To Marry The Duke (6 page)

“I told him in confidence, and he’s a gentleman after all.”

Sophia shook her head in disbelief. “I’m going to my bedchamber.”

She was at the drawing room door when her mother called out, “But dear, aren’t you happy about the duke?”

Sophia hesitated, then turned back to kiss her mother on the cheek, for she knew there was no point in punishing her further. She knew she had made a mistake and would probably lose sleep about it tonight. She was a good, kind woman and a loving mother. She simply lacked verbal discipline.

If that was the worst of her mother’s character flaws, Sophia should think of her own mother’s mother—who sold half her children to buy whiskey after her husband left her—and count herself lucky.

As for her being happy about the duke?

She wouldn’t call it “happy.” It was something else—something altogether different. Sophia had best be careful.

The liveried footman opened the coach door for James, then closed it when he was seated comfortably inside. Before the horses had a chance to move, however, a frantic knock sounded at the door. Whitby’s face loomed in the window, his breath coming in rapid little puffs, fogging up the glass.

“Wait, driver!” James called out, then leaned forward to flick the latch.

“Give me a lift to Green Street?” Whitby asked.

James felt an unorthodox desire to hesitate, but swept it aside and invited his school chum in. Soon they were sitting opposite each other in silence while the carriage wheels rattled down the cobbled street.

“So you’ve changed your mind then?” Whitby asked.

“About what?” James replied coolly, though he knew exactly what Whitby was speaking of.

“About the heiress. You said you weren’t interested.”

James heard the animosity in Whitby’s voice, saw it in the set of his jaw, but he kept his own voice calm and detached. “I don’t recall having set my mind to anything at all.”

“You said you weren’t declaring anything.”

“Precisely. So what are you getting at, Whitby?”

The coach bumped and Whitby shifted in his seat. “I would like you to know that I have declared to Mrs. Wilson an interest in her daughter, and she has given me some encouragement.”

James squeezed the ivory handle of his walking stick. “Who has? Mrs. Wilson or her daughter?”

“
Mrs
. Wilson, of course,” Whitby replied. “Though the young miss has been singularly forward and friendly and full of smiles on every occasion of our meeting during the past week.”

“I believe that is the natural disposition of these American girls,” James added with bite. Good God, he was sounding jealous. He quickly recovered his aplomb. “Have you proposed?”

“Well, not exactly. Mrs. Wilson informed me that a proposal at this stage would be a mistake, that Miss Wilson is determined to be courted properly before any disclosures of affection are made.”

“Courted properly?” James raised an eyebrow. “How thoroughly American.”

Whitby’s shoulders rose and fell with frustration, and James guessed that his friend was working hard to control his rancor.

“I didn’t think you wanted to get married,” Whitby said.

Now he was sounding desperate. James hated this. He should just reassure Whitby that he had no intentions to propose to the girl and let it end at that.

“Did she tell you the amount?” Whitby asked.

The
amount
? Suddenly it was James’s turn to feel agitated. “I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Whitby.”

“The amount of her dowry. Is that why you changed your mind?”

“I didn’t change my mind about anything.”

“But did Mrs. Wilson tell you?”

James took a deep breath. “Tell me about her daughter’s dowry? Good Lord!” He laughed. “The call was not quite so engaging as that. All we talked about was the bloody weather.”

“Oh, well… good then.” Whitby was quiet a moment, staring out the window and looking quite full of relief.

James on the other hand, was beginning to feel tense.

“You actually discussed that? With Mrs. Wilson?” he said with disbelief. “The daughter wasn’t present, was she?”

“Good heavens, no. She entered the room later. But I suppose you never know with these Americans.”

They drove on a little farther, and James’s damned irritating curiosity was beginning to poke at him. He found himself coming up with excuses for why Mrs. Wilson hadn’t told
him
about the dowry. It couldn’t be that she preferred Whitby. She was peer-hunting after all. She must understand how the aristocracy worked, and know that James was the highest-ranking peer. The countess would certainly know it.

On the other hand, perhaps it had nothing to do with what the mother wanted. Perhaps she knew that her daughter fancied Whitby over James—no matter that James was a duke—and she was aiming at a love match.

The degree of his annoyance at that prospect—that Miss Wilson fancied Whitby—was most unsettling.

“It’s an odd business, really,” Whitby said, gazing off into space, “that the father should have to pay five hundred thousand pounds to marry off such a beautiful daughter. If she’d been born as one of us with a face like that, it probably wouldn’t cost him a bloody farthing. That’s the price of being American, I suppose, and wanting to be part of the Old World. We live in strange times, don’t you think, James?”

Five hundred thousand pounds
? James digested the amount and slowly blinked.

The carriage pulled to a stop on Green Street, and Whitby waited for the footman to open the door. In those brief, floating seconds while James tried to conceive of five hundred thousand pounds in one lump sum, Whitby glared at him.

“James, I hope you don’t intend to come between me and what I saw first. If you do, I assure you—you will live to regret it.” His angry retort hardened his features.

James felt his blood begin to simmer. “You of all people, Whitby, should know I don’t respond well to threats.”

Whitby curtly thanked him for the ride and stepped out.

A moment later the carriage was on its way again, rolling down Green Street, and James had to work hard to control his fury, for he did not appreciate intimidation tactics. Not from a friend, not from anyone.

He felt the muscles in his jaw clench as he rationalized what had just happened. Just because the earl called on the countess a half hour earlier than James didn’t give him any prior claim to anything. It could have been the damned traffic that let him get there first. Whitby knew that James was expected to take a wife— he had even tried to talk him into it—and the heiress, as yet, was unspoken for.

Five hundred thousand pounds! In light of the state of James’s finances, he suddenly wondered if ignoring a sum like that would be bordering on negligence. Wouldn’t it be a disservice to his family to resist the heiress because there was simply a
possibility
that he would become like his father? Surely he was stronger than that. He was capable of fighting whatever base instincts he might have in the future; he was sensible enough to see it coming and thwart it. Wasn’t he? For pity’s sake, he’d spent his whole life training himself to control his passions.

James decided to view the present situation with logic and rationale from now on. This opportunity was presenting itself almost shamelessly. One could even call it farcical. Fate was dangling the heiress in front of his nose like a solid gold carrot, baiting him with her beauty and her money. Yes, it was time James reached out and took a bite of that carrot. He was prepared for this. He’d learned to have self-control. He was disciplined. Passionless when he wanted to be.

Perhaps there was a reason for all that training after all. Now it would be tested by the beautiful, bewitching American heiress. For if he was going to secure that dowry, he was going to have to seduce her.

Chapter 4

Of course it was the money, James said to himself as his valet dressed him for the Berkley assembly. Learning that the heiress was worth five hundred thousand pounds had changed everything. He now had to think of the ducal estate and his tenants and Martin, who should study at Oxford when the time came, and Lily, who was out this year and would one day require a dowry of her own. At the moment, thanks to their father’s careless living, there was nothing to offer a suitor—not a single farthing—and James knew that he had to turn this unpleasant idea of a wife into a business decision or risk losing more than just the French tapestries.

He also had to put aside his preference for the idea of a quiet, plain English wife, for one usually didn’t come with five hundred thousand pounds in her trousseau.

His valet held out his black jacket and James slipped his arms into it. Perhaps it was better this way, he thought. Knowing that the task was merely a matter of commerce eased his mind. He needn’t worry that he was attending this assembly tonight because he was infatuated. Which he was not, and did not ever wish to be. Yes, he found Miss Wilson attractive—what man wouldn’t?—but before he’d had that unpleasant conversation with Whitby, he hadn’t the slightest intention of actually following through with a marriage proposal, to her or anyone else for that matter. For that reason, he could rest assured that he was still as levelheaded as ever.

An hour later, he was strolling into Berkley House. He walked into the crowded drawing room and conversed with the aging Marquess of Bretford. Perhaps this dowry-quest would turn out to be a bit of an adventure, he thought. Life had become monotonous lately, when all he ever thought about were bills and rising expenses and long lists of repairs.

It did not take him long to ascertain that she was here. She and her mother and the countess. All making their way around the room, flashing their jewels, charming the gentlemen and measuring said gentlemen’s ranks, and planting their feminine seeds of success. What a transparent game it was. But who was he to criticize, when he was about to join in and outdo them all?

Sophia spotted the duke the exact moment he walked in the door, dressed in the appropriate black-and-white formal attire—the same as every other man, but looking ten times as imposing.

The black silk coat with tails emphasized his broad shoulders and narrow waist, and the contrast of his white shirt and white waistcoat against his midnight black hair sent her stomach into a heated, swift flip. She had not expected him to come. The countess had mentioned in the carriage that he never went out two nights in a row, let alone three. No doubt, this irregular appearance on his part would throw Florence and her mother into a wild frenzy of high hopes and calculations before the night was out.

To be honest, it had thrown Sophia herself into her own little frenzy of hopes. Hopes that she would speak to him tonight, if for no other reason than to reassure herself that she was still in control of her senses. Anything she might have felt for him in the past twenty-four hours was mostly about curiosity, for she had never in her life encountered anyone quite like the duke.

Was this imprudent of her? she wondered with some concern. To allow this curiosity to affect her so? She wouldn’t get carried away by that charm, would she? She often heard that love was blind, and she could guess that this was how it started.

She watched the duke greet the other guests and meander around the room. With grace and confidence, he engaged in conversation and laughter. A few times, he glanced in Sophia’s direction, and each time their eyes met, her heart quickened in response to his smoldering gaze, his darkly handsome face. He would smile briefly, then look away. She would do the same, wondering with some unease if he had somehow learned about her exact worth, as it must surely be all over fashionable London by now.

“Miss Wilson, what a pleasure it is to see you here this evening,” the Earl of Whitby said, appearing beside her.

She turned to face him. “Hello, Lord Whitby. You’re looking well.”

“I believe it is the fresh spring air. It does wonders for the disposition.”

They spoke of other things for a few minutes, nothing of any great importance, then the earl clasped his hands behind his back and gazed intently into Sophia’s eyes. “Perhaps you would like to take a walk with me through Hyde Park one day this week? I would be pleased if your charming mother and the countess accompanied us, of course.”

Sophia smiled. “I would be delighted, my lord.”

“Wednesday?”

“Wednesday would be lovely,” she replied. “Oh, I see Miss Hunt, of the Connecticut Hunts. Will you excuse me?”

He made a slight bow and stepped away, and Sophia spoke with a woman she had met at an assembly earlier that week. After a brief dialogue with her American acquaintance, Sophia caught the duke’s eye, and as if with the common objective to speak to each other, she and the duke met in the middle of the room.

“Your Grace, what a pleasure.”

His smile was seductive and heart-stopping, aimed at her and her alone, and she struggled to remember the necessity of caution.

“You look charming this evening, Miss Wilson. Exquisite, in fact.” His gaze swept aggressively down the full length of her gown. She should have been insulted by such audacity, but instead, she was thrilled by it. Thrilled by the base wickedness.

“Thank you. You are most kind to say so. Have you been enjoying yourself this evening?”

“More and more with each passing minute. And yourself?”

There was a fluttering in the pit of her stomach. “Yes, more and more.”

The way he was looking at her with such sexual intensity—it was almost frightening. Frightening because it made her feel weak and clumsy and deficient of sound reasoning. Those swooping butterflies were back. She wished she could control them.

“Have you had the pleasure of hearing Madame Dutetre since you’ve been in London?” he asked.

“No, I have not heard her perform. I will look forward to it. Will you stay?”

“Of course. It’s why I came. Well,
one
of the reasons why I came.”

With the riveting look he gave her, she couldn’t miss his meaning—that he had come to see
her
.

She was feeling more and more alive by the minute.

“Would you care to look at the art in the gallery?” he asked. “I believe there has been a steady stream of admirers all evening.”

He offered his arm and she accepted it. Together they proceeded through the adjoining drawing room and into the large, long gallery where couples slowly made their way down the length of it to admire the art. Because the room was so large, there was more space between guests and as a result more privacy. It was respectable of course, but intimately secluded at the same time.

Sophia and the duke moved at ease along the wall, looking up at the large family portraits and admiring the busts placed intermittently between chairs and potted palms. Farther down, they came to great works of art—a Titian, a Giorgione, a Correggio. His Grace was knowledgeable and full of information, and their conversation never faltered or grew forced or tedious. He was indeed an intelligent man beneath the mountain of physical allure.

“May I ask what you think of London so far?” the duke asked, stopping to pause in front of another family portrait.

“I am in awe. To be honest, I can barely believe I am here. I look around me, and I see centuries of life and love and war and art. You have so much history, and you place such a beautiful value on it. I would like to learn more about it—to see it from inside the very heart of it.”

“That could be arranged.”

She gazed into his eyes, searching for that devilish quality she’d been so wary of. Strangely, at this moment, she could see nothing but a genuine interest in her, and a sincere hope that she would enjoy London while she was here.

Was she being naive now, to allow herself to feel more comfortable with him because he was asking polite questions? Or had she misjudged him before and put too much faith in the drawing room gossip?

They strolled to another painting.

“What about the society?” he asked, studying her eyes as if fishing for something. “It must seem a great labyrinth for you.”

She looked up at the top of the portrait—at the coronet upon the nobleman’s head. “Rest assured, Your Grace, American society is equally as mystifying. We call ourselves a classless society, but we are far from it. In a country without titled nobility, people are ambitious. They want to better their situations and rise to the top, and rarely do their manners keep up with their wealth. Sometimes I think that certain rules of etiquette were invented just to make the barriers more visible and more difficult to circumvent, for we do not have aristocratic rank to make the lines clear.”

“My apologies,” he said, looking up at the coronet also. “I didn’t mean to insinuate that society in your country is simple, on any account. I only meant to say that I,
myself
, find London society like a labyrinth on some occasions, and I had the benefit of being born and raised here.”

She recognized what he was doing. He was trying to assure her that she was not an imbecile, that if she made the occasional social blunder, it was quite understandable. A tingle of appreciation moved through her.

They wandered along to the next work of art. “No offense taken,” Sophia replied. “And I apologize for speaking so out of turn. I am grateful for your openness with me, Your Grace. It is the thing I find most difficult here.”

“Openness?” He sounded surprised.

“Yes. Or the lack of it. I haven’t been able to really talk to anyone or get to know them. The conversation is always so light, and I get my hand slapped for asking personal questions.”

“Like Whitby the other night. I do apologize for that.”

She smiled appreciatively and moved on. “I have two sisters.” She knew she was leaping upon the very conversational topics she’d been instructed to avoid, but she didn’t care. She wanted to show a little of herself to the duke. A little of the
real
Sophia Wilson. “I miss them very much. I long for our carefree talks and easy laughter. We tell each other everything.”