A Wife for the Scarred Duke (Ton’s Single Fathers #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

“Ibeg your pardon?” she said, her voice light but steady.

“You heard me,” he replied as he steepled his fingers and looked at her from behind his lacquered mahogany desk.

Outside, the late afternoon sun fell across the lawns in long, golden waves of light.

Beyond the picture window, a blackbird was singing with the smug contentment of a creature that had never had a daughter.

“I asked you, Felicity, why you sent an anonymous note to the Gazette.”

“I’m not quite certain what you mean, Papa.”

“Then allow me to be more precise,” he replied slowly and leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked.

The study at Dawnhurst Manor held a particular silence. It was not the comfortable, lived-in quiet of a well-loved room, but a stiff, stuffy space that discouraged lingering too long.

William Redmond, the Duke of Dawnhurst, had cultivated that environment with some care. He had learned early in life that silence was more honest than most conversations and considerably less trouble. It did not, unfortunately, work on his daughter.

Felicity Redmond stood before his desk with her hands clasped behind her back and her chin lifted at an angle that he knew well. It was the same manner in which he displayed it when preparing to defend an untenable position.

Her eyes were sharp, bright, and assessing, framed by soft, pale-blonde ringlets of hair. They were the same piercing blue as his own, that was for certain. Everyone always remarked on it. Right now, while they looked so wide and innocent, he did not believe them for a moment.

“Three days ago,” he continued, “I was in London attending to some business of import. I was interrupted repeatedly, and with considerable inconvenience.”

“That sounds most unagreeable, Papa, and I am—”

“By callers I had not invited, cards I had not solicited, and invitations for events I had no intention of attending. When I went to the paper’s offices to demand an explanation, the publisher showed me the note responsible for the column.

The one that announced to all of London that the Duke of Dawnhurst is seeking a wife. ”

“Papa, I can explain,” she said, her expression faltering just for a moment.

“Miss Grantham.” William did not look away from his daughter as he addressed her governess, who stood just outside the door with a neutral expression. “Would you please fetch Lady Felicity’s notebooks? The ones she keeps for her correspondence lessons.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Miss Grantham replied, and left before Felicity had time to protest. “At once.”

She returned in under two minutes.

William suspected she had anticipated this development and placed a slim leather-bound notebook on his desk.

He opened it and smoothed the page flat with his pointer finger.

Then he reached into his coat and drew out the note he had taken from the publisher’s office.

It was a single sheet of cream paper, folded twice, the handwriting small, careful, and distinctive in its precise lines and curves.

He placed them side by side.

Felicity swallowed. The silence stretched, and William let it. He had also found, in eleven years of raising a daughter mostly on his own, that silence was a most effective tool in child-rearing. The evidence spoke for itself.

“It is the same note,” he said. “Published in The Morning Post, most falsely claim that I am in search of a wife.”

“Papa…”

“Your penmanship is, I will admit, exceptional. Miss Grantham has done well with your lessons.” He closed the notebook with a thwack. “I should like an explanation, Felicity. Now.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then she lifted her chin again, and her expression shifted into something that was less pretense and more real.

The girl was always earnest, if a little defiant.

And beneath both of those things, a current of feeling flowed deep in her veins.

He sometimes saw it in his own mirror, when he was unlucky enough to be looking at it.

“I meant well,” she said with a small huff. “Truly, I did.”

“I do not doubt it.”

“You’ve been alone so long, Papa. And you’re not…” She stopped, then started again. “Well, you’re not happy.”

“Felicity…”

“I can see it.”

“That is none of your concern.”

“You come home from London, and you go straight to your study. You do not come out until dinner, and then you do not say very much at dinner, and well, I just wanted…”

“Felicity.”

“I only thought that if you had a—”

“You involved a gossip sheet,” he said, the more controlled edge to his voice dissipating. Yet, it was not raised nor aggressive, but flat and deliberate. “You involved a gossip sheet in a matter concerning this family. Do you understand what that means?”

She hesitated.

“It means that every drawing room in London now has an opinion about my intentions. It means that I had to leave London a week ahead of schedule to avoid being harassed by callers. It means that the duchy’s reputation, which I have spent considerable effort maintaining, is now being discussed in the same columns that print rumors about people’s mistresses and their debts.

” He held her gaze. “This was not a small thing.”

“I know that now.” Her voice had gone quieter. “I know it wasn’t… Oh, please forgive me. You must know that I’m sorry for all this, Papa—”

“Furthermore, and I want you to hear this clearly.” He rose to his feet and began to pace the study with his hands tucked behind his back.

“Felicity, you went behind my back. You made decisions about my life without my knowledge or my consent. That is not something I can overlook. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“Do you? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Papa.” She met his eyes, and to her credit, she did not look away. “I know it was wrong. I know I should have… I do not know… perhaps talked to you first, I suppose. But you do not really…” Another pause. “You do not really like talking about things like that.”

I cannot, in good conscience, argue against that.

He was quiet for a moment. Then he stopped in front of her and looked down.

“You are confined to the house for the remainder of the week,” he declared. “Miss Grantham will set your dolls, paints, and novels aside. You will take your lessons and meals, and that’s it. You must learn that—”

“Papa!”

“Not permanently, Felicity. For the week.”

“But I’ve just started a new painting for you—”

“Those are my terms. If you feel they are unjust, I suggest you contemplate whether sending an anonymous note to a gossip sheet was just.”

Her lips pressed together. He could see her calculating, the way she always calculated.

She was terribly smart for her age, always had been. He knew she was weighing the argument she wanted to make against the knowledge that making it would not change her outcome.

She sighed and nodded her head.

“Yes, Papa,” she said finally.

“Good.” He stepped back and crossed his arms in front of his broad chest. “Miss Grantham will see you upstairs.”

Felicity turned and began to walk. At the door, she paused. He could see from the set of her shoulders that she was deciding something. Without another word, she went out, and Miss Grantham followed. She cast one brief, apologetic glance in his direction, which he pretended not to see.

William returned to his desk, sat down, and picked up his quill. He took out a piece of parchment and dipped the quill in black ink.

He did not write anything. He set down the quill, closed his eyes, and ran his hands over them. He could only see Felicity’s face, the way her chin lifted when she was trying not to show that something had wounded her.

I did the right thing. There is no question about that.

What she had done was unacceptable, and he could not afford to be more lenient with her than the situation warranted. If not, she would learn precisely the wrong lesson. There was a marked difference between the right thing and the easy thing, though.

His thoughts began to swirl once more.

She is eleven years old. She is eleven years old, lonely, and missing things she has never had.

He cursed as he poured a small glass of brandy.

Despite the intended distraction of the liquor, that thought lingered. In fact, he was still thinking about it when Mrs. Alderton, the country estate’s housekeeper, knocked sometime later.

He recognized the knock by the four quick raps and a pause, which she allowed only when something required his immediate attention. He set down his glass.

“Come in,” he ground out.

She entered quietly and shut the door behind her.

Mrs. Alderton was a composed woman in her

ties who had run the Redmond household with the efficiency of someone who considered panic a personal failing. Yet, at this moment, she was slightly pale, all color drained from her rosy cheeks.

He realized then that there was an unusual amount of noise coming from the gardens. He raised an eyebrow as he looked out the window, watching servants racing about the grounds in search of some unseen object.

“Mrs. Alderton? Are you quite all right?”

“Your Grace,” she said as she clasped her hands in front of her. “I beg your pardon for the interruption.”

“What is it?” He rose to his feet.

“It’s Lady Felicity, Your Grace.”

“What of her?”

“She is not in her room. We have searched the house. We have searched the grounds.” She met his eyes. “She is… not here.”