The Duke's Proposal for the Governess
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Eleanor Webster
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Prologue
‘Mrs Harrington is desiring an audience,’ Benton intoned from the library’s threshold.
Lord Lansdowne, Duke of Elmsend, looked up at this unwarranted interruption. ‘An audience? I am not the bloody Pope. And who the devil is Mrs Herring-whatever?’
‘Mrs Harrington,’ Benton repeated. ‘A relative of your late mother’s.’
‘Indigent, I presume?’
‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’
‘How many indigent relatives can one woman have?’ he grumbled.
‘I couldn’t say, my lord.’
‘And what can she possibly want with me? And don’t say you couldn’t say. Where did you put her?’
‘In the drawing room, my lord.’
‘Tell her I am indisposed.’
‘Indeed, alcohol does give one a bad head,’ Benton said, with that slight tsk of his tongue, well remembered from schoolboy scrapes and all too familiar of late.
Randolph looked up to the ceiling. Thankfully it was pleasantly blank. His mother had had an unfortunate predilection for cupids. Few rooms remained unscathed. ‘Fine. I will see her if only to stop you from looking baleful because some long lost cousin is disappointed.’
‘Your mother was a very kind woman, my lord. She believed in family, my lord.’
‘Except her family seems unusually large,’ Randolph said. ‘And indigent.’
The bonnet fascinated.
Really such a bright thing should not be allowed within the presence of an individual indisposed. Truthfully it more closely resembled an orchard than any form of headgear. Or a vineyard. Or even a greengrocer. Perhaps Mrs Harrington aimed to be a greengrocer catering exotic fruits. Did greengrocers sell exotic fruits? Dolph was not well versed in greengrocers.
‘Lord Lansdowne!’ Mrs Harrington’s trumpeting tones quite startled him from his reverie.
‘Mrs Harrington,’ he said, making his bow before seating himself opposite a middle-aged woman, her stout form encased in dark mourning, a sharp contrast to the bonnet.
‘I am so delighted to meet you,’ she continued. ‘Likely your dear mother mentioned me to you. I am your cousin. From Harrogate.’
‘Indeed,’ he said. It was, after all, entirely possible. His mother had had a large family. Besides, agreement seemed considerably less effortful than contradiction. Truthfully, he’d paid limited attention to his mother’s rambling discourse. He sighed. Odd how something once irksome becomes touched with nostalgia when no longer possible.
He pushed the thought away, shifting his gaze back to his company. ‘So how may I assist or were you wishing merely to renew our kinship?’ he asked, languidly stretching his long legs towards the fire.
Mrs Harrington shifted with a rustle of cloth as she leaned forward, still talking in tones too loud for the situation. He wondered if the absent Mr Harrington was deaf. ‘Yes, well, you see, your mother was always so kind as to send us a Christmas greeting and a little something for my dear Lucinda. Such a kind woman. And so very sad about your father and brother. Indeed, we expressed our condolences. And she wrote back. Even in her time of grief. Anyhow, it all rather made us hope that, upon our arrival, in London that...that...well...she might be...be kind enough to introduce us and lend us...consequence...’
He stiffened. He hated the quick stab of pain. He hated this vulnerability. ‘Indeed, her death does rather curb that notion.’
‘I was so distressed.’ Mrs Harrington pressed her hands together. ‘But by the time I heard the sad tidings, I had already arranged to let our house. Besides, I’d packed up everything. Anyhow, I came up with the notion that we should come to London and hope for the best.’
‘The best?’
Mrs Harrington’s broad, pleasant face flushed. ‘Yes, well, you see, Mr Harrington is recently deceased but I set aside a small amount for my dear Lucinda’s dowry. It is no great sum, but sufficient if we get the right introductions. So we hoped that we might prevail upon our kinship—’
Dolph blinked, his thick head making sense of this convoluted information with difficulty. ‘You didn’t think perhaps my sister might prove more able in this regard?’
‘She has been consistently away,’ his guest said.
She would. His sister did not believe in putting herself out for others, particularly those of a lower social status. ‘Convenient,’ he said. ‘And how exactly are you related to my mother?’
‘Her uncle was a second cousin to my mother. Or is it third? Or perhaps it was her—’
He waved a silencing hand. It did not matter. His mother had helped her every relation, no matter how distant the connection. She seemed incapable of turning away family as though her father’s fiscal fortune made her indebted for ever to those still struggling.
His own father had despised the practice. But then his father had despised his mother. She’d had neither a title, land nor social graces. Indeed, the occasional flat Yorkshire vowel still habitually slid into her words.
But she was rich. And he was not.
Dolph drummed his fingers against the arm of the chair. The drumming made his head hurt. He stopped.
‘I’m sure you would be entranced if you were to meet my daughter. She is quite lovely,’ Mrs Harrington said, speaking more quickly as she warmed to her topic. ‘Well brought up. Her artwork is delightful. And she speaks French. Such a musical language, I always think. Indeed, her governess was quite fluent.’
The innocuous words felt like the heavy scent of lavender, which still lingered in his mother’s sitting room, hovering about her writing desk and in the cushions of the settee. His mother would talk like this when he’d first inherited the title. She’d describe some eligible young lady, eulogizing about a fine countenance, pleasant smile or an improbable musical talent.
He’d disliked those conversations as much as he disliked being the heir.
He stood, the movement abrupt. ‘You must excuse me.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Hot colour flushed into the woman’s cheeks and neck.
He was being rude. He hated bad manners. They demonstrated a lack of control and an unkindness too much like his father’s.
He made his bow. ‘It was delightful to meet you. Do leave Benton your card. I will, naturally, call on you later in the week.’
‘We would be entranced—’
He rang the bell, craving the silent emptiness that he both sought and hated.
