Never Doubt a Duke Read online

  She went over what she’d learned about him in case it might enter the conversation. The widowed duchess still lived and was in residence at Shewsbury Park. The old duke’s eldest son and heir, Michael, had died from consumption a year or two before the duke; and Shewsbury’s much younger brother, Lord Jason Glazebrook, had married Lady Beverly last year.

  The footman opened the door for Nellie and Marian. Surrounded by guests, Shewsbury stood near the fireplace at the far end of the long drawing room her mother had recently repainted porphyry pink, to set off the white columns and the carpet.

  Nellie had to agree with her sister’s assessment. He was elegantly but appropriately dressed for a country drawing room. He was undeniably attractive, his well-built frame set off by the excellent tailoring of his blue tailcoat, his muscular legs encased in light-colored pantaloons. She couldn’t find fault with his appearance at least, for everything about him, from the simply tied knot of his cravat to the discreet gold fob and seal that decorated his blue and cream-striped waistcoat, was tasteful and restrained.

  “He is worth looking at, I must say.” Marian murmured.

  Her sister sounded impressed, and it was not easy to impress Marian without first engaging her in conversation.

  They had hesitated near the door. It seemed bad manners to wander over to him. “I wish Papa would introduce us. I want to get this over with.”

  “Get what over with? You are to marry him, aren’t you?”

  “He might plan to back out.” But she didn’t really believe he would. The fact that he had come had probably sealed both their fates.

  When His Grace’s frankly appraising gaze rested on Nellie, she grew nervous, unsure what his look had meant.

  He turned back to speak to her father.

  She stood upright, waiting for Papa to finish introducing the duke to their friends and neighbors.

  Shewsbury hadn’t glanced at her again after that first swift appraisal. “He doesn’t want this marriage any more than I do,” Nellie said in an undertone to Marian.

  The house party was arranged for them to get to know each other. Even this early in the proceedings, she feared it wouldn’t go well. Everyone knew, of course. All the guests were glancing toward her.

  “Nonsense, Nellie, you always tend to see the worst in every situation. In time, he is sure to love you,” her loyal sister said. “How could he not?”

  Nellie fondly squeezed her sister’s arm. “I hope we can at least be civil to each other. But there’s quite a lot about him I dislike already. Still, if he doesn’t ask me to marry him, it won’t be the end of the world, will it?” There were few men who liked a bookish female. It was almost as bad as having smallpox scars.

  Kealan Walsh had. He’d composed a poem to her eyes in iambic pentameter. Violet pools of mystery. Although she doubted there was much that mysterious about her, she had enjoyed his attention, his declarations of undying love. She’d fancied herself in love with him, too. And she had enjoyed the picture he painted of their life together at the time. A poet’s wife, assisting him with his work, had been very appealing.

  There would be no such discussions of poetry with Shewsbury. Nellie felt frustrated with the duke already, even though, to be fair, he had yet to speak to her, let alone censure her.

  Marian laughed. “How can you be sure he won’t come to love you. It took weeks for Gerald to show much interest, and another two months before he declared his love and proposed to me.”

  “Mmm… still,” Nellie said. “Surely a man would prefer to choose his bride, not have one thrust upon him.” And she wished to do the same. What common ground could she find with a duke who could add up long lists of numbers without an abacus and spent his time boxing and fencing? She had no interest in any sporting activity, except for riding, and shuttlecock, perhaps. She couldn’t imagine him on the other side of the net. It seemed too tame a sport. Her face burned. She wished she had her fan. How she abhorred being on display for the consideration of His Grace, like a horse at Tattersall’s auction.

  “Father is bringing him to you,” Marian said in a solemn tone as if announcing a funeral cortege.

  With a broad smile, their father paused to introduce His Grace to another guest, then advanced almost regally over the swirled patterned rose and gold carpet, to where she and Marian stood.

  Papa had talked of this proposed union as if it had been decreed by the gods on Mount Olympus. He and the old duke had planned the joining of their families years ago. She suspected their agreement had been nothing short of a blood pact, which brought home to her with force that, except for dying, she would not escape marriage to Shewsbury. Unless he backed out of it. Now that his father was dead, he might. Her breath hitched. Papa would be crushed. She wondered again why it mattered so much to him, as it had never been properly explained to her.

  “Chin up, Nellie girl.” Marian murmured close to her ear.

  “This dress is too formal. As if I’m trying too hard. I should have worn the embroidered muslin,” Nellie whispered back, surprised that she cared at all what this man thought of her.

  “It’s perfect, the violet tones compliment your eyes.”

  A maid entered the room. “Lady Belfries, Nanny urgently requests a moment of your time in the nursery.” Marian gave Nellie’s arm a discreet squeeze and hurried away to attend to her unholy terror, two-year-old son, Frederick.

  Abandoned, Nellie stood still, her hands clasped together, aware that the hum of conversation had quietened.

  Her father and the duke stood before her. Papa seemed to have shrunk and begun to look old, his hair almost completely gray, she realized with a pang. Perhaps it was because he stood beside the duke, who was so vitally alive. “My dear, I am delighted to introduce His Grace, Duke of Shewsbury. Your Grace, my second-eldest daughter, Lady Cornelia.”

  The duke bowed. “Delighted to meet you at last, Lady Cornelia.”

  His voice held her attention, deep and composed.

  “How do you do, Your Grace.” Close up, the expression on his lean, aristocratic face didn’t look especially haughty, but nor did he look overeager to meet her.

  Nellie rose from her curtsey and could not banish the thought of the duke’s handsome features, especially his attractive mouth. He exuded a sense of calm authority. It seemed at odds with the description of him in the newspaper article attacking a journalist. His serious, blue gaze roamed her face. Did he hope for someone more girlish? She was hardly a young debutant after two unsuccessful Seasons when she’d failed to find anyone she wished to marry.

  “It was most unfortunate when our youngest sister, Alice, came down with the measles,” she blurted, hating how awkward she felt. “It spread through the family and staff and condemned us all to the country until after Christmas.”

  “I hope your sister and those afflicted have recovered?”

  “Oh, yes, everyone is in good health now, thank you. I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous?”

  “Not at all. I took the opportunity to visit a livestock market. There’s a hardy breed of sheep to be found in this part of the country, Herdwicks, which I plan to introduce into my flock. It proved quite a successful venture. I purchased a ram.”

  “How fascinating.” Perhaps he was here for his flock and not her?

  He raised his black brows. “You have an interest in sheep?”

  Dismayed to be caught flatfooted, she nodded. “Of course. Where would we be without them?”

  She was sure she caught a glimmer of amusement in the duke’s eyes.

  At her father’s frown, Nellie hurried on, “As this is sheep country, you’ve certainly come to the right place. There’s a county show held in May.” The particular reason which brought him here hovered unsaid between them.

  “I will be sure to add it to my diary for next year,” he said politely.

  Suspecting he was merely patronizing her, a prickle of heat rushed up her neck.

  “I hope you will join us tomorrow, Your Grace,” her
father said. “After breakfast, my guests and I plan to bag a few birds for Saturday’s dinner.”

  “I should be delighted.”

  Nellie was relieved to avoid further scrutiny. Her father and the duke were now discussing guns and the killing of innocent wildlife. Something she’d always hated. The sound of guns booming through the woods made her cringe.

  “Now, Nellie, I know you don’t approve.” Papa cast her an affectionate smile. “My daughter doesn’t care for hunting, Your Grace. But what member of the gentler sex does.”

  The duke didn’t comment, but she was sure he could name many women who did. She knew one or two herself.

  Hinckley appeared at her father’s elbow. “Her ladyship is arranging tea and a game of loo for the ladies in the parlor. Cards for the gentlemen are in the library, milord.”

  “Ah, yes, Hinckley. Perhaps you’ll join us, Your Grace? After you’ve removed the travel dust from your journey.”

  “I will. Thank you,” His Grace murmured. His gaze rested on her overlong. It made her take a steadying breath.

  Nellie snatched her chance. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I promised to help my mother.”

  “But of course.” Shewsbury bowed.

  “You can show His Grace over the estate after luncheon,” her father said before she could beat a cowardly retreat. “As he has told me he wishes to see more of it.” He frowned at her over his shoulder as he turned to order a footman to escort the duke to his suite.

  Nellie escaped into the passage. A quick glance told her Shewsbury had turned to watch her as he followed the footman from the room. Was he thinking she wouldn’t suit? And what did she make of him? He’d given away nothing of himself. Apart from that slight look of amusement, which might have meant he mocked her, he had been quite formal and rather serious. She was sure they would bore each other to death.

  “Well, how was it?” Marian asked, waylaying her on the landing. “I shall be seated next to him at the table. Conversation at dinner is always helpful when assessing a man’s character.”

  “A lot of good it will do me, but please do. Papa wishes me to show the duke around this afternoon. I imagine we’ll ride to the pastures to view the sheep.”

  Marian giggled. “I can think of better things to do in a pasture.”

  Nellie frowned at her. “He is sure to make his excuses and leave. He won’t even stay to dine, let alone spend another two days here.”

  “There you go again.” Marian tutted. “I’ll wager my coral-beaded reticule, which you admire so much, against the shawl with the silk fringe you bought in Piccadilly last year, that he will not only be here at dinner, but he will stay until Monday.”

  “It’s a bet,” Nellie said, not entirely sure whether she wanted him to stay or not.

  “You’re lucky he’s good looking. He might have resembled the Duke of Culchester with a paunch and three chins,” Marian said before she hurried back to her recalcitrant son.

  “Well, looks aren’t everything,” Nellie called after her. She must read up on Herdwicks before she and the duke rode this afternoon. It would be something to talk about, but even if she studied the subject, she feared her contribution would dry up in a matter of minutes.

  She hurried to her bedchamber to tidy her hair. Dear heaven. Was he a rake and a bad-tempered bully, as those newspaper items Marian found had suggested? If she disliked him, it might be wiser to discourage him. But if she did, would Papa ever speak to her again?

  *

  Even during the journey to Cumbria in the ducal coach, Charles had been in two minds as to what to do concerning Dountry’s daughter. His brother, Jason, had told him the little he knew about Lady Cornelia. The lady was a bluestocking by all accounts, favoring the company of poets, and had been often seen in the company of Walsh, an Irishman. That alone gave him pause. Charles had made inquiries. The fellow was now in Ireland. So nothing had come of their relationship.

  His marriage to Lady Cornelia had been arranged by his father and Dountry. The joining of the two families having been decreed long before any progeny had been born. The lineage was all Charles heard in his father’s last two years on this earth. After his elder brother, Michael, died, it had taken on even greater importance. Charles struggled to adopt the same heartfelt belief. For when men died young or lived a mere threescore years and ten, what did it really matter in the scheme of things?

  Charles had been heartsick at his brother’s death, followed so quickly by that of his beloved father. For the years prior, Charles had envisaged himself never marrying, engaging a succession of attractive mistresses, and involving himself in his estates and the House of Lords. And it was not until his younger brother, Jason, fell in love and married that Charles had begun to hope he, too, might find a degree of contentment within marriage. Not love, for he would never risk his heart again.

  Charles’s mood lifted when he’d met the gaze of the tall blonde woman in violet-gray across the Dountry’s drawing room. While he was engaged in conversation with Dountry, one half of his mind questioned if she might be his intended. The weekend would prove to be difficult if she were not, for in his estimation, she eclipsed every other woman in the room.

  He chose not to look her way again, while keenly waiting for her long-winded father to introduce them. Then, when he finally met her, she fulfilled his expectations. She was not one of those insipid debutantes found in London during the Season who giggled a lot. Although not a beauty in the classical sense, Lady Cornelia was unusual and undeniably attractive. He likened her to a mythical woman, statuesque, a long graceful neck revealed by upswept hair of honey-gold, and eyes that reminded him of violets in the misty woods at Shewsbury.

  He discarded his initial plan to cry off, compelled to discover more about her. She intrigued him. He’d expected to be feted, for her to greet him with flirtatious eagerness, and was relieved when she did not.

  Charles had never envied Michael, nor wished to be duke, and as a second son, had not been groomed for the role. Nor was he prepared to turn his life upside down. His future wife must understand that. While he knew he must expect a certain amount of pomp and ceremony and had far more responsibilities and duties to perform, he had kept his friends and lived in the manner which suited him. And that meant retiring to the country whenever he could, where he involved himself in the running of his estates and saw to the needs of his people.

  After luncheon, which was an informal buffet where he could only view his intended from afar, he retired to his suite where his valet buffed a pair of riding boots with his own special polish until they shone like mirrors. Charles’s brown coat and riding breeches had been laid out in readiness.

  Once his valet had run the brush over Charles’s shoulders, he sat and put up his foot. “Are they looking after you in the servants’ hall, Feeley?”

  “Aye, that they are, thank you, Your Grace.” Feeley pushed the boot up Charles’s leg. “A pretty young maid will soon have me needs in hand.”

  Charles eyed his Irish valet, his one claim to disorder in his life, and he rather enjoyed him. Feeley could charm the clothes off any wench he fancied and often did. “None of that here, Feeley, if you please. I don’t want any embarrassing issues to arise with my prospective in-laws.” He paused.

  After three days spent in the lady’s company, he would be better able to judge if they would suit. His father had taught him that nothing should ever be undertaken without serious consideration. Charles heaved a sigh. His father hadn’t been thinking clearly during the last year of his illness. Had he not considered Charles’s sentiments as death grew closer?

  Feeley slid the other boot over Charles’s stockinged foot. “If you wish, Your Grace,” he said, sounding regretful.

  “I do, Feeley.”

  He cast a sly glance at Charles. “Then we’ll be stayin’ ’til Monday?”

  “We will.” Charles stood and reached for his hat. The man was incorrigible but entertaining and a damn good valet. He had engaged Feeley when
he was a mere second son and saw no reason to replace him with one of those top-lofty valets his friends seemed to rely on. “Find something innocuous to do in your free time, which will not set the household on its ear.”

  He walked downstairs, hat and crop in hand, and found Lady Cornelia waiting for him, walking up and down the terrace. The sight of her pulled him up. His first instincts about her were correct. She looked edgy and not at all happy to see him.

  She greeted him briskly as she pulled on leather gloves. “It looks like rain, Your Grace.”

  He studied the wide expanse of blue sky. Only a few dark clouds lurked on the horizon. He tucked his crop beneath an arm and settled his hat on his head. “Quite a distance away.”

  “But driven by a strong wind. The weather here can be changeable. It rains a lot.”

  He raised his brows. “One might think you don’t wish for my company, Lady Cornelia.”

  “I merely don’t wish us to get wet, Your Grace,” she demurred, the tips of her ears pink.

  “I doubt it will bring on an inflammation of the lungs,” he said, smiling. “Unless, of course, you are prone to illness?”

  “I am not. Which part of the estate do you wish to see?” She ran lightly down the terrace steps to the lawn.

  Lady Cornelia set off, and he strode after her. Her coltish stride carried her along at a fair pace. As if she wanted to escape him. But he was taller and easily kept up with her. “Where do you have in mind?”

  “There are sheep in the eastern pasture. We’ll take the bridle path.”

  Sheep? Was that irony he detected? As they strolled through the gardens, he studied her profile beneath her black riding hat: an elegant nose, a rounded chin, and wide mouth, her full lips firmly pressed together. Her figure, curvaceous in the tailored, rust-colored habit. Good child-bearing hips, his father would have said. When she finally deigned to look at him, Charles averted his gaze from the pleasing curve of her bosom. “I have many interests apart from sheep.” He’d begun to wonder if she was determined to rebuff him. Should he back off now before this went any further? “And your interests, Lady Cornelia, what are they?”