To Catch a Lady (2 page)

“Have you completely taken leave of your senses? Have you no notion of propriety?” Amelia Blakely, the dowager duchess, crossed her arms and gave her nephew a stern look.

“Propriety, bah! Propriety is a damned nuisance, if you ask me.”

Ashton Blakely, newly entitled Duke of Summerton, assumed he'd done a pretty fair job of avoiding anything proper, expected, accepted, or socially mandated. Until a year ago, being born the nephew of a duke had not really been much of a bother. He'd had no passion for politics, no need to rub elbows with the peerage, no aspirations of finding a beautiful, brilliant, and wealthy heiress. Never that.

Ashton had managed to live a quiet, interesting, and relaxed life for twenty-six years. He'd been blessed with an education at Eton, had been bought a commission as an officer in the army, and had been a lifelong friend and hunting partner to the previous duke and his son.

All of the fun. None of the bother.

To Ash's delight, he could shake his fist and rail at proper society. He was a social nobody and nobody cared. Until recently.

In the last year, to his great sadness, he'd lost two beloved family members. His cousin had died in a terrible riding accident, and his uncle had succumbed to apoplexy after learning of his son's death.

To Ash's thinking, that should have been enough punishment for his happy, uncomplicated life.

But fate was a vengeful harpy and she'd deigned to give him one gigantic kick in the arse.

To his abject despair, there were no other male relatives living and none in the making. So, virtually overnight, he'd become a duke. And not just a duke. An extremely wealthy duke.

And then, through absolutely no action of his own, he became an even wealthier duke.

Something about land grants, tea from the East, and sugar from the West Indies. In the year since his inheritance, his worth had quadrupled.

The harpy, it seemed, had a very large foot.

Without any choice in the matter whatsoever, he'd become the most sought-after potential husband in all of England. Supposedly, ladies swooned at the very mention of his name and men had started referring to him as “His Grace, Lord Fortune.” It was all very daunting.

And no small amount of annoying.

Still, he hadn't given up his views on propriety. And, duke or not, wealthy or not, if the minions of proper society didn't like it, they could bloody well all go to Hell.

These days that was the code he lived by, the ideology he embraced. He would have gladly worn a breastplate engraved with it for all to see.

Everyone, except his aunt Amelia.

When Ash was eight years old, he'd lost both of his parents. His aunt Amelia had loved him and raised him as her own son, always insisting that he had the very best of everything. At the same time, she hadn't spoiled him. She'd taught him honesty and loyalty and kept him from falling into the ruin of sloth and greed.

The woman was a saint.

One never refuses a saint.

While he could face down a raging bear, cross into enemy territories, and confront his own mortality, the one thing he couldn't do was say no to his aunt.

Having been an officer in Wellington's army during the great Spanish conflict, Ashton knew well what it was like to be under siege. The French could have learned quite a bit from the dowager duchess.

Ash understood her loss, so he didn't give a moment's thought to his aunt's blustering arrival, or to her shouting commands at his meager staff as though she were commanding her own legion of soldiers. He simply stepped out of her way and let her blow, like a summer squall across a desolate field.

“You didn't answer my question, boy! Have you gone mad?”

Seated at the desk in his study, a list of the family's accounts spread out before him, Ashton almost welcomed her well-honed tongue-lashing. Anything was better than another afternoon wrestling with columns of unwieldy numbers.

“No, Auntie, I have not. I'm sure if you'll just think rationally, you will come to understand my reasoning.”

As always, Ashton did his best to humor her. Having married young, Amelia Troughton Blakely still retained her trim figure and fair, smooth complexion. With her hair pulled back in a tight chignon, a few spare light brown curls escaping the pins, she was the picture of matronly grace and poise. She certainly was as beautiful and vibrant as any young woman prancing about the halls of Almack's.

“Reasoning? It's scandalous, what you're doing. You're searching for a bride as though you were buying livestock. Prime marriage material, indeed!” She reached into her pelisse and removed a white envelope. “And this is beyond the mark, I tell you.”

She held out the offending invitation, which called for all eligible females between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five to send him a calling card accepting Ashton's suit. Each was then invited to arrive the following Saturday night at his London mansion, where a great ball would ensue. At the conclusion of the festivities, he would choose his new bride from among them.

It was a simple but effective plan.

“I don't understand your ire, Amelia. I'm doing exactly what you've requested of me. I'm choosing a wife.”

“How will you know the woman you select will be up to the task? How do you know if you and she will make a good match?”

Ashton did his best to disarm her fiery expression with a warm smile. “I will defer to your most knowledgeable preferences, of course.” Reaching beneath his desk, he produced a large cloth sack filled with envelopes. “There are thirty-one cards in here, and from them, and those that arrive over the next few days, I expect you to find twelve suitable ladies worthy to receive the title of the new Duchess of Summerton.”

“Oh.” Her flare of anger calmed somewhat. “And what makes you think any proper young woman will accept your offer under such terms?”

Ashton laughed. “Who wouldn't jump at the chance to become a duchess? Besides which, the terms of the marriage will be made crystal clear. The first and foremost duty as the new duchess will be to produce an heir. Once that is achieved, we shall live separate lives. She will have the full run of the London estate and I will remain at my lodge. Our child's upbringing will, of course, be overseen by you. It will all be in the marriage contract.”

“What marriage contract?”

“The one you will draw up with Mr. Wilkens at your first opportunity. Also, I would be most appreciative if you would obtain a special license for our wedding. I have no intention of drawing out the courtship any longer than necessary. The quicker the nuptials are completed, the better.”

Amelia sighed and took the seat across the desk from him. “Why must you choose a bride this way? Don't you want to find the right woman? Granted, it's not necessary to fall in love, but at least you can find a girl you can become friends with. Partners even.”

Ashton did his best to keep a calm expression. “After the ordeal of my own parents' marriage you would ask me that? I saw less conflict in Spain.”

“Ah, my love. Not all married couples behave so.” She was referring to the night his parents had argued for the last time. His mother had fallen to her death from the third-floor balcony and his father, so angry and filled with grief when he'd realized what he'd done, had shot himself.

“I doubt that they do, Amelia. But I've no desire to repeat the sins of my parents. A quick marriage, a few fast beddings, and you shall have your heir and I shall have my peace.”

“Is that truly all you want, Ashton?”

He took her offered hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “It's the best I could ever hope for.”

Ashton looked out the parlor window as Amelia's carriage pulled away. It was early evening now. They had spent the entire afternoon poring over wedding plans.

Though she clearly disapproved of his methods, at least she'd embraced his idea of getting married.

A gentle knocking sounded at the door.

“Come.”

His butler Jeffries appeared at the door. “A young woman is here to see you, sir. A Miss Hawkins, I believe she said her name was. She insists it's most urgent.”

“Tell her that I'm occupied at the moment and would appreciate it if she left her card.”

“I have already done so, sir. She refuses, insisting that she speak with you immediately, that it's a matter of life or death.”

Ashton leaned back in his chair. He'd had three similar female callers that week, mothers who would be most appreciative if he'd give their offspring special consideration. He scoffed when he thought of the afternoons he'd wasted on them while they'd espoused their daughters' attributes—beauty, good bloodlines, and model behavior.

Well, no more, he thought. He was determined to have things his way, no matter what.

Suddenly, the door burst open, squarely slamming Jeffries in the back, toppling him over like tree falling prey to a woodsman's ax. Without a single shred of dignity, the tall, elderly butler was sprawled on the floor, facedown, arms and legs flailing about.

“Blast it all!” Ashton cursed.

“Oh! My goodness!” his visitor exclaimed.

Without hesitation, Ashton was up out of his chair and across the room in three long strides. In spite of his speed, however, the person responsible had arrived at the butler's side seconds before him. Before he could intervene, the female was on her knees, bent over Jeffries, doing her best to roll him over to his side. Being a spindly figure and stiff at the joints, the butler was practically immovable and the woman's efforts were rewarded, as he pulled back the opposite direction, by sending her sprawling across him.

“Here, here, miss…” Ash began. Before he could scold her further, he realized he was leaning over one of the most pleasingly round female derrieres he'd ever seen.

“I'm quite all right,” Jeffries muttered beneath them.

“You look well enough, I suppose,” the woman said, as she struggled to get off of him.

“That's not the point.” Ash turned to his butler. “You could have been injured. What would I do if anything were to ever happen to you?”

Before the servant could answer, the woman huffed beside him. “I realize that he is your staff and certainly most valuable, but it was only a bump, after all.”

Ashton bit down on his retort. Instead, he focused his attention on helping Jeffries back to his feet. Of course she was correct; the butler looked no worse for the wear. Still, it was the principle of the thing.

“I assure you, I am quite all right, Your Grace. The young lady is only responsible for injuring my dignity.”

A long, awkward moment stretched out between them. “Yes, well, if you say so,” Ashton muttered at the last.

“If there is anything else you require…” Jeffrey began.

“No, nothing. Go and have Cook make sure there are no lumps on your head. I'll see to the errant young lady myself.” He ground his jaw. This finding a bride was turning out to be more of a bother than he'd ever imagined.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience I've caused you,” the young woman began.

“Inconvenience? You nearly cost me a member of my staff.”

“It wasn't as bad as all that.”

For the very first time since her arrival, Ashton got a good look at his visitor. Rather plain, the curvaceous female stood at a medium height, her back rod-straight and her chin high as she met his gaze full on. Other than that, there wasn't much he could tell about her. She wore a wide-brimmed beige hat, and her rounded figure was wrapped in a dress of the most dreadful shade of brown fabric he'd ever seen.

He did, however, see her large, almond-shaped eyes. Wide and without a bit of shyness, her gaze made him feel as if he might get lost in the depths of those mahogany-and-jade-specked irises. It was clear by the way she faced his ire that she had a strength of will that rivaled that of his dear aunt Amelia.

A shiver ran through him. He'd long respected and loved the older woman, and knew that if he ever met a female who even came close to sharing her amazing personality, he'd surely be doomed.

“I beg your pardon, miss. What do you want?”

Unable to move, Caro stared at the stranger. Something about being so close to such an imposing figure paralyzed her. Impossibly tall, with squared shoulders, a narrow waist, and long, muscular legs, he filled out his fine clothes quite well. Caro swallowed. The gentleman looked as if he'd been carved from granite.

In spite of that, it was the duke's stern, disapproving expression that drew her attention. Clearly he was most displeased with her mere existence, not to mention her barely announced arrival into his private study.

If only she were a man, she'd call out the pompous dolt that very minute!

That was the problem. She wasn't a man. As a woman, Caro was practically powerless when pitted against the male gender, at least in matters of law, marriage, and finances.

Fortunately, such things were not all that existed. Grace, manners, and affairs of the heart—well, those belonged to a woman. So, if she must bring the battle into the parlor, so be it.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtseying with perfected skill. “I beg you, please forgive my forthright manner, but I wish to give you the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of guaranteed marital stability.”

“Well, this is the first time a chit has come calling without a proper chaperone. Tell me, young lady, where is your mother? I wish to speak with her at the first opportunity. Your utter lack of discipline and grace is most unacceptable. In fact, if I were your father, I would bend you across my knee, give you a sound thrashing, and then lock you in your room for at least a fortnight.”

Caro did her best to keep the smile on her face, though it made her cheeks ache.

Fortunately, her mother had schooled her in good behavior. Maintaining a pleasant outward appearance was absolutely a must, though it galled her to keep up the appearance. If it were up to her, it would be pistols at twenty paces. Unfortunately, instead of firearms, she had only words.