The Rusticated Duchess (23 page)

Clare had gone behind his father’s back and destroyed the draft, then put the engagement announcement in the next edition of
The Times
. He’d spent the next three months until the wedding convincing his father that taking Lennox’s money ‘in payment of an old debt’ was unnecessary as well as dishonourable, not to mention absolutely out of Clare’s capabilities. He would have taken Sarah to the Continent or Scotland first, which was—in Clare’s mind—the only reason that Lauderdale had truly relented. In his father’s day, marriages had been made for dynastic reasons, so Clare’s insistence that Sarah be his bride had blindsided Lauderdale. The duke hadn’t understood, though, until after the wedding, when he’d come to know Sarah and seen the couple together. It had taken a year for Clare’s father to sit in the library late one night with Clare and apologise, but they had never looked back and rehashed the incident again.

Clare still breathed a silent prayer of thanks that Sarah had never discovered the proposal, for it would have irreparably damaged her relationship with the duke. It had been a small relief amid so much grief.

Seventeen years later, Clare had no idea how Lennox remembered the contretemps. He had even less idea of how Lennox would react to the news that Eynon would be raised in a Blessing household. Adding the knowledge that Alex Blessing had been Lady Winchester’s lover before Lennox just made the fog around their families thicker.

Clare knew that he couldn’t make promises he was unable to keep.

In any event, Clare could hardly argue with her distrust. He did want to influence her life, the direction of her future.

“I know very well that I may have to marry you, Clare,” she continued at last, tears in her voice. “I know that because if I don’t and Winchester takes me back, I’ll find myself married to someone of his choosing before my birthday, and that is a future I cannot contemplate. But I’m sorry, I can’t say that I
want
to.”

Clare’s chest ached with the despair in her voice, his frustration, and disappointment. To have her as an unwilling wife was disheartening, to know she would be within his sphere of influence because she had no other choice was discouraging.

He wanted—he
needed
her—to be happy. What sacrifices would be required of him to ensure she was? In truth, he could think of only one issue on which he would be unable to negotiate or compromise and he was struck by the need to hear her acknowledge its importance. He opened his mouth to speak, but she was already voicing another concern, so he bit his lip and listened.

“What would your father say if we were to marry without warning? Wouldn’t he be appalled, especially since he is well aware of my illegitimacy?” she asked then.

Clare smiled, determined to treasure every second her body was acquiescent and comforted by his body and arms, even if her mind was fighting the connection between them. Who knew what the next days would bring?

“He’s wanted me to remarry for years,” Clare reassured her. “And to marry you—with your elegance, your breeding, your skills, your knowledge of the
ton
—he could hardly have any objection.”

To his surprise, Gloria let out a bark of bitter laughter. “My breeding?” she gasped. He twisted his head to look at her grimace, then listened as she went on, “Clare, I’m the bastard daughter of an unfaithful woman. I don’t know who my father is, and none of the three people who I believe know who sired me will tell me. Even your father must realise I’m not Winchester’s true get.”

Clare opened his mouth to speak, but the bitterness continued to pour from Gloria’s mouth. “As to my position in the
ton
, I am alternately the object of its scorn or its example of ambitious gold-digger. They believe, for many good reasons, that I married a monster for the sake of money and title. Marrying you—another heir to a dukedom—will just reinforce that perception.”

A stab of pain went through Clare’s torso. He rested his lips on her head, then tilted it so he could whisper against her ear. “Oh, angel, how I wish I could wipe all of those terrible memories from your consciousness.”

“I don’t want to go back to London, Clare, at least not to live there. Not ever again. Before this all started, I couldn’t have imagined living elsewhere, but now? Now Mayfair is this world inhabited by dissatisfied harpies, bitter old maids and ambitious, selfish little girls.”

Clare breathed in the deep air, watching the island slide by in silence. He’d shut out the noise of the sails and the wind and the sailors, but now they returned full force as the yacht tipped and turned, adjusting its heading to a south-easterly route that would take them between the main isle and Kitterland.

“You won’t have to if we marry,” he agreed. “I have no desire to live in London. There may be the usual visits and an occasional appearance at Lords for me, and we have the house in Mayfair of course. I would want you to accompany me if for no other reason than for visiting your family and Lennox House, but I prefer the country and have big estates and businesses to manage outside Mayfair that legitimately require all of my time.”

Gloria nodded against his shoulder, shifting a bit to guard her eyes against the sun. It was high overhead now and brilliant, so Clare turned slightly as well, tucking her against his shoulder as he told her the legend of Baron Kitter, who had sailed to the small islet of Kitterland at the tail of the Isle of Man to hunt, because the baron had already hunted the island’s population of elk and deer to extinction. “The natives of Manx call the little island
Famman Kitterland
, which in their native language is Tail of the Rocky Isle.”

To his relief, Gloria smiled.

Chapter Fifteen

They watched the coastline for a bit longer, until the sun turned slightly to the west and they passed Port St Mary. Then Clare walked Gloria back to the salon where they shared lunch with the household at a long table. It was a cold collation, brought from the Castle, but filling, and afterwards Gloria settled in a chair with Eynon in her lap.

“Stay here in the salon, angel,” he murmured against her hair. “Out of sight. Douglas has Englishmen of all persuasions and classes prowling the docks.”

She smiled at him while humming a soft lullaby, so Clare stepped back and memorised the vision before joining his captain on the deck.

The yacht slid into position at the wharf, so Clare stood back and watched until the captain gave the signal to lower the gangplank. He listened while his captain gave their particulars to the wharfmaster, then headed off the jetty and towards the collection of buildings that comprised the harbour’s warehouses. While the yacht was not a trading vessel by design, they commonly carried small cargos from Strangford to Douglas and from Douglas to England, so as to make the yacht slightly more profitable. The crew would have a cargo of fine crystal glasses from Ireland unloaded while he sought out a recent news-sheet from London and had a glass of ale.

Not knowing exactly when they would leave Killard Castle, neither Clare nor his captain had made arrangements to transport anything more to England, so the hold would be abnormally empty when they reached Whitehaven. They rarely went so far north to dock in England anyway and Clare didn’t have a merchant in the small village to sell his goods. Instead, he would leave the captain to scout out an appropriately sized cargo in Whitehaven that the yacht could carry south to their usual harbour at Blackpool, while Clare would escort Gloria and his other new charges east towards Norham Castle.

The walk along the boardwalk above the beach was strangely lonely. Clare could have brought Gloria if she’d been his wife, passing by the seedy taverns and cheap lodgings for sailors to visit a finer establishment for tea. They could have visited the cluttered collection of shops at the opposite end of the boardwalk. But without the benefit of marriage, Clare didn’t dare bring Gloria along. English sailors and English gentlemen, particularly those with ties to Ireland, dotted the landscape, and Clare had no knowledge of who might have recognised the duchess-in-waiting aboard his yacht.

He stopped at one of the cleaner-looking taverns five minutes from the wharf and found a seat at the bar. A serving maid promptly brought him a pint of ale and a flash of flesh and nipple, but he took the first and shook his head at the second even as he smiled at her. She shrugged and smiled in response, and brought him the latest news for another tuppence.

Clare read the sheet as he sipped the ale. The bulk of the content was political news, but Clare simply skimmed that and searched farther. He was relieved to find no mention of Winchester’s suit, which would likely have dominated the society pages if there had been any real decision. His ale consumed, Clare paid his shot and rose to return to the yacht.

Just then, a group of Englishmen came through the front entrance, throwing the room into darkness for a moment. But once inside, they called boisterously for ale and sandwiches.

Clare felt the moment of recognition strike him and forced a greeting smile as one of his schoolmates from years ago gestured in welcome.

“Come join us, old friend,” the man urged, scooting to the side as the pretty serving maid brought another chair. “What a fortuitous circumstance this is!”

Clare looked his question, along with the gentleman’s companions. “Let me introduce you,” the man answered, and recognition struck Clare, too. His schoolmate was Percy Colchester, second son of the Earl of Colchester. He and Clare had been fairly close, in the early dark days at Eton. Thirty years later, Colchester was nearly unrecognisable. His face was drawn and ruddy, his facial hair bushy and untrimmed. He smelt of cigars and hard drinking, and shadows potted his skin.

Age had not been kind to Percy Colchester.

The others were of similar rank and class, boisterous and self-important in their own minds but no different from others in their stratum of society. They ordered drinks and sized up the females, and it took Colchester’s booming voice to bring them under control. “Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Allow me to present Lord Clare, Lauderdale’s heir.”

At his words, the men did abruptly stop and all seemed to focus on him intently. Clare felt the stirrings of uneasiness in his gut, and they only intensified when one of the gentlemen lifted a brow and asked, “From Killard Castle?”

Colchester chuckled and grinned, gesturing to the hawk-eyed, black-haired, wiry man. “Captain Robert Sykes. He was headed your way when we arrive at Strangford. I guess it won’t do him much good as you’re here and not actually in the County.”

Clare raised a cool brow, his face blank. “Is there trouble? I’ve just left the castle and do not expect to return for quite a while. The magistrate in Strangford is fully capable, and my steward Jamie Seton will be happy to assist you with the locals if needed.”

Colchester hastily introduced the other gentlemen, but Clare barely caught their names. He was hurriedly counting the time it would take these men to reach the Castle. Meriden’s presence could be easily concealed, particularly if they were warned.

Clare had every intention of warning them.

“Haven’t got a warrant in hand, at least not yet,” Sykes admitted. “But we’re expecting multiples ones to be drawn at any moment and want to be prepared.” He reared back in the chair, noting that Clare still stood. “You not joining us?” he asked, waving to the others.

“My crew is waiting for my return,” he refused. “I’ve already been significantly delayed in leaving Ireland and have much business awaiting my attention in England.”

“Ah yes, you’ll be headed to Blackpool then?” Colchester asked, accepting his pint from the serving maid. He leered at the girl delivering his drink, and reached out a hand to fondle the girl’s rump. She jerked away and gave Sykes a dirty look, and Clare swallowed the urge to place a right hook in the man’s jaw. “Pretty thing, that one is.”

Clare shrugged, answering only, “My yacht docks in Blackpool, yes.” He arched a brow at Sykes. “What is the problem then?”

“You’re a Blessing by name. You must know a place called Blessing Cottage? On Shore Road, in Kilchet?”

The unease turned to a heavy rock in Clare’s stomach but he shrugged nonchalantly. “Of course. I hope it’s not your destination, gentlemen, or you’re the subject of a prank in poor taste. The cottage is an old love nest of my ancestors, and hardly to your standards. Or size.” He glanced at one of the silent two men eyeing the barmaids and warned in a heavy tone, “There would not be any willing local girls in that isolated hut, and the daughters of my farmworkers and household would not be a wise choice.”

The men chuckled, except for Sykes, who scowled and considered him.

“It ain’t yours?”

Clare considered the man haughtily and frowned. He was beginning to not just distrust Sykes, but to actively dislike the man. He appeared far cleverer than the others, which easily made him the most dangerous.

“As it happens, ownership passed out of my family two generations ago. What is your point, Sykes?”

“We’re looking for a young runaway, to be honest,” Colchester inserted. “Earl’s daughter. Her father expects a Chancery judge to order a warrant for her return to England any day, so that he can make her come home and look after her properly. Poor chit has been told all sorts of lies by her whore of a mother, and ran off. Big scandal, it is. We are checking all likely properties, and Blessing Cottage is owned by her mother’s brothers.”

Clare bit the inside of his lip as he resisted the urge to plant his fist in Colchester’s jaw, again.

Maintaining his outward equanimity was increasingly difficult. “You shouldn’t have much trouble checking then. You’ll need to stay on Manx tonight. Navigating Strangford harbour is dangerous in the dark if you don’t wish to run aground so you won’t find a ferry setting out for Strangford before the morning tide—do you have transportation arranged?”

They confirmed passage on the morning ferry, so Clare described the location of Killard Castle and Blessing Cottage. “There are stables near the quay in Strangford, so you can rent horses and ride out to the cottage. I’m sorry I cannot offer you accommodations at the Castle, gentlemen, but when I’m not in residence, the staff leave
en masse
to see their families.”