The Prodigal Daughter (28 page)

His pacing accelerated. There had to be a solution!  He could not walk into a trap that must make at least three people miserable.

He would speak with Emily in the morning, he decided at last. Perhaps her lust for becoming a duchess was not quite strong enough for her to force marriage onto someone who admitted loving another.

Chapter Seventeen

Shrieks echoed throughout the family wing, spilling into the corridor housing the higher-ranking guests. Norwood had not yet managed to fall asleep. Noting that it was half past six, he gave up and summoned his valet. He would await Emily in the breakfast room. It was time for a frank discussion.

But Norwood was not the only early riser this day. The wailing maid woke Thorne from the deepest sleep he had experienced in years. He was not pleased, and even less so when he discovered the cause.

* * * *

“Sir Harold Stevens,” announced Jameson woodenly, pulling the library doors closed behind the baronet.

Thorne ceased his pacing to glare at his visitor.

“What is so important that I must be dragged out at dawn?” groused Sir Harold.

“You are lucky I don’t call you out,” snapped Thorne, shoving a paper into the man’s hands. “Read this.”

All color had left the baronet’s face by the time he finished the brief note. “My God!”

“Exactly. That scapegrace son of yours is not fit to call himself a gentleman. How dare he insult me under my own roof!”

“How dare you blame him!”  Sir Harold waved the paper under Thorne’s nose. “Look at this –
ruining my life ... forcing me into everlasting unhappiness.
Clearly the blame rests on your shoulders.”

“Ingrate!  I should never have invited one so low as you to my home. No wonder the boy has no concept of honor.”

Sir Harold appeared ready to explode into fisticuffs, but further argument was forestalled when Jameson again opened the door.

“His grace of Norwood,” the butler announced.

“Dear Lord, no,” murmured Thorne under his breath.

Norwood took a moment to survey the purple-faced combatants. Both appeared on the verge of apoplexy. With their last exchange ringing in his ears, he had no trouble picturing what the meeting had been like thus far. Repressing his own emotions, he assumed the ducal hauteur that had been his cloak for the past ten years.

“It would seem we have a problem,” he observed coldly.

“You know?” asked Thorne, blanching.

Norwood tossed his own note onto the marquess’s desk, waiting silently until the man had read it. He need not see it to recall every word.

My Lord Duke,

After much consideration, I must withdraw my acceptance of your offer. It would be unfair to marry you when I love another. I apologize for placing you in the uncomfortable position of being jilted, but I trust your title will enable you to recover quickly. As I know your heart is not engaged, you should suffer no more than embarrassment.

By the time you receive this, I will be gone. It would have been better for us both if my father had not forced me to sacrifice happiness for duty.

                                Lady Amanda Sterne

“You cannot believe she means it,” declared Thorne. “It is merely a childish whim. I trust you will not hold it against her.”

“On the contrary. I do not believe it to be a whim, nor am I pleased to discover that she only accepted my suit because of some misplaced notion of duty drummed into her by an arrogant, tyrannical parent. I will never consider marriage to a girl who is not wholly committed to the union. Nor can I condone forcing her to abandon the man she loves because you decided the gentleman was unworthy.”

“You mistake the matter, your grace,” said Thorne, visibly fighting to control his temper. “I had not the slightest inkling that her affections were engaged until I received my own note half an hour ago.”

Norwood stared at the marquess for nearly a minute, finally nodding. “I presume the gentleman in question is young Stevens..” He turned to the baronet. “Have they eloped?”

“Yes.”

“Let us sit down and discuss this calmly,” urged Norwood. “I expect we all agree that an elopement is out of the question. Their credit cannot stand the approbation.”

“It is out of the question because she cannot be allowed to make such a mésalliance,” growled Thorne.

“When did they leave?” asked Norwood, ignoring the outburst.

“Sometime after three,” admitted the marquess. “Your traveling carriage is missing, Sir Harold, but it was still there when the grooms returned from fighting a fire at one of the tenant farms.”

“What else could he have taken?” murmured Sir Harold. “His own was destroyed in the accident. I can only assume the blow to his head addled his wits.”

“Are you implying that Emily is not good enough for him?” stormed Thorne.

“Has anyone been sent after them?” demanded Norwood, cutting into the argument before the principals came to blows.

Thorne inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Not yet. Englewood should be down shortly. It seems best to send him in pursuit. If they do not return by tonight, I must be here to make excuses to the guests.”

Norwood nodded. “You will have to permit them to wed,” he stated, staring daggers at Thorne until the marquess closed his mouth against his protests. “Think. There are upwards of sixty people staying at the Court, with more due to arrive today. Stevens and Emily probably have a four-hour start on Englewood. Even if he rides, he is unlikely to catch up to them until this afternoon. The most we can hope for is that they will return in time to open the ball. There is no possibility that Emily’s absence will not raise comments from the houseguests.”

“His grace is right,” said Sir Harold. “I too oppose this marriage, but I cannot see how to avoid it. Oliver has compromised her too thoroughly by now. Since Norwood refuses to reinstate his betrothal, you will never find another match.”

“You oppose it?” repeated Thorne incredulously.

“Yes, though on different grounds than yourself. I find Lady Emily too cold for my tastes. I cannot believe she will make Oliver happy. He is so open and caring that I wonder what he sees in her.”

A knock sounded on the library door.

“Are we agreed that the marriage must take place?” asked Norwood.

The others reluctantly nodded.

“Enter,” called Thorne.

Englewood stood in the doorway, sleep fighting for control of his eyes. The marquess quickly put him in possession of the facts.

“Try to get them back in time for the ball,” urged Thorne when he had finished. He looked at Norwood.

“It would be best if it remains a betrothal ball,” the duke said in response to the unspoken question. “Its nature is no secret, but rumor often lies, so we should brush through fairly well when the groom’s name is announced.”

Sir Harold inhaled deeply and tried to smile. “Inform them that they can expect a cordial welcome upon return.”

Norwood nodded. “My only sorrow is that your sister felt unable to explain her problem to me in person.”

“Take Black Thunder,” ordered Thorne, naming his own stallion. “He should carry you at least four stages.”

“I will leave at once,” promised Englewood.

“How are we going to minimize the scandal?” asked Thorne, pouring brandy for the other men before claiming his favorite wingback chair.

“It depends on whether they return before the ball,” said Sir Harold with a sigh. “If not, I suppose nothing but the truth will do.”

“Society knows that Stevens was dangling after Lady Emily last Season,” observed Norwood. “At least we have a history to work with.”

“Are you suggesting that this house party was arranged to bring Oliver up to scratch?” exclaimed Sir Harold. “Not to denigrate my son, but no one would believe it. And how can we explain your presence?”

Thorne shook his head. “No one will believe that I approved the suit of a younger son of a baronet. The lad is barely two-and-twenty.”

“Not necessarily,” protested Norwood. “Naturally, you had higher aspirations, but you love your daughter. You also deplore the London Season, my lord. You have hardly been in town more than I, so an antipathy to the giddy social rounds is understandable.”

“Where is this peroration heading?” asked Thorne sourly.

“Having endured an exhausting Season in town, you discovered that Emily favored the least likely member of her court. Being a loving father, you disliked barring the boy from your door, but being a prudent parent, you demanded that she take the time to study all of her suitors. So you arranged these house parties. Who did you invite last summer?”

“Lord Peter Barnhard and Mr. Raintree,” he grudgingly replied.

“So I thought. They were the most eligible half of her court. And this time you invited Lord Geoffrey and Stevens. You have given her an opportunity to become well acquainted with all her beaux. And in the end, she insisted upon Stevens. You cannot wholly approve, of course, but since Stevens has a reasonable fortune of his own and at least one marquess in his background, he is not ineligible. Your first consideration must be your daughter’s happiness.”

Sir Harold chuckled.

Thorne sighed. “Very well. But how am I to explain your presence?  Who can expect any girl to spurn the hand of a duke?”

“But I am not here to court Lady Emily,” announced Norwood placidly. “We can discuss my visit later..” He nodded toward Sir Harold. “After all, my attentions were not pointed last Season. There are at least four other ladies who might claim equal expectations. Any guest will testify that Emily paid little attention to me or I to her these past weeks. In fact, she has split her time almost evenly between Lord Geoffrey and Stevens.”

“That seems to settle everything,” observed Sir Harold. “If you will excuse me, I will retire to my room. If they are not back by dinner, I suppose we will have to devise a new story. Where are they today, by the way?”

“Emily is helping her sister deal with the aftermath of a fire that destroyed the house of one of my tenants last night,” replied Thorne in resignation.

“Stevens mentioned having friends in the area,” recalled Norwood. “Perhaps he decided to spend the day with them and thus avoid a house at sixes and sevens as it prepares for a grand ball, especially as he has no wish to anticipate the announcement that will be made at that ball.”

Sir Harold laughed. “You are a complete hand, your grace. I can only thank you for accepting what must be an insult with such aplomb.”

“Believe me, sir, I do not view it as an insult but rather as a deliverance from a situation that must have made us both unhappy.”

Sir Harold departed, leaving Norwood and Thorne together. Thorne immediately reverted to embarrassment.

“He is right,” he observed. “You are taking this much differently than I would have expected.”

His earlier geniality gone, Norwood wandered over to the window and stared down at the formal gardens. “Men like us, who possess high titles, are often beset by those who covet either the title or association with it. Both you and your daughter are such persons. Neither of you looked beyond the dukedom to see whether marriage might be agreeable. Nor did I see beyond the marquess’s daughter.” The last sentence prevented Thorne from slipping into rage. His sputtered protest died.

“One would think that I might have learned the lesson from my first marriage,” Norwood continued. “She was another who was forced into accepting my offer despite that her father knew full well that she had long loved someone else – another baronet’s younger son, by the way; what is it about them that appeals to girls?  She suffered miserably for over a year before dying in childbirth. Unfortunately, the lesson I took away from that union was a cynicism that ultimately made me no better than my father-in-law. But I cannot allow that to happen again. I had already decided to speak with Emily this morning and terminate our betrothal..” Much as he hated to bare his soul, he had already realized that it was the only way to rescue Emily from the consequences of her elopement. He owed her that, in gratitude.

“What?” croaked Thorne. “You knew of her attraction before?”

“No, I did not. But I have discovered that my own affections are engaged elsewhere. It would have been unfair to Emily to condemn her to marriage under those circumstances.”

Thorne poured himself another brandy and drank half of it in a single gulp. “You would have put her through the humiliation of being jilted by a duke?”

“I hoped that we could contrive to prevent that..” Norwood sighed. “You can see why I am not displeased over this elopement.”

“Certainly. It must seem the answer to a prayer. Forgive me if I am a little brittle. There have been too many shocks recently. But out of curiosity, how did you envision explaining away a betrothal ball where no betrothal is announced and the daughter of the house claims no   attachment?”

“It was always a long shot. And it is difficult to think clearly at four in the morning after an evening such as I suffered yesterday.”

“I should have thanked you sooner for everything you did last night,” interrupted Thorne. “I understand you actually went in and rescued a boy.”

“I am sure Mr. Wilson made it seem more heroic than it was. In actual fact, that portion of the house was not yet burning.”

Thorne shook his head. “Returning to the question of the hour, how did you expect to extricate yourself without harming Emily?”

“I knew that Emily did not care for me. The lady I love is Amanda. I had hoped that if Emily was agreeable and if Amanda would have me, that we might announce the other betrothal at the ball – perfectly logical as she is also your daughter. That explains my presence here, by the way. I came to court Mrs. Morrison.”

“Did you?”

“Of course not. I had no idea she lived here until she found me lying unconscious in a muddy field. And I had no idea who she was until the major’s dinner party. This is as much a surprise to me as it is to you. She will turn my staid existence upside down if she’ll have me.”

“Then you don’t know what her feelings are.”