An Unwilling Bride (The Company of Rogues #2)
Chapter 1
“Hell and damnation.”
The words were muttered rather than shouted but were sufficiently shocking to cause Gerald Westall, secretary to William de Vaux, Duke of Belcraven, to look over at his employer.
The duke sat behind his massive, carved desk attending to the day’s correspondence.
His spectacles, only ever used for reading, were perched on his long straight nose as he reread the missive which had caused the exclamation.
Mr. Westall, a long, thin gentleman who gave the impression of being stretched—like a figure in an el Greco painting—pretended to return to his own work, but his mind was all on the duke.
Had those words been a sign of shock? Or anger?
No, he thought. Amazement. The young man waited impatiently for his assistance to be sought so that he would learn the cause of it all.
He was to be disappointed. The duke put down the letter and rose to walk over to one of the long windows which overlooked Belcraven Park, seat of the family for three hundred years.
Fifteen years ago, to celebrate the new century, hundreds of acres surrounding the great house had been brilliantly landscaped in the picturesque style by Humphry Repton.
Four years ago, as part of the grand celebrations which had marked the majority of the heir to Belcraven, the Marquess of Arden, the lake had been enlarged.
At the same time it had been further improved by the addition of an island, complete with a Grecian temple from which fireworks had been exploded.
It was all very beautiful, but it was familiar, and Mr. Westall’s employer was not in the habit of studying his estate.
There was little to be learned from the duke’s posture. He stood straight with little trace of his fifty-odd years in his lean body. His unremarkable features as usual told no secrets. The Duke of Belcraven was, in his secretary’s opinion, a cold fish.
As the duke’s thoughtful silence continued, Mr. Westall grew concerned. If disaster had overtaken the house of de Vaux, would he fall along with the rest?
But that was ridiculous. The duke was one of the richest men in England, and Gerald Westall was in the best position to know his employer was not given to chancy investments or gambling. Nor was his beautiful duchess.
His son, though?
Mr. Westall was not taken by Lucien Philippe de Vaux, Marquess of Arden, a Corinthian Buck who had been born in silk, as the saying goes, and feared nothing and nobody.
On his rare visits to the Park, the marquess ignored Westall’s existence and treated his father with a formal courtesy which was as good as an insult.
The secretary pondered the strange fact that fathers and sons of high degree seemed unable to rub along.
Look at the king and the Regent—before the king went mad, that is.
Perhaps it was because the heir was forced to wait on the father’s death for his own real life to begin, and the father was all too aware of that fact.
For once, Mr. Westall was pleased he had his own way to make in the world.
But then again, he thought, looking at the duke’s cool features, it must be hard to develop fondness for a man so lacking any kind of warmth. The marquess was warm enough with his mother, who had a very sweet nature. Very close they were. Well, Arden was known to be a devil with the ladies.
The duke turned at last.
“Mr. Westall, be so good as to send a message to the duchess to request a few moments of her time.”
The secretary could find no clue in his face or voice.
In fact, thought Mr. Westall as he passed on the instruction to the footman stationed outside the door, a stranger would have assumed that no matter of significance troubled the duke.
And yet it clearly was not so. For him to visit the duchess at this time of day was a dramatic variation of routine.
The mysterious letter must be to do with their son.
The dashing marquess had probably broken his neck in one of his madcap stunts and then where would they all be?
The nearest relative was a second cousin.
The house of de Vaux had passed the title from father to son for two hundred years without interruption.
The marquess would be no loss, but the end of such a fine tradition was worth regretting.
When the footman returned to say the duchess was available at the duke’s convenience and the duke went off to break the sad news to his wife, Mr. Westall was already checking the amount of mourning stationery in his desk.
The duke was admitted to his wife’s airy apartments by her dresser who then discreetly disappeared.
The duchess was sitting, needlework in hand, by the light of French doors which led to a balcony.
The air was too chill for the doors to be open, but bright sunlight spilled in to give the illusion of a later season, and daffodils and hyacinth bloomed in pots to scent the air.
The duke admired the fact that, unlike so many women of her age, his wife did not avoid clear light, and he acknowledged she had no need to.
Her face announced her fifty-two years and all the smiles and tears they had contained, but that did not detract from her beauty.
Silver was steadily muting her bright gold curls, but her eyes were the same clear blue and her lips were still softly curved.
He was taken back to the first time he had seen her, sitting in the garden of her parents’ chateau…
“Good morning, Belcraven,” she said in her soft voice, which still retained a trace of the French which had been her childhood tongue. “You wished to speak to me?” Her expression, as always these days, was gently courteous.
He wondered if there was any chance this miracle might mend things, but then he put such wistful thoughts away and walked forward to hand her the letter.
“Yes, madam. Read this, if you please.”
The duchess adjusted the delicate gold-rimmed pince-nez she too was obliged to wear for fine work and concentrated on the letter. The duke watched her reaction carefully but saw no shock or pain, only mild surprise. When she finished she looked up at him with a smile.
“How very silly of her not to have applied to you before, Belcraven. What do you wish to do? I would be happy to have the girl here. She is your daughter, and I have missed having daughters around since Joanne was married.”
The duke walked away from his wife’s calm gaze and took again to perusing his estate.
How foolish of him to expect his wife’s outrage at this proof of his past infidelity, he thought.
How foolish of him to want it. Yet, he longed for something sharp to finally break the icy shell that had encased his marriage for over twenty years.
“No,” he said at last, “I do not want to bring my bastard daughter here, madam. I intend to arrange a marriage between her and Arden.” He turned back to see his wife’s reaction.
She lost the delicate color in her cheeks and seemed to age before his eyes. “Arden? But he will not do it, Belcraven. Only last week he wrote to say he was screwing up the resolution to offer for the Swinnamer girl.”
The duke’s nostrils flared in anger. “And why did you not tell me of this? Am I not allowed to take interest in my heir, even if he is no son of mine?”
The duchess’s pale hand rose in instinctive defense against his accusation and then fell as she lowered her head. “No matter what I say of Lucien, good or bad, you make a quarrel of it. I only sought to keep the peace.”
“Well,” he said sharply, “you had better hope he has not committed himself to the chit, or there’ll be no peace ever again.”
Then he sighed and his face softened into weariness. He walked over to sit in the chair facing hers. “Do you not see, Yolande? This is the chance to put everything right, to correct our old mistakes. If your son marries my daughter the line can continue unbroken.”
The duchess’s hands were clasped tightly as she looked at him. “But these are people, William. People. Lucien has already given his heart. How do you know this girl, this Elizabeth Armitage, has not done so, too? How do you know,” she asked desperately, “that she is your daughter at all?”
He looked away from her pleading eyes. “I will have enquiries made, but I believe it. Mary Armitage was extremely honest, if rather stupid. I think that was what drew me to her when we met by chance. After—”
He had begun to turn back to her and so caught the tautness in the duchess as she prepared for the old recriminations. He broke off what he had been thoughtlessly about to say.
“She was virtuous and honest,” he continued awkwardly.
He was, after all, a man discussing with his wife an act of adultery.
“But she also had a kind heart. I was hurt by all that had occurred and she responded to my pain. The act wounded her, though. Wounded her soul. She would take no gift, however small…” He rubbed his temples fretfully.
“I wish she had come to me for help when she found there was to be a child, but it is typical of her that she did not. She perhaps thought to spare me an encumbrance, but more likely she wanted to put the whole relationship behind her.”
The duke took the letter from his wife’s fingers and looked down at the wavering handwriting of the woman who had once, so briefly, been his mistress.
“Her husband was a naval officer at sea at the time we met. Mary would not have been able to pass the child off as his. She must have been able to conceal the pregnancy from her friends and family. That must be why she enlisted the help of this friend who has raised the girl.”
“And on her deathbed,” said the duchess softly, “she realized her contributions to her daughter’s upbringing would cease and asked you to undertake that duty. A conscientious woman, but as you say, a little stupid. If the girl is your daughter, she will perhaps resemble you. What then, William?”