How the Duke Met His Match
Author
Sophia Williams
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17,2K
Chapters
19
Chapter One
Alexander, Duke of Harwell, froze for a second as Lady Cowbridge, smiling broadly, ushered her daughter towards him. She couldn’t have indicated her intent more clearly had she produced a bishop and had their wedding banns read.
This had to be about the tenth such approach made to him in the past hour. Enough was enough. Alex unfroze, inclined his head very slightly in the direction of the two ladies, and turned to march himself straight out of the ballroom’s nearest doors.
Before he’d managed to cover the ten feet or so to the end of the room, yet another dowager placed herself in his path. This one was resplendent in a jade-green dress and was holding a bejewelled hand outstretched towards him. She gave the lavender-clad young lady she was accompanying a little push with her other hand, so that she stumbled almost right into Alex.
As he executed a swift sidestep to avoid a collision, Alex caught a glimpse of the younger lady’s expression. Her eyes were downcast, long dark lashes against her cheeks, and her brow was furrowed in a slight frown. By contrast, the older woman was looking straight at him with her wide smile increasing, as though she was about to address him.
Alex muttered, ‘Excuse me,’ and almost leaped out of the long, glass-panelled doors ahead of him into the garden.
He should have resisted his friends’ entreaties to attend this ball. He didn’t remember the season being quite as awful as this, though. Had the mothers and guardians of marriageable young ladies been as determined in their pursuit of him—like vultures circling their prey—the last time he was single? He didn’t think so. But perhaps the full decade that had passed since then had dulled his memory. Or perhaps his elevation from viscount to duke had increased their determination.
Safely through the French doors, he was hit first by intense heat from the remarkable profusion of lanterns clustered around the door-frame, and then, as he moved a little to his left along a terrace that seemed to run all the way beside the house, by the freshness of the clear February night. And, God, that was good.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall of the house, allowing himself a long moment to appreciate the peace, the coolness of the air on his cheeks after the claustrophobic warmth of the ballroom and the faint scent of the leaves from the trees in the mansion’s small garden, infinitely more agreeable than the cloying perfume inside.
Amazing to think that he’d actually loved London life ten years ago.
Right now, all he wanted to do was to go home to Somerset. In fact, maybe he’d bring forward his return to the country. He missed his land, the open space, the opportunity for long walks and hard riding. And his local friends and tenants. And, of course, he missed the boys, his sons. It didn’t feel right to be away from them for any extended period since they’d lost their mother. Yes, maybe he’d return home tomorrow. Ask his man of business and his lawyers to attend him there.
His thoughts were interrupted within a couple of minutes by a couple crashing out through the doors and coming to a halt only a few feet from him. Instinctively, he moved further along the terrace into the shadows. He had no desire to stand right next to a lovemaking couple, and he wasn’t ready to re-enter the ballroom. So shadows it was.
He hadn’t moved far enough. The couple’s voices carried very clearly to him across the still night.
‘Let go of me,’ the woman hissed.
Not a lovemaking couple, apparently.
Alex turned reluctantly to look at them, illuminated by the lanterns, as the woman seemed to struggle in her partner’s hold. The man pulled her close to him with one arm and with his other hand gripped her face far more tightly than a lover would. The woman continued to struggle, and then suddenly went quite limp.
Alex took a couple of steps closer. He had no desire to get involved in any lovers’ tiff, but what he’d seen so far indicated that this was something more sinister than that. He should check that the woman was all right. If he was sure then that all was well, he would apologise for interrupting them and leave them to it.
He opened his mouth to speak just as the woman, as suddenly as she’d gone limp, dipped her head and bit the man’s arm, and simultaneously seemed to kick him on the shin from beneath her dress. The dress was a pale lavender, like the one that the green-clad lady’s younger companion had been wearing. Perhaps the same woman.
The man jerked and let go of her, spitting the words, ‘You vixen,’ as she picked up her skirts and began to run towards the ballroom.
Alex was contemplating landing a punch to the man’s face, to teach him a lesson in addition to the kick and the bite, when the man lunged forward and caught the young woman around the waist, pulling her back against him.
‘You’ll pay for that,’ he growled as she tried to resist his pull, her arms flailing.
Alex sighed internally—he’d so much rather just go home and go to bed than get involved with this, but clearly he had no choice—and stepped forward.
‘It appears that the lady doesn’t wish to be mauled by you,’ he said.
‘Mind your own business.’ The man’s voice was slightly familiar, maybe someone Alex had known in town in his younger days.
Alex shook his head. ‘Let go of her now,’ he said, injecting as much steel into his voice as he could.
He could see the man properly now in the flickering light. Sir Peter Something. Always with a group of men scrabbling at the edge of polite society. He could see the woman’s heart-shaped face too. She had clear, light brown skin and deep brown eyes, which were glistening right now. Definitely the young lady who’d been with the woman in green just inside the ballroom.
Sir Peter looked up at him and shrank away, as though scared, but pulled the lady with him. She did something with her leg and Sir Peter gave an unattractively high-pitched little howl and then shook her a little.
‘Enough.’ Alex took a step towards them and clamped his hand round Sir Peter’s—puny—forearm, until he let go of the lady with another little mewl of pain. Truly pathetic. Alex moved between the two of them and held his arm out to the lady.
She looked at Sir Peter, and then at Alex, and then took the proffered arm. ‘Thank you, sir.’ Her voice was remarkably steady, given the situation.
They began to move together towards the steps, away from Sir Peter, the young lady gripping Alex’s arm very tightly. Thank God he had been here. She’d done a good job of fighting Sir Peter off, but she’d have been no match for him in the end.
Alex was going to take her inside, return her to her chaperone, make sure that she was safe with her, and then leave.
‘Do you—?’ he began.
He was interrupted by a sudden commotion at the ballroom door above them and a man shouting, ‘Miss Bolton, Sir Peter.’
As Alex looked towards the door Sir Peter launched himself at the lady—presumably Miss Bolton—and attempted to kiss her. Miss Bolton got one arm free and dealt him a forceful blow to the ear, which made Alex smile and Sir Peter howl yet again.
‘You will not treat me so when we’re married,’ Sir Peter panted.
Really? Alex shook his head. Everyone was aware that rogues attempted to compromise young women into marriage fairly often, but Alex hadn’t personally witnessed such an attempt before. The commotion at the door was increasing now, and the man who’d just spoken was shouting inside the room about what he’d just seen. Presumably a co-conspirator.
Alex felt his lip curl. He held his hand up and addressed the gathering crowd. ‘I have been here the entire time and this man has in no way compromised this lady. Nothing untoward has happened between them.’
‘Incorrect,’ Sir Peter shouted, apparently a lot braver with a crowd supporting him. ‘This young lady has given me her virtue. She is my fiancée.’
The woman in green who’d been with Miss Bolton inside the ballroom pushed her way through the throng and planted herself in front of them. ‘Emma, is this true?’
‘No, Aunt, of course not.’ Miss Bolton’s voice was shaking a little now.
‘Look at her gown.’ Sir Peter’s voice was triumphant.
Alex’s eyes followed where the man’s spindly finger was pointing. The bodice of Miss Bolton’s gown was torn, exposing most of her full breasts. It must have been ripped during their tussle. Miss Bolton looked down too, and pulled ineffectually at the fabric, while Alex began to work his arms out of his tightly fitting jacket.
‘Miss Bolton and I will be married tomorrow,’ Sir Peter announced. ‘I have a special licence.’
‘Emma, how could you?’ her aunt moaned.
‘I couldn’t and I won’t,’ Miss Bolton stated.
‘Yes, you will.’ Her aunt spoke out of the corner of her mouth, as though that would prevent anyone from hearing her. ‘You are ruined.’ She indicated with her arm towards the crowd at the doors.
‘No.’ Miss Bolton visibly shuddered.
‘Yes.’ Sir Peter put his arm around her waist.
She tried to move away and he gripped her more tightly, pulling her further from Alex.
Oh, God. Alex had the strange sensation that he could see, almost feel, two avenues open to him. One, the easy one, where he walked away from this situation. These things were not unheard of in Society, and usually the young lady—the victim—in question wasn’t lucky enough to have a saviour to hand. Had he not been here, Miss Bolton would now be affianced to Sir Peter and that would effectively be that.
Unfortunately, Alex had been here, and it seemed that he was going to take a second avenue, which he was pretty sure would be hell. It was as though he was observing the scene from a distance and could see catastrophe unfurling but could do nothing to avert it.
‘We will be married by the end of the week,’ Sir Peter said.
‘No.’ Alex stepped forward, holding his jacket. ‘The young lady is my fiancée. Unhand her immediately.’
For God’s sake. He was speaking like an actor in a cheap melodrama. And, a lot more importantly, he’d just announced that Miss Bolton was his fiancée.
Sir Peter didn’t let go of Miss Bolton. Alex took another step closer and glared at him, and the man’s grip on her slackened. Alex moved right next to them, clenching his fists, and Sir Peter shrank backwards. Nothing more pathetic than a cowardly bully.
Alex moved in front of Sir Peter and placed his jacket around Miss Bolton’s shoulders, his hand brushing the bare skin of her upper arm briefly as he held the jacket so that she could put her arms into the sleeves. He fancied that he felt her shiver as he touched her, and thought he understood why; it felt oddly...what, intimate perhaps? When it absolutely shouldn’t.
He shook his head slightly. His mind was going in all manner of strange directions.
She looked up at him, her eyes huge in her small face, and whispered, ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure.’
Which was about as far from the truth as you could get. He was struggling to process what had just happened, but he did know that it was bad, very bad. He’d just announced that they were engaged. He had just committed himself very publicly to marrying this lady. Marriage. He didn’t want to remarry. For his sons’ sake, for his own sake, for Diana’s memory’s sake. But he clearly wasn’t likely to have any choice now. He couldn’t honourably let Miss Bolton down.
God. He wanted to put his head in his hands and swear and swear.
He couldn’t do that, of course. It would be rude to Miss Bolton; and many dozens of people were watching them, chattering about them. He wanted to shout about the hypocrisy of the ton: the way in which they regarded themselves as above ordinary people and yet fed almost feverishly on others’ misery, mob-like.
The hum of the crowd’s chatter began to increase, the air practically throbbing with it now. He and Miss Bolton both needed to leave.
He cleared his throat and held an arm out to her.
She stared at his arm for a long moment, and then took it with another whispered ‘Thank you.’
He could feel her almost trembling, and reached his other hand over to press hers briefly for comfort. And strangely, for a moment, it felt as though the two of them were banded together against the rest of the world. Which was ridiculously fanciful and entirely untrue. They were complete strangers to each other, and, while it seemed unbelievable that they might indeed soon be banded together in name, they wouldn’t be in practice. He would not be having any kind of real marriage with Miss Bolton—Emma—or any other woman. He just couldn’t.
He closed his eyes briefly and then began to move towards the house.
And then the woman in green, Emma’s aunt, trilled, ‘Your Grace,’ and sank into a deep curtsey before them.
It cost Alex a big effort not to roll his eyes above her head or snap at her. Now did not feel like the time for social niceties.
As Emma’s aunt rose from her curtsey, a thought struck him and he looked down at Emma again, suspicious. Had this entire scene been enacted by her and her aunt to entrap him? Were they in cahoots with Sir Peter? He went very still for a moment, replaying the events of the last few minutes in his mind. No, highly unlikely.
He felt Emma shudder slightly again. No. Unless she was an outstanding actress, this absolutely couldn’t be a scene of her making.
‘Allow me to escort you home now?’ he said to her.
‘Thank you. I think that would be for the best. I must apologise. I am not normally so pathetic. I will recover my spirits directly. I must apologise also for your having been dragged into this situation.’
‘Not at all,’ Alex said with great insincerity.
God, he wished he’d left the house by the front doors after speaking to Lady Cowbridge. Or even just danced with Lady Cowbridge’s daughter. Although, looking down at Emma’s slim shoulders, dwarfed by his jacket, and her elegant neck beneath her dark brown, nearly black curls, he hated to imagine what might be happening to her at this moment if he hadn’t been here. Nearly as much as he hated to imagine what was about to happen to both of them.
Barely credible, but he really had just announced to half the ton that they were betrothed. As in he really was going to have to marry her, because her aunt was right: she would be completely ruined if they didn’t marry.
He shook his head for about the tenth time this evening. After his wife’s death in childbirth he’d decided never to remarry. Even just the idea of allowing himself to love again and therefore lay himself open to the possibility of further loss was too painful to bear. And yet here he was.
Although, of course, this wouldn’t be a love match. It would be one person helping out another, a marriage in name only. So he wouldn’t, in fact, be betraying Diana’s memory. He’d have to explain as soon as possible to Emma that this would not be a real marriage. He hoped very much that she wouldn’t be too upset by that. If she was, it couldn’t be helped, unfortunately.
Oh, God. What if she wanted children?
Why the hell had this had to happen?
He nearly groaned out loud, and then realised that Emma was speaking again.
‘I wonder if I could possibly impose on you for a further few minutes of your time?’
It was an odd question to ask when they were about to be tethered for a lifetime, in name at least.
He was prevented from replying by Emma’s aunt, wreathed in smiles, grasping their hands.
‘Your Grace, Emma, I must congratulate you. Such wonderful news.’ She half turned and waved to the hordes jostling behind her, almost as though she was seeking witnesses, just as Sir Peter had; and her rather odd turban—green, like her dress—slid to one side of her head.
She pushed the turban back into place, turned again to Alex and Emma, and said, ‘I was well acquainted with your mother. I am Lady Morton.’
‘How do you do?’ Alex said, not bothering to try to smile.
Lady Morton really wasn’t going to care whether or not he was happy; her ecstasy would do for all of them. He thought for a moment of his first betrothal—his and Diana’s happiness, the sheer bubbling joy that had kept him permanently smiling and laughing for weeks afterwards—and wondered briefly if his head might explode.
Lady Morton began to talk volubly about weddings.
Alex just wanted to leave, get away from this nightmare.
Lady Morton’s conversation turned to the miracle it was that her darling Emma had melted the heart of the Ice Duke. Really? The Ice Duke? That was what people called him? For God’s sake.
He sensed Emma stiffen beside him and felt instant remorse. This situation was, of course, much worse for her than for him.
Her whole body seemed to heave and he looked at the top of her head more closely. Was she crying? He should get her out of here immediately, give them both a chance to begin to come to terms with what had happened.
‘I’d like to escort my fiancée home now,’ he told her aunt, impressed that he’d managed not to choke on the word fiancée.
He’d walked the short distance here from his house, so he hoped Emma and her aunt had come in a carriage; it would be much better if they didn’t have to walk back now. He should agree on a time to call on Emma tomorrow, so that he could explain that he could be married in name only.
‘Of course.’ The turban slipped again. ‘Do you have a carriage? If not, please take ours. Dear Lady Cowbridge will take me home, I’m sure.’
Lady Cowbridge, who had beaten her way to the front of the scandal-drawn crowd swirling around them, looked as though she’d sucked a lemon. She gave one of the most insincere smiles Alex had ever seen and nodded her acquiescence.
Despite everything, Alex almost laughed out loud. From the looks of her, it would be some time before Lady Cowbridge would be forgiving Lady Morton for her ducal wedding triumph.
Emma squeezed the underside of his forearm surprisingly hard, and he looked down at her again. She must be desperate to leave.
‘Good evening.’ He nodded around the crowd and then began to walk forward with Emma through the hundreds of ball-goers, all of whom seemed to be attempting to get a close look at the two of them. They were obviously going to be the subject of much gossip for the next few days or weeks. Since there was going to be no way of avoiding the wedding, they should get it out of the way as soon as possible and escape to the country for a long time.
Being taller than most people, he had a very good view of the fashionables swirling around them. Literally hundreds of people pushing. He caught a couple of snatches of waspish comments and felt Emma’s shoulders tense. Glaring at anyone who dared to look directly at him, he tightened his hold on her and they picked up speed across the long room. Eventually, they reached a series of footmen and a butler in the large, marbled entrance hall.
The butler opened the front door to them as their hostess, Mrs Chardaine, pushed her way towards them and dropped into a deep curtsey, tittering as she did so.
‘I shall be proud forever that you announced your love affair to the world at my house,’ she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him. ‘Such a great pleasure.’
‘The pleasure is all ours.’ Alex didn’t smile.
‘Thank you so much for a most delightful evening,’ Emma said, not looking as if she was smiling very much either.
They finally made it out of the house, down the steps and into Lady Morton’s carriage about five minutes later.
Emma sank onto the upholstered bench to the right of the carriage door and Alex seated himself opposite her. This was the first time he’d been able to take a good look at her. She was beautiful, but in a very different way from the current fashion for pale skin and blonde hair. Her skin was the warm light brown he’d noticed before, and her eyes and hair were very dark. She was perhaps a little older than he’d assumed she was, definitely in her twenties rather than in her late teens as most debutantes were. Maybe slightly older than he had been when he’d met and married Diana.
She started speaking almost before the footman had finished closing the door behind them and Alex had sat down.
‘Thank you so much for rescuing me. Obviously I won’t hold you to your promise.’ She was holding her shoulders square inside his jacket, which swamped her slender frame, and looking him straight in the eye, as though she meant what she said. ‘I’ll tell my aunt in the morning that it was all a ridiculous mistake.’
Alex felt his own shoulders actually physically relax for a moment at the relief of it, until a voice of reason from somewhere deep inside him shouted that telling everyone it was a mistake wasn’t an option.
‘You can’t possibly do that,’ he said. ‘You’ll be ruined.’
‘No.’ Her dark curls swung round her face as she shook her head with force. ‘To speak distastefully frankly about money, I’m an heiress with a significant fortune. There will be men who are prepared to overlook what happened this evening. There is no need for you to marry me.’
‘Yes, there is. You will be ruined otherwise,’ he repeated.
‘No, I won’t. There are any number of impecunious aristocratic men who would be delighted to marry my dowry.’ She cocked her head to one side and narrowed her eyes slightly. ‘From the little I’ve seen of you, I would say that you have need of neither a wife nor a fortune?’
He looked at her for a long moment. He felt as though he should actually pretend that he did need one or the other or both.
He wasn’t going to pretend.
‘Correct,’ he said.
‘Then I cannot allow you to make this ridiculous sacrifice on my behalf.’
Alex raised his eyebrows. It was unusual for a young lady to state that she would or would not allow a gentleman to behave in a certain way. Although nothing about this situation was usual.
‘It isn’t a sacrifice,’ he said, the words sounding hollow. ‘It would be my very great pleasure.’ Oh, God, no. He didn’t want to sound as though he wanted their marriage to be anything other than in name. ‘That is, I...’
Emma snorted. In a small, very ladylike way, but it was definitely still a snort. ‘Absolutely everything about your demeanour tells me that it would be a huge sacrifice and certainly not a pleasure. Clearly neither of us loves the other. I agree that some men, particularly those who have no need to marry for money, might be deterred by the events of this evening from wooing me, but I’m very sure that men like Sir Peter will still be happy to marry me.’
‘Exactly. Sir Peter. A middle-aged roué, who would almost certainly treat you badly.’ Alex thought for a moment with disgust of when Sir Peter had held Emma in his arms.
Emma opened her mouth and then closed it again, and then visibly drew a breath and said, ‘Obviously, Sir Peter would not be my ideal husband. Indeed, I would rather work for my living than marry him, and will do so if necessary. However, I have it on great authority, that of my own aunt amongst others, that I “smell of the shop”—delightful phrase—and that that will already have deterred a number of suitors, but nonetheless my fortune has continued to attract a great deal of attention.’
‘I’m sure that the attention is due to your beauty and your conversation,’ Alex said with reflexive politeness.
Emma snorted again. ‘Much like all the attention you received this evening was entirely due to your broad shoulders and wit rather than to the fact that you are a very rich widowed duke.’
Alex found himself giving a snort of his own—of laughter. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m sure that you have received a lot of attention, for both good and bad reasons, but I’m not sure that any man with whom you might be able to live happily will now offer for you. You might not, in fact, have the opportunity to meet any more respectable and eligible men because if you don’t marry me all fashionable doors might be closed to you. I think that you perhaps underestimate the snobbery of the ton and their delighted horror of scandal.’
‘I think that you perhaps underestimate my father’s fortune.’
Alex shook his head. ‘I cannot see that you have any alternative but to marry me.’
‘I’m grateful for your concern—indeed I’m very grateful to you for having rescued me from Sir Peter—but I do not feel that my future is any concern of yours.’ She picked up her reticule as the coach slowed. ‘Thank you again. If I might impose on you just a little longer, I’d be very grateful if I could keep your jacket until I reach my bedchamber. I will ask one of my aunt’s footmen to return it to you tomorrow.’ She bestowed a brittle little smile on him and moved forward as the carriage door began to open.
Alex frowned. Something was niggling in the back of his mind, something in addition to the big issue, which was that she was clearly doing the wrong thing.
He leaned forward himself and spoke to the coachman. ‘My fiancée and I have not yet finished our conversation. Please drive on for another few minutes.’
‘Actually, we have finished our conversation.’ Emma’s eyes were flashing as the coach drove off again. ‘I would like to go inside now.’
She thumped on the silk-upholstered wall of the carriage with her fist.
‘I’m sorry.’ Alex banged on the wall with his cane and the coach came to a halt. ‘That was very rude of me. I shouldn’t have overridden your wishes like that. Could I ask one further question before you go inside?’
He’d worked out what had been niggling him.
Emma pressed her lips together for a moment, as though she was trying not to sigh, and then after a pause said, ‘Yes, of course.’
‘What did you mean when you said that you’d rather work for your living than marry me, and might do so?’
