An Unlikely Duchess (29 page)

“What I should have done right at the start was tell her who I was. As soon as she told me she would be forced to marry the Duke of Mitford if she went back home, I should have told her who I was.”

“And of course the sight of me might merely serve to remind her of a week that I am sure she would as soon forget.”

“That was my first mistake. Of course, I made so many after that that there would be no point in even trying to count.”

“Perhaps I ought to have waited a little longer. Maybe until spring. don’t you think, Paul? Of course, by then someone else will probably have spoken for her.”

“Well, there is no point in sighing over the matter now, I suppose. What is done is done. I have told so many lies in the past few weeks, Tom, that the thought of them just about makes my hair stand on end.”

“I could say, I suppose, that I am merely accompanying you. I could be very casual and civil about the whole thing. Do you think I should?”

“She will kill me. That is an incontrovertible fact The method she will choose is the only mystery. I did contemplate bringing that suit of armor that stands in the hallway of my townhouse, you know, Tom. But I could not figure out how I was to climb in and out of the carriage with it on.”

Sir Thomas Burgess and the Duke of Mitford were seated side by side in the latter’s traveling carriage, holding a conversation that was more two parallel monologues than communication. They were on their way to Rutland Park.

“One advantage to traveling with a duke,” Sir Thomas said, withdrawing his attention from his own private thoughts for a moment, “is that one is accorded the best possible treatment.” He chuckled. “Did you notice how last night’s landlord kept bowing, Paul? I feared at one point that the poor man’s forehead was going to scrape the floor.”

Mitford grinned. “The same man seems to have forgotten that he allotted a box of a room with a cracked ceiling and pea-green wallpaper to a Mr. Paul Villiers just two weeks ago,” he said. “He showed not a glimmering of recognition last night, even though Mr. Villiers made a spectacle of himself by driving off with a young lady who had not arrived with him and who was loudly proclaiming that she was going in pursuit of her jewels.”

Sir Thomas chuckled again. “One would have expected the lady to be quite cowed after her brother caught up with her,” he said. “But not she. She kept insisting that she was not at all sorry she had gone after Porterhouse and that she would do so again the next day if the need arose. At least she did until Middleton took her aside for half an hour. After that she was quiet enough.”

The duke closed his eyes and shook his head. “She is not at all my kind of lady,” he said.

“For which I must be eternally grateful,” Sir Thomas said.

“She will turn my life upside down.”

“Yes, thank goodness.”

“She will make the most unlikely duchess in history.”

“Probably, yes.”

“She will embarrass me every day for the rest of my life.’’

“Undoubtedly.”

“Do you think there is any way I can persuade her to have me, Tom?”

“A tricky business,” Sir Thomas said. “She seems to have as much fondness for Villiers as she has an aversion to Mitford. Who are you going to be when you present yourself at Rutland Park?’’

“Oh, Lord,” Mitford said, “with my mother and my grandfather and all her relatives there in force, I don’t have much choice, do I? I’ll have to be Mitford.’ ’

“May the good Lord help you, then,” his friend said with a laugh.

“Thank you, Tom,” the duke said. “You realize, do you, that your own suit is likely to prosper better if mine does?”

Sir Thomas sobered instantly. “Do you think she will have me?” he said. “Not that I am intending to make her an offer so soon, of course. But will she welcome the acquaintance and be willing to continue it later?”

“I’m sorry,” Milford said, “I can’t help you, Tom. The only time I saw the girl was when she was bobbing curtsies and tripping all over herself to confirm my lie that her sister was nursing their aunt. She looked at the time as if her eyes were about to pop from her head.”

“She is the most beautiful creature I have ever set eyes on,” Sir Thomas said.

“Ah, well, then,” Mitford said, “undoubtedly she will not have anything to do with you, Tom. Perhaps one of the other sisters will do. There are two others, you know.” He laughed at his friend’s indignation.

They both resumed their mental contemplation of the unknown ordeals ahead.

Oh, Lord! Mama and Grandpapa insisting on preceding him into the country so that they would be on hand for the betrothal celebration, Mitford thought, it was enough to make him break into a cold sweat. He had told so many lies!

Miss Middleton had been called away from home to the sickbed of an aunt, he had reported. And yes, indeed, it sounded as if she must be all they had expected her to be. Her devotion to duty when it had meant postponing listening to such an advantageous marriage proposal was highly to be praised. A serious and demure young lady, without a doubt.

And yes, he had been received with courtesy, indeed with affection, by both the Earl of Rutland and Viscount Cheamley. Both had assured him that Miss Middleton was favorably disposed toward the match. All that remained to do was return to Rutland Park when Miss Middleton would be sure to have returned in order to make the offer official.

What bouncers! Josephine Middleton serious and demure? He doubted she knew the meaning of the words. Devoted to duty? Ha! Mama and Grandpapa would have an apoplexy apiece when they finally came to know her, as they surely would if she could be prevailed upon to have him.

Not, of course, that they would have to live with the hussy. That was to be his pleasure.

Angela knew the truth, at least. He had admitted to her that he had at least met Miss Middleton. She had looked pale, but pleased with herself on his return to town. As it had turned out, the lie to the Hennessys had not been such a big one, after all. Angela had given birth to a son the day before his arrival in London.

“Oh, Paul,” she had said, after showing off her child to him, “you need to be happy too. And you are doomed to become betrothed to a lady who deems it more proper and dutiful to tend a sick aunt than to listen to a marriage proposal. Oh, Paul!”

“Well,” he had said, “that is a bit of a white lie, you know, Angie. In fact, if the truth were known, it is a whole lot of a whopper of a black lie. She is about as improper and undutiful a hoyden as you seem to wish for me.”

Angela had looked distinctly interested. And then, of course, the whole truth had come out. The whole sordid, horrible truth.

She had been smiling radiantly by the time he had finished. “I am so glad,” she had said. “So very glad, Paul. You are going to have some of the happiness you deserve after all. She sounds quite delightful.”

“Angie?” he had said with a frown. “Have you been listening to a word I have said?”

“And you love her,” she had announced.

“Love her!” The Duke of Mitford had stood up and begun to pace the floor. “Love her, Angie? Are you mad? She is about as unlikely a duchess as I could possibly find.”

“Good,” she had said as if he had just declared undying affection for the lady in question. “Oh, good, Paul. I am so glad. I am so happy,” she had told the oblivious infant in her arms. “Uncle Paul is going to marry a most improper lady and a most unlikely duchess. Uncle Paul is going to be as happy as your mama, sweetheart.”

Not for the first time Mitford had wondered if he were the only sane mortal in the world, or if perhaps he were the only insane one and did not know it.

In love with Josephine Middleton, indeed.

“Do you think she will kill me, Tom?” he asked now. “Will she at least listen to me first, do you suppose? Oh, Lord, I am not looking forward to this at all, you know.”

***

Josephine did not like embroidering. Indeed, she liked it so little that she had refused to do any since she had left the schoolroom years before. But she was embroidering now—a cloth that Susanna had started earlier in the autumn and a cloth that the Countess of Newman had commended her on.

Josephine sat with her eyes lowered to her work and her mouth uncharacteristically closed and still. Grandpapa had advised her to speak as little as possible, and Papa had threatened her with dire consequences if she so much as hinted at the events of the past two weeks.

The Countess of Newman was, of course, just the sort of lady who always made Josephine feel tongue-tied. She was soft-spoken and dignified and very kindly. The perfect lady, in fact.

Susanna watched her sister and made an effort to take the burden of the conversation upon herself. Just the three of them were in the salon together, Penny and Gussie having been judged too young to be present Susanna was glad of the distraction to her mind. Very glad. The Duke of Mitford had arrived more than an hour before.

And with him was his friend, Sir Thomas Burgess.

The latter had come, of course, only because he was his grace’s friend. She had known that. It was perfectly natural that his grace should bring a friend with him on such a long journey. She must not refine upon the matter at all. Neither she nor Jo had set eyes on either gentleman.

But Susanna jumped anyway and her heart began to thump painfully when the door opened to admit the butler. It would be Jo’s summons to wait upon Papa. Poor Jo!

But it was not for Jo at all that the butler had come. It was for her. She was the one asked to step downstairs to the library.

Susanna patted her hair with shaking hands as she descended the stairs, mid smoothed out the folds of her gown. She wished now that she had changed into something more becoming. But she had been afraid that to do so would be to tempt fate.

And of course, when she entered the library it would be to find that Papa had some perfectly ordinary errand to send her on. Or perhaps one of the Winthrops had arrived to take her walking. Not that they would come today. They knew that the Duke of Mitford was coming.

Susanna curtsied as soon as she entered the library. His grace was standing in front of the fire, his hands behind his back.

Perhaps it was only the firelight behind him that made him look very pale. He certainly did not look particularly arrogant, Susanna thought, furiously trying to fill her thoughts with something. And they had only Mr. Porterhouse’s word that he was arrogant. Susanna thought he looked rather nice. Perhaps Jo would grow to like him. There was another gentleman standing by the window. She did not turn her head to see who he was. Grandpapa was sitting by the fire, Lord Ainsbury at the other side. Papa was at his desk.

“Here is a gentleman of your acquaintance, Sukey, come to inquire about your health,” the viscount said.

Susanna curtsied in the direction of the window without raising her eyes.

“I have said he might take you walking on the terrace, child,” her father said, “it being a pleasant day, even if there is a brisk breeze. I have sent a maid for your cloak.”

“Yes, Papa,” Susanna said.

“If you wish to walk, of course,” Sir Thomas said.

“Oh, yes,” she said, bobbing another curtsy and feeling remarkably foolish for doing so. “That would be very pleasant, sir.”

“I will send for Josephine, your grace,” the viscount said as Sir Thomas stepped forward and offered Susanna his arm. “You may speak to her in here. The rest of us will retire to the billiard room.”

“And not even set our ears to the panel, boy,” Lord Ainsbury said with a hearty laugh.

“Though you must not keep us in suspense beyond the half-hour,” the Earl of Rutland added with a chuckle.

Susanna did not even notice his grace turn one shade paler.

“May I hope that you are none the worse for your ordeal?” Sir Thomas asked as he placed Susanna’s cloak about her shoulders.

“Oh, no, I thank you,” she said. “We found Jo and all arrived home safe and sound. That is all that matters.”

“I have been afraid that you would be troubled with bad dreams,” he said.

“Oh, no.” Susanna risked her first peep up at him as they stepped outside onto the terrace. “I am not given to bad dreams, sir. I really came to no harm at all. And what did happen was a result of my own foolishness.”

“I would say it was a result of your fondness for your sister, ” he said.

“Jo is so very impulsive,” she said. “Sometimes I worry about her.” They walked in silence for a few moments.

“I hope you do not think it presumptuous of me to appear here like this,” he said, “and to ask your father if I might walk with you.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I am honored, sir.”

“Are you?” he said. “You were not hoping last week when we parted that you had seen the last of me?”

Susanna swallowed, “No,” she said.

“Dare I hope that you were expecting me?” he asked.

“Oh,” she said hastily, “I was not expecting you, sir.” She flushed hotly. “That would have been presumptuous.”

“Miss Middleton,” he said in a rush, “I have scarce thought of anyone else since I first set eyes on you outside the Swan Inn.”

“Oh,” she said.

“And is that not foolish?” he said. “I must be ten years your senior. I must appear as an old man to you. I am seven-and- twenty.”

“Oh,” she said, raising her eyes to his again. “I am eighteen, sir. I believe I look young for my age.”

“Nine years, then,” he said. “It is a large gap in age.”

Susanna said nothing.

“Is it too large?” he asked.

Susanna bit her lip and regarded the ground before her feet. “If I were to ask your father if I might court you,” he said, “would you be horrified? Disgusted?”

“No!” she said, and this time she raised large eyes to his and kept them there. “No, of course, I would not. Are you going to ask Papa?”

“May I?” he said, taking the hand that had been resting on his arm and raising it to his lips. “Do you wish me to?”

“Yes,” she said, flushing again. “If you wish to, of course, sir.”

Sir Thomas grinned suddenly. “I am terrified, you know,” he said. “I have never done this before. And if your father favors my suit, for how long will you expect me to court you, Miss Middleton? For a year? Six months? Three? When will you be ready for me to ask for your hand?”