemplary character. Only the best will do for a man in his position and to be the mother of a future duke.’

The suppressed excitement in Mrs Mount’s voice irritated Liberty even more.

‘You make the poor girl sound like a glorified brood mare,’ she muttered.

Really! Had people nothing more to worry about? What about all the poverty in London? Children in rags living on the street while their so-called betters lived in luxury. People like Avon were in a position to help and yet, instead of helping those worse off than him, he put his time and effort into making pathetic lists in order that any bride he might choose was worthy of him.

‘So you do see why it is imperative that you do not put a foot wrong in any further contact with His Lordship, do you not, Liberty?’ Mrs Mount’s anxious enquiry brought Liberty’s attention back to her. ‘Not so much for your sake, but for Hope and for Verity.’

‘You are not suggesting that His Lordship might consider—’

‘It is unlikely, my dear, but...one never can tell what might happen when a pretty girl catches a gentleman’s eye. Avon is expected to look much higher for his bride—at the very least the daughter of an earl—and she will be a young lady who has been properly prepared from childhood for her role as the wife of a peer of the realm. But your sisters, especially dear Verity, are so very pretty—one never knows what might happen. A list may always be added to.’

Mrs Mount’s voice appeared to fade. Goodness, it was so hot. Liberty plied her fan with renewed vigour as she stared at her chaperon’s mouth, concentrating fiercely in order to make out her words.

‘And the lucky young lady of his choice will be a future duchess. It is worth keeping our hopes alive for such high stakes.’

Liberty put a hand to her forehead. The room seemed to sway and she was aware of Mrs Mount staring anxiously at her.

‘Liberty? My dear? Are you quite well? Oh, dear.’ Mrs Mount clutched at Liberty’s arm. ‘Are you sickening for something? Do you need to leave? Only, it would be such a shame...’

Liberty gritted her teeth in a desperate attempt to remain upright. She thrust her empty wine glass at Mrs Mount. ‘I am not sickening for anything. I need air. Watch the girls, will you, Mrs Mount?’ Desperate now to get out of the room, she headed in the direction of the door, weaving in and out of the chattering groups of strangers, until her way was blocked by a tall figure with a pair of wide shoulders in a dark blue swallowtail coat. To either side of those shoulders were people, pressed closely, clearly hanging on every word uttered by the gentleman. Liberty screwed her eyes shut, wafted her fan over her heated skin, sucked desperately at the stale air, then opened her eyes and prepared to negotiate her way around the group, for it was obvious she could not barge through the middle of them. She shuffled sideways until she spied a gap. Perspiration now dampened her forehead and she could feel it gather on her chest and trickle into the valley between her breasts. She frowned, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other as she edged through that gap. She was close to the door now—she could see it above people’s heads—and she blindly aimed for it, desperate now to get away from this crush of people.

‘Well! Of all the—’

‘I say! That was my foot!’

‘I’m sorry.’ The words came on a gasp. ‘I cannot—’ Horror filled her as her knees buckled.

A strong arm encircled her waist from behind. A deep voice barked, ‘Stand aside. She’s swooned.’

She desperately wanted to deny it—she had never swooned in her life—but all she could manage was to turn into that embrace, her head tipping forward until her forehead rested against a solid chest. She breathed in a clean smell of soap and starch, mixed with a pleasing masculine scent.

Then she knew no more.