To Marry The Duke (25 page)
“What are you getting at, James?”
“Nothing.” Then he left her alone in the hall and climbed the stairs to his study.
James sat down to a pile of letters on his desk, wanting to get through all of them before dinner. The first one had come from his aunt Caroline in Exeter. He broke the seal and read the long and involved description of what debauchery Martin had been up to, and how she could no longer see fit to have him in her home. Along with the letter was a bill for an enormous debt Martin had incurred at a local tavern, which naturally, she was refusing to pay.
James leaned back in his chair and rubbed his throbbing temples. Martin was on his way home, the note said, which meant James would have to deal with this and exact some kind of discipline.
Bloody hell, Martin.
Another coach pulled up outside, and James glanced out the window. He watched the Weatherbees get out and saw Sophia go to greet them. Thank God, because he didn’t think he’d be able to welcome anyone at that minute, when his blood was boiling in his veins.
What did he know about discipline? He certainly wasn’t going to beat Martin to a pulp or lock him in a trunk, so where did that leave him? He’d already tried talking to Martin when he was in London, and that had done little good. He’d sent him away to Exeter as punishment for getting suspended, but the lad continued to act irresponsibly, even under the watchful eye of his aunt, who was as stiff and dutiful as her sister— James’s own mother.
James laid the letter aside and went through the rest of his correspondence, hoping fresh wisdom would somehow descend upon him before Martin arrived. He was not looking forward to it, for he had distanced himself from his younger brother for most of his life and had no idea what to say to him.
He was almost through all his letters when a knock sounded at his door, and Sophia entered. “May I have a word with you, James?”
“Of course.” He gestured for her to sit down. “The guests are settling in?”
“Yes, but I wanted to tell you about the cook. Mr. Becon slipped on a cabbage leaf and bumped his head. I’ve sent for the doctor, but Mr. Becon said that with all the work to do before this evening, your mother would not approve, but I assured him that
you
would agree with me about his seeing the doctor.”
James laced his fingers together. “You were right to call the doctor. Of course, I agree.”
Her shoulders rose and fell as if she were relieved, and the fact that he could support her in this way brought him a small measure of gratification, which he greatly needed at the moment.
“Thank you. I’ll leave you now.” She stood up to go, but stopped. “Is there something wrong, James? You look troubled.”
James gazed up at his wife, wondering what he’d said or done to give himself away. He swiveled in his chair and handed the letter about Martin to Sophia. She read it quickly, then gave it back to him. “What will you do?”
“I’m not sure. I’m at a loss, I’m afraid.”
She sat down again. “Is this the first time anything like this has happened?”
“I wish it was. Martin was suspended from Eton twice, and both times, I’ve sent him to his aunt’s, hoping she would have a positive influence on him. Obviously, I was a little too hopeful.”
“I see.”
James stood and paced the room. “I cannot ask myself what my father would have done, for my father’s methods will not do, but nothing I have tried so far has made any difference.”
“What have you tried?”
“I’ve sent him to people and places I felt would help him mature.”
“Have you considered keeping him here for a while?”
James stopped pacing. “I don’t suppose I’ll have much choice. I’m running out of options.”
“This might be the best place for him, with a family who loves him.”
There was that word again.
“If he is unhappy about something,” she continued, “we can find out why, or perhaps we’ll discover that he is simply at that age.”
“Boys will be boys, you think.”
She shrugged. “Perhaps. But if it’s something more, having him close to us will help us see what it is.”
Sophia rose from her chair. James was amazed to feel the tension draining out of him where he stood.
She moved toward him and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll see you in the drawing room before dinner.”
Then she left him behind to contemplate just how much—if he let himself—he could depend upon his wife.
“Remember,” Lily said to Sophia when the dressing bell rang, “that when everyone lines up to go into the dining room, you must take your place near the front. Mother will go with James in front of you.”
“I thought I outranked your mother.”
“You do, but James is the highest-ranking man, and he is required to be matched with the highest-ranking woman who is not his wife, and that would be Mother.”
“There’s so much to remember.”
“You’ll do fine. You will walk with the Marquess of Weldon, and behind you will walk Lady Weldon with the Earl of Manderlin, then I will follow with Lord Whitby. I once had a crush on him, you know.”
Sophia stopped midstride between the bed and her desk. “Really? Lord Whitby?”
“Yes,” Lily replied with a blushing grin. “He and James have been friends for years. I first saw him in London when I was very young, and I thought he was the most dashing young man I had ever seen. He and James were always off somewhere, causing trouble.”
“Trouble?” Sophia asked, thinking of Martin’s recent behavior.
“They spent a lot of time in the gambling halls, and Mother was always furious with them. They’ve matured, though,” she said with a smile, “as I have. But oh, there was a time I did fancy myself very much in love with Lord Whitby. Perhaps it was the rebel in him—and the fact that Mother didn’t like him.”
Sophia watched her sister-in-law rearrange some tiny cat statues around on the mantel, and wondered how Lily was such a romantic when her brother and mother were so drastically the opposite.
Sophia returned to the subject of the formal dinner. “I hope I don’t do anything wrong tonight. Thank you for helping me with the seating arrangements.”
“You’re very welcome. Now I must go and dress. I’ll see you in the drawing room.”
Sophia summoned Alberta, her new maid, but before Alberta arrived, another coach pulled up in front of the house. Sophia went to the window. Two gentlemen stepped out, so she hurried down to greet them, for she recognized the older man as Lord Manderlin.
She was descending the stairs just as they entered the front hall. “Good evening, Lord Manderlin, and welcome.”
“Duchess, it is a pleasure to see you again.” He bowed, and it was as if his awkward proposal had never occurred. Lord Manderlin turned to introduce the gentleman behind him. “May I present to you, Pierre Billaud.”
Monsieur Billaud moved forward, and Sophia stared unblinking at his handsome face. His eyes were dark, his hair and mustache even darker, and he had the look of a flirt.
He bowed his head and spoke with a thick French accent. “I am honored, Your Grace.”
She held out her hand and he kissed it. “
Merci, Monsieur Billaud. J’espère que votre voyage au Chateau de Wentworth sera très agréable
. ”
“Why, your French is excellent. I am certain I will enjoy my stay very much,
merci
. I hope I will not be intruding upon your… how do you say?… hospitality.”
“Don’t be silly. The more, the merrier.”
“The more the merrier,” Pierre repeated. “That must be an American expression. It is charming.
You
are charming, Your Grace.”
Sophia noticed Lord Manderlin stiffen at Pierre’s candid flattery, but it didn’t faze her. She grew up in Wisconsin, where the local blacksmith flirted good-naturedly with little girls and elderly women more than he flirted with his own wife.
She instructed the footman to show the gentlemen to their rooms, then went quickly to her own room to dress for dinner.
Wearing a dark crimson gown and a parure of matching rubies, Sophia entered the gilded drawing room. All the guests were assembled and conversing with one another; James was at the far end of the room, her mother-in-law was standing by the marble fireplace talking to Lord Manderlin, and Sophia felt a rush of nervousness overcome her.
She reminded herself of something Florence once told her—that American manners amused the Marlborough House Set, so she set out to be amusing.
She moved into the room and greeted Lord Whitby.
“Duchess, you look ravishing this evening.” He reached for her gloved hand to place a kiss upon her knuckles.
“Thank you, Edward. I hope you have settled in comfortably.”
“I have indeed. And yourself?”
“Me?” she replied with a laugh. “You forget that I live here.”
“But you haven’t lived here very long. No disappointments, I hope. No bouts of homesickness.”
“Of course not,” she answered smoothly. “I’m very happy here.”
He regarded her quizzically for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure you are. James is a good man, and no doubt he has done everything in his power to ensure your happiness. See to all your needs.”
A footman with a tray of champagne passed by, and feeling slightly knocked off-balance, Sophia seized the opportunity to reach for a glass and change the subject. They moved on to safer topics about the weather and the dinner menu.
A few minutes later, Pierre Billaud strolled in and stood in the doorway, assessing the crowd. Realizing he would be acquainted with no one, and happy to have a reason to excuse herself from Lord Whitby, Sophia went to lead Monsieur Billaud in and begin the introductions.
They made their way around the room. They finally reached Marion, who raised her spectacles to garner a better look at the handsome young Frenchman. With one glare at Sophia, she revealed her disapproval that someone new had been invited without her knowledge.
“Marion, may I present to you one of our guests, Pierre Billaud. He is visiting us from Paris.”
Marion accidentally dropped her spectacles. Sophia continued the introduction: “Monsieur Billaud, this is the Dowager Duchess of Wentworth.”
Marion was silent, then she grew pale and, without warning, collapsed in a heap of skirts and petticoats at Sophia’s feet.
James tried to bring his mother around by fanning her with a dinner menu, but it was the smelling salts that did it. Three vials appeared instantly under her nose from three nearby ladies.
Sophia knelt on the other side of his mother, and their guests stood over them with concerned expressions, whispering to each other.
“It’s the heat,” Marion explained as she started awake, her cheeks flushing with mortification. “Tell the footman to put out the fire! ”
James raised a finger at a footman. The next instant, the coals were hissing with smoke and steam.
“Are you all right, Mother?” James asked, helping her sit up.
She touched her cheek with a trembling hand. “I think I would like to go to my rooms.”
“I’ll take her,” James said to Sophia, as they helped her to her feet. “You stay and see to the guests.”
They moved slowly toward the door, his mother leaning heavily upon him. “I hope you’re not ill,” he said.
“I’m fine.”
As they turned toward the stairs, James glanced back into the drawing room and noticed Sophia speaking with a stranger. “Who is that man? The one with the dark hair and mustache?”
“I don’t know,” the dowager replied breathlessly. “He’s French. Someone your wife invited. Perhaps she met him when she went to Paris for her trousseau.”
James glanced back at them again and felt a knot form in his stomach.
His mother continued. “You of all people should know how she always introduces herself, and now she’s invited strangers to our house, James. It is time you spoke to her and prevailed upon her that her American ways will not do here. She is a duchess now, and she still goes around doing as she pleases, causing all kinds of problems you could not even begin to guess at. She doesn’t understand the significance of her rank or the importance of our traditions. You need to take a firmer hand with her.”
“Mother—”
She sighed. “Consider what your father would have done. He would never have permitted the situation to get so out of hand. I cannot imagine what would have occurred if I had taken the liberties Sophia has taken.”
James gazed icily at her. “May I remind you that I am not my father, nor do I ever wish to be. And you are no longer mistress of this house. Sophia is mistress now. She is my duchess, and
I will be the one to decide what courses to take with her.”
The dowager hobbled weakly down the hall beside him. “You have not changed, James. You still do everything you can to hurt me, don’t you?”
“Mother,” he said, stopping in the corridor, “Sophia has provided us all with a future, and I am not just referring to her father’s generous marriage settlement. She has entered into our family with high hopes and a kind heart, and the desire to do the very best she can, and I will no longer allow you to make what is already a difficult transition for her a harder one. Do you understand me?”
His mother glared at him with incredulity, then gathered her skirts and stormed off down the hall. James stood in silence, feeling acutely satisfied that he had spoken so candidly and truthfully to a woman whom he had rarely in his life spoken to at all.
He felt strangely connected to Sophia at that moment, as if they were on the same side together. As if they were a new contingent in this dark, cursed house.
Surprised by his change of heart, James backed up a few steps, then started toward the stairs. As he descended, he found himself staring through the open doors of the drawing room below, searching for Sophia. Wanting to see her face.
He spotted her. Smiling brightly, she was conversing with Whitby, then she turned to speak to the French gentleman.
James could not deny the discomfort he felt at seeing her speak to a man who had sent her three dozen red roses a few short months ago, a man who had been openly pursuing her with the goal of marriage. Then another man whom James himself knew nothing about.
She was glowing with cheerfulness and vitality as she always did when she spoke to people. Just like she had glowed for him when they’d first danced in that London ballroom. It was that very charm that had turned his head and sucked him in.
He reached the bottom step and walked toward the gathering. The image of her with the stranger—from France, of all places—brought a frown to James’s face, for he did not like being shut out or kept uninformed of things that pertained to his household or his wife.
Even more than that, he didn’t like the sharp, irritating—and irrational—sting of jealousy that was prickling at him now.
Marion passed through her bedchamber door and slammed it behind her. “Eve, I want tea. Go and see to it,” she said to her maid.
The woman hurried from the room.
Marion moved quickly to a chair, her hands still trembling from shock. Genevieve had sent Pierre
here
! How could she have done such a horrible, horrible thing after she’d been paid the sum she’d requested, and Marion had assured her there would indeed be more installments. Had Genevieve decided that money would not satisfy her need for vengeance? Would she attempt to take the dukedom as well?
Marion covered her face with her hands and contemplated what to do. Should she tell James?
No, she couldn’t possibly. If he knew, he would be furious with her for keeping the truth from him all his life. He might even allow the secret to get out, for he had never been one to care about scandals or what others thought of him.
Knowing how he felt about his ancestors, Marion couldn’t even be sure he would defend his peerage. He might simply say good-bye to it and sail off into the sunset with his rich, new American upstart wife.
And leave me to cope with the aftermath
.
That night, after all the guests had retired to their rooms, James picked up a candelabra and ventured into the hall. A strange and unfamiliar apprehension curled in his stomach, and though he had spent most of his life keeping emotions at bay, he recognized the cause of it. He was on his way to his wife’s bedchamber this evening, not to produce an heir, not even to satisfy his own lustful hunger for her, but to reassure himself that she belonged to him and no other.
He found her door and entered. Sophia was already in bed with the lamps out, and his appearance must have startled her. She sat up and hugged the covers to her chest. “James, what are you doing here?”
“Can’t a husband visit his wife when he feels the urge?”
She was quiet a moment. “Of course. Please come in. I… I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
She didn’t expect it, he thought, because this was the first time he had come to her two nights in a row. She had, like him, embraced the idea that their lovemaking was about duty and duty alone.
Good God. A week ago, he had believed that wholeheartedly, or at least he had believed that he was capable of
ensuring
it was based on duty. Now, he wasn’t quite so confident in that assumption. Somewhere between saying “I do” and watching Sophia talk to Whitby and that Frenchman tonight, his feelings had begun to change.
He moved fully into the room and set down the candles. “May I join you?”
She seemed almost confused by the request as she turned the covers back for him. James removed his robe and slipped into the cool sheets beside her. “You were an excellent hostess tonight.”
“Thanks to Lily. She’s been wonderful, James, helping me with the rules of precedence and so much more.”
James lay on his side with his cheek resting on his hand, facing Sophia. “I’m glad she’s been a friend to you.
“So am I. And she’s been confiding in me, James. I feel like we share a bond. I could not have hoped for a finer sister-in-law.”
He smoothed a lock of hair away from her face. “I’m glad.”
Glad that someone has been kind to you, when I have been absent
.
“Do you know,” Sophia said, “that Lily told me she once fancied Lord Whitby?”
James felt his brow furrow. “Whitby? Certainly not.”
James had known Whitby forever, and consequently, he had seen the earl at his worst. James was right alongside him for most of it, of course, but still, the memories lingered and it was hard to imagine Whitby being good for any woman, let alone James’s younger sister.
“She told me it was a girlish crush,” Sophia continued, “and that when the two of you were at school together, she thought his rebellious ways were rather exciting.”
“Now
that
doesn’t surprise me,” James said, amused. “Lily is a romantic, and I am now certain that she has inherited her father’s horrifically wild side.”
Sophia laughed. “How wild, exactly?”
James shrugged. A month ago, he would have avoided answering such a question. He would never have brought up the subject of his father in the first place, but Sophia already knew a part of what she had married into, and she had not, thank God, fled back to America. “My father married late, well into his thirties, so he had a number of years to adopt a rather scandalous manner of existence.”
Curiosity gleamed on Sophia’s face, so James continued. “He gambled and drank and frequented the worst establishments imaginable, and when my grandfather couldn’t stand to watch him behave in such ways, he sent him abroad to France to live with an old army companion. A man who was no doubt equally as strict as he. My father later returned to England and married my mother, and at least for a little while kept up appearances.”
“Lily told me he had a mistress.”
“Many, no doubt, but the one he kept the longest was from Paris—a woman he met there.”
The candles flickered in the night, and James admired Sophia’s creamy complexion as she lowered her gaze to her hands on her lap.
“Speaking of Paris,” James said, “who is Pierre Billaud? Is he someone you met while you were there?”
Sophia’s gaze shot to his face. “Someone
I
met? Good heavens, no. He is here with Lord Manderlin, who wrote to me a week ago to ask if he could bring a guest. Apparently, Monsieur Billaud is renting a cottage from him, and he’s here to travel and see England.”
“So you’ve only just met him?”
“Yes, today. Why? Did you really think he was a friend of mine?”
James realized at that uncomfortable moment how irrational he had been, jumping to conclusions, giving in to a ridiculous jealousy which had no foundation in reality. Surely his wife must be thinking the same thing. “I didn’t know one way or the other.”
