The Duke's Quandary (2 page)

Chapter Two

A soft knock on the library door dragged Drake, the Duke of Manchester’s, attention from a pile of bills. “Come in.”

His mother peeked around the door. “Good morning, dear. Am I interrupting anything?”

“No, Mother, not at all.” He indicated the assortment of papers in front of him. “Just stacks of invoices for my sisters’ wardrobes.” He leaned against the chair’s soft leather as Mother settled on the edge of the seat in front of his desk.

“Tell me once again why Father allowed Abigail, Sybil, and Sarah to enjoy financially appalling Seasons, yet they remain unmarried.” He tapped the pile of bills with his pen.

“You know why. We’ve always felt the best marriages were those of the heart. Your father and I had a love match and we wanted nothing less for all of you.”

“Nonsense. Three sisters snubbing the Marriage Mart, and another one launching this Season.” He eyed the jumble of notes. “And the bills.”

“Are we short of funds, then?”

“Of course not.” He rose and crossed his hands behind his back, walking to the window to stare out at the bleak morning. “I’m sorry if I sound cross, but I’ve yet to grow comfortable with the responsibility. Father was much too young to—”

“I know, dear. I feel the same way. I had expected to enjoy many more years with your father.” The duchess fumbled in the pocket of her morning gown and produced a lace-edged handkerchief, touching the corner of her eye. “But we need to go on. It’s been a year, and Mary must have her coming out.”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the shelves of books, his thoughts then drifting to his eldest sister. “And how is Marion today?” She’d been withdrawn and unreachable since her husband died.

“I do so worry about her. She’s the same as always. Quiet, calm, not quite there. I understand her melancholy, but it’s been almost two years. She needs to rally herself.”

He grunted. “There’s the result of a love match. Tristan killed at sea in a battle with pirates, and my sister locked up in her room ever since−grieving.”

The duchess studied him for a minute, sorrow clouding her still lovely face. “You’re so wrong, my son. A love match is worth the pain and suffering one must endure. One day you will see for yourself.”

He knelt before her and took her hand in his, not intending his remarks to cause her pain. “Perhaps for you and Father. Not so for myself. I will select a young lady on the Marriage Mart this Season who will suit as my duchess, based on her poise, charm, and ability to carry out her duties. Love will not be a factor.”

“As much as I long for grandchildren, don’t be hasty in your selection, dear. Marriage lasts a long time, and very few things in life can make you more miserable than an unhappy union. Goodness knows you’ve seen enough of them in the
ton
.” She patted his cheek. “In any event, I have come to request a favor.”

“If it involves a new wardrobe, just have them send the bills.” He climbed to his feet and returned to his chair, regarding her with fondness deepened from years of motherly concern. She always did the right thing—at least in public—but she was much too softhearted and, in his opinion, wavered from her ducal position too often.

He wanted a wife who would comport herself at all times. Even in the bedchamber. Passion was for mistresses, not wives. He expected his duchess to behave in a way that would allow him freedom to perform his duties and responsibilities without concern about how the household ran, the children were reared, and entertainments were organized. Yes, he would start his search soon.

Shaking himself from his musing, he asked, “What is the favor?”

His mother withdrew a slip of paper from her pocket. “My longtime friend, Lady Bellinghan, has requested that we take her niece under our wing this Season to present her. A Miss Penelope Clayton.”

Drake raised his eyebrows.

“The young lady is the only child of Phoebe’s sister, who passed away a few hours after Miss Clayton was born. They resided in America—Boston, I believe—until the girl’s father died in an accident. At that time, with war imminent, her guardian insisted she return to England immediately. She’s been residing at an estate in Devonshire for nearly three years.”

“Go on. I’m still not sure what this favor is. It sounds as though Mary or one of the other girls should help with this.”

“True, they will be helpful. But there are issues.”

“Issues?”

“Lady Bellinghan writes that her niece is a bit different.”

A small kernel of unrest settled in Drake’s middle. “Indeed? Different in what way?”

“I’m not exactly sure. It seems this young lady has never spent much time outside of her home.”

“Is she. . .”

“A candidate for Bedlam? No. The girl is a botanist.”

“The study of plants?”

His mother gave a half smile. “Yes, apparently.”

“A regular bluestocking, eh? In any event, I’m still awaiting this favor.”

“I will sponsor her coming out, of course, and the girls will assist. But it is your aid that will help this girl the most.”

“Mine?” The kernel of unrest grew. Mother was known for her good works and taking needy young ladies under her wing. As if seeing five daughters to womanhood wasn’t enough.

“You have your title and a great deal of influence. You also know many suitable young men. Lady Bellinghan writes that in addition to her unusual occupation, Miss Clayton is shy and retiring.”

Drake dropped his head into his hands and groaned. “I do not wish to play nursemaid. I’ve told you it is my intention to find a bride myself this Season.”

His mother stood and approached him, cupping his face in her hands. “You have become much too stiff since your father’s accident. I know this is a great deal of responsibility for you, and, like the rest of us, you didn’t plan on assuming the duties of a duke for many years. But Drake, don’t let the title define the man.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means, my dearest son, I do not wish to see a stranger sitting in this chair. You have always been thoughtful and compassionate. I could always count on you to be kind. I need that man to return to us.”

“I haven’t changed!”

“Sadly, you have. Permit me this one favor.” She returned to her seat and took up the paper again. “I doubt very much if Miss Clayton will consume much of your time. Just be gentle with her and see that she enjoys her Season. Her aunt tells me her niece is terrified.”

“As you wish, madam. The girl will have a trusted friend in me.”

His mother rose and shook out her skirts. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“Did you, now?”

“Yes.” She gave him a slight wink and sailed out the door, her head held high as a true duchess.

A socially backward botanist? Would she want to spend her time crawling about in the dirt, a magnifying glass held up to her face? Drake swiveled his chair around and gazed out at the dreary weather. The girl was his mother’s problem. He would do his duty and see that her dance card was filled, but his primary focus had to be in securing a wife—a perfect duchess. Now that he was duke, his responsibilities had increased and he needed an heir.

…

Drake swallowed the last of his wine and aligned his glass perfectly next to his dinner plate and addressed his sisters. “Ladies, I think it is time we discussed this upcoming Season, and your previous reluctance to accept offers from perfectly acceptable suitors.”

“You’ve become so stuffy.” Mary wrinkled her nose across the dinner table at her brother.

“I have not. I wish everyone would cease saying that.” He rolled his shoulders and scowled at his youngest sister. “I merely wished to impress upon you, and your sisters, that it is time to begin considering some of the gentlemen who pay you court as potential husbands. It is my responsibility as head of this family to see you all settled. ”

“This is my first Season,” Mary returned. “I think your comments would best be served if they were directed at Abigail.”

Drake swung his attention to Abigail. “She is correct. By my calculations this is your fourth Season.”

“For goodness sakes, who’s counting?”

“Obviously Drake is,” Sarah added. “I think he feels overwhelmed with all these sisters to marry off.”

Drake’s insides twisted at her offhand remark. Was everyone aware of his feelings of inadequacy?

“I would remind you we did not have a Season last year since we were mourning Papa,” Sybil said. “So this is only the second Season for Sarah and me, and the third for Abigail.”

“In any event, it is time for all of you to take this business seriously.”

“Papa said we should choose a husband we loved, not anyone, just so we could say we’re married.” Abigail stuck out her chin, her eyes glittering with tears.

Drake fell silent. That was one of the reasons he wished to get them all married and under the protection of husbands. Let some other man deal with the tears and recriminations. So many times he felt overwhelmed by female emotions.
How had father stood it?
Another way he did not measure up.

“I suggest we put aside talk of marriage and husbands at the dinner table.” His mother patted her mouth with her serviette. “I understand from Lady Bellinghan’s note that our guest, Miss Clayton, will arrive sometime this evening.”

Mary clapped her hands. “Oh, I’m so excited to have another girl to come out with. It was easy for Sybil and Sarah, being twins, to have each other. I shall enjoy Miss Clayton’s company, even if she is years older.”

“Hardly years older, dear. The girl is only one and twenty to your eighteen.”

“Why is she only coming out now?” Abigail asked.

“She was raised in America, and then spent the last three years in the Devonshire countryside at her late father’s estate. Up until now, Lady Bellinghan had not been successful in presenting her niece, but she apparently has put her foot down that the girl must have a Season.”

“Why would she not want a Season?” Mary asked wide-eyed.

“Miss Clayton has spent a great deal of time with her father in the study of botany, and according to her aunt, is not terribly social. We must all help to smooth her way. I would greatly appreciate it if you girls took her under your wing. And your brother has agreed to introduce appropriate gentlemen to her.”

“When will we visit the modiste?” Mary nearly bounced in her chair.

“With Miss Clayton arriving this evening, I’ve already sent along a note that we would all like to visit as soon as possible.”

“More bills,” Drake groaned.

“I restate. You’re stuffy, and no fun at all.” Mary selected a sweet from the tray the footman held.

…

Dinner over, Mother and Drake sat together in the library, the girls having disappeared as they often did in the evening.

“Mother, I wish you would render your support on getting the girls to take this marriage business seriously.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, dear. They’re young.”

“Not so. Abigail will be considered on the shelf in another year or so.”

Mother laid her embroidery aside. “They will take marriage seriously when the right gentleman makes an offer. Until then, I suggest you not worry yourself over this.” She paused and cocked an ear at the sound of carriage wheels in front of the house. “It seems as though our guest has arrived.”

Drake shut his book and stood, tugging on the cuffs of his jacket as the butler tapped on the door. “Miss Clayton and her companion have arrived, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Stevens.”

He offered his mother his arm, and they strolled to the front entrance.

The wind battered the two women as they entered the house, sweeping in cold air, along with a few dried leaves. The older woman, obviously the companion, smiled brightly, her flushed cheeks a stark contrast to her charge’s pale ones. The young girl looked as if she was about to have a spell.

He took in their guest’s appearance with dismay. Her hair was half up and half down, brown curls tumbling about her shoulders. Spectacles slid halfway down her nose, and she tilted her head back, apparently attempting to keep them on her head. Her pelisse was haphazardly buttoned, and she held something wrapped in a cloth close to her chest.

Clumps of dirt fell from the material, landing on her pelisse, and then dropping unceremoniously to the floor. She attempted a smile, but her quivering lips never quite made it.

Mary, Abigail, Sybil, and Sarah trooped down the stairs. Miss Clayton swallowed visibly and looked frantically from one face to another. Glancing in his direction, the girl made a squeaking sound and whisked her spectacles off, then immediately dropped them to the floor.

She turned toward the butler and curtsied, then shifted her package and extended a dirt speckled hand to the duchess. “How do you do?” After a few moments of shocked silence, she licked her lips. “Oh dear, I’ve done something wrong, haven’t I?”

Drake snorted and the girl swung her gaze to him. He immediately regretted his rude outburst when she paled even further, but before he could say anything, she burst into tears, then turned to flee back into the night, stumbling as she swept past Stevens. In a flash, she was out the door and down the steps, leaving them all gaping.

“Go after her.” The duchess touched him on the arm.

“Good heavens, Mother. What have you gotten us into?” He strode after their guest, mumbling more colorful words under his breath.

Chapter Three

Drake bounded down the steps. It was unfortunate that Mother’s propensity for rescuing hopeless strays extended to women as well as animals.

He scanned the immediate area, and at first it appeared Miss Clayton had vanished into thin air. Then a slight movement up ahead caught his eye, and he hurried forward. “Miss Clayton, please stop.”

She came to a halt and spun around, taking in great gulps of air. “Please, Your Grace, just let me return to Devonshire. I really do not want to be here.” Her shaky fingers wiped tears from her cheeks, leaving behind a smudge of dirt.

As he grew closer, he could see her squinting, most likely in an attempt to view him since her spectacles were still on the floor in the entrance hall. She gripped her bundle close to her chest, her teeth chattering, whether from the damp night or nerves, he couldn’t tell. But the slight moon reflected her paleness, leaving him wondering if she would swoon any moment.

“We must return to the house.” He reached to grasp her elbow, but she yanked it away.

“No. I don’t belong here, and I just want to go home.” She hiccupped, her huge green eyes pleading with him. Something deep and feral in him softened. The poor girl looked scared to death. And he was sure his rudeness hadn’t helped.

“Please,” he held out his hand. “I wish to apologize for any discomfort I may have caused you. Won’t you return with me to the house? The night air is chilling, and I’m sure you could do with a cup of tea. I know I could.”

She continued to shiver as she stared at him. Apparently coming to a decision, she stiffened her spine, swiped at her tears, and gave him a slight smile. “Yes. A cup of tea would be most welcomed. Thank you.”

Amazed at her quick transformation, he held out his arm and she placed a delicate, albeit, dirty, hand on his sleeve. He tried very hard not to wince, and led her back to the house.

His sisters had disappeared, most likely at his mother’s request. After allowing her a quick wash-up, he led Miss Clayton into the library where all the women sat, lined up on the settee, hands clasped in their laps. His mother rested in her chair by the fire, quietly embroidering. She looked up and gave Miss Clayton a bright smile. “How nice of you to join us, dear. I’ve sent for some tea and biscuits, which I’m sure will be quite the thing after your journey.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Miss Clayton bobbed an awkward curtsy.

“Oh, and here are your spectacles. I imagine it will be easier to deal with us all if you can see better.” His mother held out the girl’s glasses.

He led Miss Clayton to the chair in front of the fire, and took his place in the seat alongside her.

“Now, then.” His mother placed her needlework in the basket at her feet. “Let’s start with introductions.” She waved in the direction of the settee. “The girl to the extreme left is my daughter, Lady Abigail. Next to her is Lady Sybil, her twin Lady Sarah, and Lady Mary.” Each girl nodded as her name was mentioned, giving Miss Clayton welcoming smiles.

“Mary will be having her come-out this year as well. I’m sure you will have much to discuss in the next few weeks. Of course, my son is the Duke of Manchester, but to keep him from getting too high in the instep, we merely call him Drake, which I’m sure will be fine with him.” She looked up as a footman entered the room. “Ah, here is the tea now.”

Once the ritual of pouring tea and passing around the tray of small cakes was completed, the duchess turned to Miss Clayton. “Tell us a little bit about yourself, Miss Clayton.”

“Oh, dear. Well, um, first off, please call me Penelope.”

Drake watched as the saucer in Miss Clayton’s hand tipped precariously toward the floor, a slight wave of liquid splashing from the cup onto the saucer. He had to quell the urge to reach over and right it, afraid after his initial rudeness, she might flee again.

“I have lived in America—Boston to be exact—most of my life.”

“So that is where you acquired that unusual accent,” Mary said.

Penelope blushed prettily, and the saucer tipped further, sloshing more liquid. Mesmerized by what no one else in the room seemed to notice, he tightened his jaw and tried to focus on the conversation.

A slight smile graced her plump lips. “I guess I do have an accent.”

“You are living in Devonshire now?” Abigail questioned from her spot on the settee.

“Yes. I’ve been there for three years. It’s lovely, and I’m very happy in the country.” Crumbs dropped onto her bodice when she took a bite of her cake, and the saucer tilted further. Drake shifted his shoulders, then ran his finger around the inside of his cravat. He gulped his tea and looked around, hoping someone else noticed the disaster about to happen. All female eyes were focused on Penelope’s face.

The young woman shifted in her seat and faced his mother. Drake breathed a sigh of relief as she righted the saucer. “I understood Lady Bellinghan to say you have five daughters.” A slight mustache graced Penelope’s lips after swallowing her tea. Drake rubbed briskly at his own mouth with his serviette.

“My daughter Marion, Lady Tunstall, rarely leaves her room. She lost her husband at sea, and is having a difficult time of it, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, how awful for her!” Miss Clayton seemed almost moved to tears. She swallowed several times and leaned forward to place her cup on the low table in front of her, but instead set it on the edge. Drake watched it teeter there, sweat breaking out on his brow. The girl was a walking disaster.

“What is it you have in that package, dear?” Obviously Mother could no longer bear the suspense.

Penelope’s face brightened as she reached for the bundle she’d placed on the chair next to her, leaving behind several nuggets of dirt. “This is a new specimen I discovered right before I left Devonshire.” She glanced around the circle as if announcing the birth of a child. A few polite murmurs followed as she unwrapped the cloth and produced a wilted plant, its dirt-clumped roots dangling. “See, this has never been classified.”

“My goodness. That’s certainly interesting.” His mother appeared to muster enthusiasm. “And what exactly does that mean?”

“Well, I guess not much for me, because even though I discovered it, I can’t register it with the Linnean Society of London because women aren’t permitted membership.”

“That’s certainly not fair,” Abigail bristled. “See, Mother, I told you it is well past the time women were allowed a much broader position in society.”

“Let’s not start that again, dear.” Mother took a delicate sip of her tea.

“But, Mother—”

His mother returned her cup to the saucer and then she clapped her hands. “Ladies, I believe we should retire to our rooms because we have a great deal of shopping to do tomorrow.”

Miss Clayton started at the abrupt change of conversation and looked confused at the flurry of activity as his sisters returned tea cups to the table and chattered among themselves. She delicately re-wrapped her treasure and pushed her spectacles up on her nose.

“My dear, we’ve arranged for you to have the room across from Mary, since I’m sure you will both have a lot to talk about as the Season progresses.”

Penelope stood, crumbs and specks of dirt falling down the front of her gown. She fumbled with her package, still looking bewildered. As she moved forward, her knee hit the teetering saucer, sending both pieces of china to the floor in a crash. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” She bent to retrieve the items and scattered more dirt.

“Stop!”

All the women in the room ceased their movements and turned to stare at Drake.

“Please, Miss Clayton. One of the maids will clean it.” He was afraid his tone was a bit strong, but he couldn’t take much more of this. “I’m sorry if I shouted.” He raked his fingers through his hair. “But with all the conversation, I was afraid Miss Clayton wouldn’t hear me.”

“He is right. Just leave it.” His mother linked her arm with Miss Clayton’s and led her from the room. Grateful to have someone else watch the girl, he headed to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy.

It would be a long Season.

…

The next morning, Penelope daydreamed as the maid who’d been assigned to her brushed her hair. She missed the chatty Daisy who had done for her at home. Maguire, who attended the other girls as well, was pleasant, but provided very little in the way of conversation. And that distraction was exactly what Penelope needed. The thought of shopping with all those women had her heart doing a rapid staccato. With absolutely no sense of style, she was terrified they would scorn her before she ever had the opportunity to step one foot into a ballroom. If this warm, friendly family didn’t accept her, she had absolutely no chance with the
ton.

Her thoughts wandered to the Duke of Manchester. She’d almost died when he’d made that noise after she dropped her spectacles. She’d been so flustered, she’d forgotten for the moment how to deal with aristocracy. Shaking hands was definitely not done. Although she’d remembered to address both him and the duchess as Your Grace, the words had seemed to stick in her throat and she’d made a complete cake of herself.

But nothing before in her life had affected her in quite the same way as the look His Grace had given her when they’d stood alone in the darkness and she’d uttered that she just wanted to go home. Suddenly she’d had the strangest desire to move toward him and have him wrap his arms snugly around her. She wanted to lay her head on his chest and pour out her fears. She’d grown warm at the thought of how hard his body would feel against hers.

Where in heaven’s name had those thoughts come from?

She’d never been interested in a man before. There was absolutely nothing that called to anything feminine in her. Her father had always treated her like a son, took her under his wing to teach her all he knew about botany. Not for her was the life of most young ladies. In any event, Drake−as Her Grace said she should address him−would never have an interest in a mousy country girl such as her, with no charm or polish.

“I’m finished, miss. If you stand, I’ll help you into your gown.” The maid’s comments drew her back to the present. The last thing she needed was to develop a
tendre
for someone so far out of her reach it was almost laughable. And she’d already outlined her life to embrace science, not a husband.

“Thank you, Maguire.”

The maid had just finished buttoning up the back of her dress when a sharp rap on the door announced Mary’s arrival. She swept into the room in a whirl of excitement. “You must hurry, Penelope, so we can have a quick breakfast. I’m so excited. Isn’t it wonderful to be on the verge of being introduced to the
ton
? Just think, we’ll have our own coming out ball, as well as all the other balls and parties, dinners and the theatre, musicales and picnics. Oh, and the men who will pay us court.” Mary spun around the room, doing a waltz with an imaginary partner.

Penelope was forced to swallow the bile that rose to the back of her throat. “Yes, wonderful.”

“Come, it is time for breakfast. The others are waiting.” Mary pulled her along. “We have so much to decide on—colors, styles. We must be off.”

Penelope allowed herself to be pulled to what felt like her doom.

…

An hour later, they’d taken over the
modiste
shop. Abigail had confided that with six women—all at one time—needing wardrobes for the Season, Mme. Babineau had been more than happy to re-arrange her schedule so Her Grace, four daughters, and house guest could be accommodated. She sent all of her seamstresses, both front and back girls, to the parlor to measure, and haul various fabrics out for the women’s perusal.

Penelope stood apart from the others, never having experienced anything like this in her life. Up to this point, she’d always relied on the truthfulness of dressmakers for advice on what suited her. Father had never seemed to notice what she wore, and since she had spent most of her time rummaging through forests, her clothing had never mattered much. Now it was expected she would delve into this new world and come out looking like everyone else. Gowned, groomed, and holding a delicate flowered fan in gloved fingers that she extended to some enamored young gentlemen for his kiss. She broke into a cold sweat.

“Come here, dear, and look at these illustrations.” Her Grace twisted around in the high back chair to comment to her, waving her over. “Some of these would look wonderful on you.”

Penelope dragged her feet to join the duchess, amazed her shaky knees even held her.

“Mme. Babineau, please bring some fabrics that would suit Miss Clayton’s lovely complexion.” The duchess beamed at Penelope. “You have the most wonderful color hair. Those streaks of copper in the warm brown are so beautiful.” She reached up to grasp her chin, and moved her head from side to side. “And those green eyes. I am so envious.”

“I know, Mother, isn’t she beautiful?” Abigail had joined them, and wrapped her arm around Penelope’s waist as if they’d been best friends forever. Unused to such female acceptance, she flushed, but part of the knot in her stomach eased.

“Mother, look at this silk. Wouldn’t this make Penelope a wonderful gown?” Mary held up a piece of rich emerald material. They all stood back and admired how the depth of the fabric brought out her coloring. Penelope turned toward the mirror, amazed at her reflection. Behind the spectacles her eyes shone, and a slight flush to her cheeks made her appear pretty, even to herself.

“Yes, I believe that is definitely the one for you, Penelope. Since you’re older than the other girls making their debut, you are not restricted to pastels.” The duchess turned to Mme. Babineau. “I think this suits Miss Clayton quite well. We’ll need to find a becoming pattern. Even though she is not bound by light colors, the gown still needs to be modest.”

“As you wish, Your Grace.” The woman hurried over to a stack of fashion plates and shuffled through them as the girls returned to perusing fabrics.

“
Voila
! The perfect gown for the young lady.” Mme. Babineau held up an illustration of a blue silk gown with an overlay of patterned lace, cut straight across the bodice for modesty, small cap sleeves, and a white satin ribbon under the bosom. The dressmaker’s face glowed. “With mademoiselle’s lovely figure and color, the green silk with this pattern will be
magnifique.”