To Marry The Duke (3 page)

James closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose to fight the tension throbbing in his head. He wondered why all these problems were accruing now, like some kind of test.

He squeezed his left hand, making a fist to ease the pain of a childhood injury that still ached after more than twenty years. He stared intently at his palm, then turned his hand over, remembering the impossible weight of the trunk lid, then—like he always did—he pushed those memories away.

Should he sell the French tapestries? he wondered. They would probably bring in enough to cover the roof repairs.

His mother would not weather the gossip well, though.

Even if James did sell them, however, what after that? The lake needed to be dredged, and his mother’s and Lily’s pin money had been cut back to almost nothing. On top of that, they were slipping into debt more and more each year. Expenses were rising, revenues were falling. Land just didn’t bring the kind of profits it used to, thanks to the worst agricultural depression of the century.

He’d already raised the rents. He would not do it again.

James took a deep breath and let his thoughts return to the American heiress. He remembered the ostentatious diamond that hung between her delectable breasts. That diamond alone would clear up last year’s entire deficit.

He stared unseeing at the lace-covered window beside his desk and thought about what Whitby had said about taking a wife—that it could be a matter of business if one handled it right.

Wouldn’t it make sense, then, to marry a woman who was as determined as he was to marry for something other than love? A title for instance?

Lord, it was the one thing he’d always despised— that hungry look from women who wanted him because he was a duke.

That’s what his mother had wanted when she’d married his father. She’d been blinded by the pomp and ceremony that followed him everywhere, and look where it had taken her. To hell and back.

He leaned forward in his chair. Most likely, the vivacious American heiress was nothing like his mother. He suspected the girl could take care of herself. She had a certain independent quality about her.

Would that be a good thing or a bad thing in a marriage? he wondered. He’d always wished his mother had been stronger against his father…

Perhaps he could go to the Weldon House ball this evening after all. The American was sure to be there. Not that he’d made any firm decisions of course, or because he was fancying her. He was not so easily swept away, nor did he ever plan to be. He would never allow it. He’d spent his entire life training himself to avoid passion and the loss of one’s senses that accompanied it. He was as fixed and unyielding as a rock.

So what was there to worry about? He wasn’t capable of any kind of true, deep love for a woman. Not with his upbringing.

He decided then that his attendance at the ball would be a reconnaissance mission. A matter of business, for the fact remained that he had to save the estate and the dukedom from financial ruin, for if he didn’t, not even Martin would be able to solve the family’s deeper, more ancient problems.

Perhaps if James could fix what was wrong in the short term, the next generation might provide the heir to end the madness. Maybe a loveless marriage to a wealthy, socially
ambitious heiress would be a means of treading water. If James didn’t lose his head, like his father and his other ancestors had, he would be doing a great service to his family. Something that could turn out to be the saving grace they all so desperately needed.

It was decided then. He would see her again and close his eyes to her beauty and charm. What she looked like or how she behaved would not be part of his criteria. For the good of all—the heiress included— his motives would remain mercenary.

Chapter 2

Sophia’s stomach flip-flopped with nervous anticipation as the carriage approached the grand, gothic Weldon House. All the windows of the stone mansion were lit up in the night, and gentlemen with top hats and ladies on their arms strolled up the long red carpet that led to the front door.

Across from Sophia in the dimly lit carriage sat her mother, wearing yet another brand-new Worth gown of pink satin and gold lace, and Florence Kent, Countess of Lansdowne—who wore a deep blue silk gown trimmed in
galon d’argent
and glass pearls, adorned with a striking embroidered sunburst on the skirt.

“Now remember,” Florence said as she pulled on her gloves, “the Marquess of Blackburn will be here, as well as the Earl of Whitby and the Earl of Manderlin— all unattached and looking. They are your first priority this evening, Sophia. There’s also a baron… from Norfolk. I can never remember his name. ”

Sophia’s mother interrupted. “What about the duke? Will he be here?”

Florence gave Beatrice a surprised look. “He rarely comes to balls. And I wouldn’t set your sights that high. I’m beginning to think he’s made of stone. No one has been able to move him. Oh, look, it’s our turn.”

Relieved that the countess had dismissed the duke as a potential groom, Sophia remembered what the English girl had said about him:
Avoid him unless you want to marry into a nightmare. They say his family is cursed
.

Cursed in what way? she wondered.

The coach pulled up in front of the house, and the door swung open. A liveried footman assisted the ladies down onto the walk, and together, they made their way up the long red carpet, crowned overhead by a striped awning, to the front door.

They had to pause there in the doorway behind another couple, while they waited to move into the hall and greet their hosts. The lady in front of them turned her head and smiled, then faced forward again, leaning into her escort to whisper, “It’s the American.”

Sophia felt a sudden rush of anxiety, as if she was flailing in dangerously deep waters. For a fleeting moment, she wanted to turn around and run back to the coach and tell the driver to take her home. Not just to Florence’s house, but to America. To her sisters. To the easy way they were with each other, and the way they laughed and giggled and humored their mother. What were the girls doing now? Were they sleeping in their beds? Or were they awake and telling tales in front of the parlor fireplace?

The line finally moved and Sophia greeted the hosts on the curved marble staircase, then made her way up to the withdrawing room to remove her cloak and tidy her gown and hair.

Her mother tugged on her arm, and Sophia—so much taller than her little mother—leaned down.

“Remember, if you discover the duke has come, tell me immediately. I will spare nothing to have you presented to him and to get you a dance with him. Just one dance. You owe me that much, Sophia.”

Sophia swallowed hard, trying to control her displeasure at the thought of her mother sparing nothing.

“Mother, if you could just leave it to me and stay out of it and let things happen naturally—”

“Stay out of it?” her mother whispered. “How can I stay out of it when I am your mother, and I want the very best for you? I know you want the fairy tale, Sophia, but sometimes fairy tales in real life…”

She stopped at that, and Sophia was glad, for the thought of her mother trying to “hook” that devilish duke tonight made her want to sink through the cracks in the floor and not come out until morning.

She decided then that she would not allow herself to be “presented” to him like a raspberry custard on a platter, there for him to sniff and taste, to see if he liked her flavor. Tonight,
she
would be in control, and if she decided she wanted to meet the duke, she would meet him when she was good and ready—with her head steady on her shoulders and her feet planted firmly on the ground.

As was becoming of a duke, James arrived at the dance late and strolled into the ballroom with his dancing gloves on. His cool gaze swept the room, which sparkled with massive brass chandeliers hanging low, and the glitter of gold lace on richly colored gowns. The floor was polished smooth and shiny like a reflecting pool, and couples were swirling around the room, turning and dipping to the magnificent flow of a Strauss waltz.

James felt the gazes follow him as he meandered through the crowd, past eager-looking young ladies with dance cards and short pencils dangling from their wrists, their fans swaying languidly in front of their flushed faces. Whitby spotted him from across the room and, with a flourish, raised his champagne glass in salute. Within moments, the earl was making his way past leafy palms and ferns, around the perimeter of the room.

“You came after all,” he said, arriving at James’s side. “This is a change for you, out two nights in a row. Reminds me of the old days.”

Whitby and James went back many years, their friendship beginning at Eton and peaking when they were both expelled for building a giant slingshot that sent a stone smashing through the headmaster’s office window.

James thought back to those days. He’d had a lot of anger in him then, and so had Whitby. That’s what had brought them together, he supposed.

“You came to see her again,” the earl said.

“Who?”

“The American, of course.” At least Whitby had the presence of mind to lower his voice.

“She’s making the rounds again tonight, is she?” James replied in a disinterested tone, wondering if he should request a spot on her card.

“Naturally.” Whitby raised his glass toward the dance floor. “Over there. In burgundy. Dancing with that baron from Norfolk… oh, what’s his name? I can never remember it.”

The man’s name was Lord Hatfield, but James kept silent, for his attention was totally and completely fixed on the vision coming toward him, swirling and spinning, smiling and glistening.

She drew closer, then he heard the
swish
of her silk gown, smelled her perfume, and just as she twirled in front of him, their eyes met. There was that look again—that haughty, indifferent little smirk.

By God, she was a magnificent creature.

Then he considered making a wife out of her. She would certainly
not
fade into any wallpaper he’d ever seen, and judging by the way his body was reacting to her now—buzzing to life like a brand-new, flickering electric lamp—he knew any hope that this could be a business matter was thoroughly ridiculous.

Bloody hell, he was not interested in any kind of marriage that stirred passions, regardless of its profitability. In fact, he’d always been wholly determined to avoid anything like that at all costs. Surely there were other ways to manage his finances.

“Lucky baron,” Whitby remarked, after she’d gone by.

“Why don’t you dance with her then? Or have you already?”

“Not yet. Soon, though. I took the last spot on her card.”

So her card was full. There would be no dancing with the heiress tonight.
Probably for the best
, James thought. If he knew what was good for him, he would dance with a few wallflowers, then take his leave.

The waltz ended and he and Whitby wandered around the room, stopping to chat with the Wileys and the Carswells and the Nortons. They reached the far corner and took champagne glasses from a passing footman.

At that moment, they each noticed the heiress turn from her conversation with Lord Bradley and take a direct path toward them. Her mother came hurrying along behind her.

“Good heavens, is she coming over here?” Whitby said with some alarm.

It was a well-known fact that a lady never dashed at a gentleman in a ballroom; she waited quietly for him to speak to her.

Americans
, James said to himself, with an amused shake of his head.

Whitby straightened visibly as she approached.

“Good evening, Lord Whitby,” she said. Her voice was deep and sultry, like velvet. Just as James had imagined it would be. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

The orchestra started up again, with a minuet.

Whitby smiled, and James could sense his friend’s strong interest in the woman before them. Her mother came up late behind her, looking flustered.

“Wentworth,” Whitby said, “may I present to you Miss Sophia Wilson and Mrs. Beatrice Wilson, of America. His Grace, the Duke of Wentworth.”

Miss Wilson offered her gloved hand.

Did she know that she was breaking another rule? That unmarried ladies do not offer their hands to dukes—and especially not in ballrooms?

“Your Grace, I am honored.” She did not curtsy.

James held her hand briefly. He knew a mistake like that could pulverize a young woman’s social prospects in an instant.

Did she even care?

Probably not, for she must know that it was that very quality among her fellow countrywomen here in London—those who made the most of their “uniqueness” by breaking all the rules—that amused the Prince of Wales and had turned these beautiful American heiresses into such curiosities. “The honor is all mine, Miss Wilson.”

He kissed her hand.

“I believe I saw you at the Bradley assembly last evening,” she said.

James made a slight bow. “Indeed, I was there for a short time. You left early, however.”

“I’m flattered that you gave my presence a second thought.”

She was certainly bold, James thought, and right in front of her mother. He glanced down at the small woman with the enormous jewels around her neck, her eyes round and questioning, as if she were struggling to follow what was going on. James wondered what to make of her.

“Are you enjoying your visit to London, Mrs. Wilson?” he asked the woman.

“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you,” she replied, seeming flattered that he had asked. Her voice had a sharp, thorny quality to it.

The young heiress wore a pleasant expression as she gazed down at her mother. Then, with disinterest, she turned her attention back to James, and he guessed that this was all for her mother’s benefit, to satisfy the woman’s desire to present her daughter to a duke.

“And where is your home, Your Grace?” she asked. “What part of the country?”

“Yorkshire,” he told her.