Chapter 5
5
The next day…
Modesty hated how her breath caught as she watched Pryde arrive. His white stallion thundered past the weathered church wall, scattering fallen leaves beneath its hooves, then followed the winding gravel path towards the vicarage. His back was straight, his hands steady on the reins as the powerful muscles of his long legs flexed beneath his breeches, holding the beast under perfect control. The wind ruffled his brown hair, softening the stark planes of his face. His cheekbones were flushed from the morning chill, his dark gaze glistening—and focused directly on her. Against the pewter sky and autumn colors, he cut a striking figure in his indigo riding coat.
Her fingers itched to muss that perfect hair, to pull on his pristine cravat, to wrinkle that immaculate coat—anything to crack that polished facade.
She clasped her hands as the duke dismounted and tied the reins to a nearby tree. Could one feel both the utmost vexation and flutters in one’s stomach at the same moment? Even Papa grumbled something watching the duke walk towards them.
Tall, elegant, and graceful, he bowed to them, touching his top hat. He was as cold as stone. Beneath the polished exterior, he was arrogant and heartless, concerned with his image and nothing more.
As the duke stood before them, the scents of moist earth and decomposing vegetation mingled with his bergamot cologne, causing her skin to prickle with awareness.
“Your Grace,” said her father grumpily. “Your proposal was very unexpected.”
Papa had been shocked by the news and highly displeased. But he agreed the baby’s future had to come first. That was how he had raised his daughter, to do what was right no matter the personal sacrifice.
“I am so very sorry about that, Mr. Fairchild,” the duke replied with a polite nod. “I hope you can appreciate the circumstances.”
Papa gave a reluctant nod. “Nothing is more important than the wee babe who lost his mother. At least he still has his father. And Modesty, of course.”
Pryde’s gaze settled on her, heating her skin. “Indeed.”
“I only pray that you will return to your senses and will not let your pride and vanity come before doing what’s right from now on.”
“Forgive me, sir, I?—”
“Do not pretend that you don’t understand my meaning. Pride, sir, is the worst of the?—”
“Deadly sins. I know, Mr. Fairchild. I heard your sermon this past Sunday. Lucifer, the fallen angel, etcetera.”
Papa’s scowl deepened. “Treat my daughter and your little son with the respect and kindness they deserve, that is all I ask. Come to church, too. I fear for your soul, Duke.”
Pryde’s eyes narrowed. “You do not know me, sir. How can you fear for my soul?”
“All of London knows of the Seven Dukes of Sin. You may think you’re infallible, sir, but no one needs humility more than you.”
Pryde’s gaze grew dark. “I appreciate your advice, sir, we will be family, after all. But I am the best judge of my own needs. And right now, I’d like a walk with my future bride. You will chaperone us, of course. The weather looks agreeable, do you not think so, Miss Fairchild? You have a”—he looked back at a simple country road leading through the fields and into a grove of trees—“pleasant woodlands in your surroundings.”
Last night after she’d agreed to his proposal, he’d said he would come to talk to her today so that he had something to tell the gossips of the ton—something to make their sudden love more believable.
“Would you not like to see your son first?” asked Modesty coldly. “He just woke up. He’s with his nurse now.”
Pryde didn’t even flinch, his eyes chilly on her. “No, I wouldn’t want to disturb the babe.” He gestured towards a path that led behind the vicarage. “Shall we?”
Papa’s bushy, unruly eyebrows knotted as he gave her a nod.
Suppressing a jolt of anger, she nodded as well and walked next to the duke. They passed the kitchen garden with its late cabbages and herbs, then the wooden henhouse where sleepy clucking drifted through the slats. Beyond that was the washhouse, where linens hung limply in the cool air. Farther ahead along the gravel path that wound towards the grove was a fenced meadow with an animal shed. Their goat, Bessie, stood in the meadow, chewing on a patch of grass.
Pryde’s presence at her side was like an invisible force pressing against her, stealing her breath, quickening her pulse… How could she marry him, spend her life with the man, if she despised him so much already?
His purpose in this conversation was not to get to know her but to learn enough so that he could pretend to be in love with her. A wave of disgust shuddered through her.
Still. She needed to make an effort. For Augustus. And, perhaps, there were good qualities in this man, too. He couldn’t be entirely horrible. No one was.
“The wedding is in three days,” he said as they walked. “I already acquired the special license. We will be married in St. George’s of Hanover Square by the Bishop of London himself.”
She swallowed. “A big wedding?”
“Indeed.”
She licked her lips. Apart from the Dukes of Pryde and Eccess, she had never been acquainted with anyone of noble birth. How was she going to be a duchess when she knew nothing of running salons, attending balls, and discussing politics with diplomats over dinner?
“How old are you, Miss Fairchild?” he asked.
Quite a direct question. She blushed. “Nineteen, sir.” She looked him over. She estimated him being in his late twenties or early thirties. He should know better at that age than to engage in casual dalliances and look down his nose at the common people, should he not? “What about you?”
“I am thirty,” he replied. “Pray tell, what is your favorite flower?”
“My favorite flower?”
“Indeed. I’d like to make sure the church is decorated with them.”
“Uh…” She had no preference for flowers. She was busy with much more practical things. “Wildflowers, I suppose. That’s what I see most often.”
“Right. Very rustic. What accomplishments do you have?”
She felt intense heat creep into her face again. She couldn’t entertain, sing, or play a musical instrument—yet another reason she would be inadequate in the role of duchess.
“I’m afraid there was little time left for any accomplishments after helping my father with the parish. I can, however, cook an excellent stew, bake bread, recite the bible, and tell you all about the Roman empire in Britain.”
He frowned. “The Roman empire in Britain?”
“Yes. I’m fond of history books. My friend Mr. George Lockhart took me on archeological digs, and I haven’t been able to satisfy my curiosity about ancient civilizations since. There is a ruin that I discovered only three miles away from here. I just lost track of time… And when it was already too late, I?—”
When Modesty had finally arrived home that day—worried over Ophelia’s absence at their meeting place and chastising herself for her distraction—she’d found her in the throes of a terrible fever.
“A Roman ruin?” he asked, genuine enthusiasm in his voice.
She glanced up at his profile, and even though his face remained cold, his brown eyes flickered with interest.
“Yes, indeed. We discovered a hypocaust system under the tesserae, and I found several fascinating artifacts—including what appears to be a small Pictish stone.”
“A Pictish stone fragment this far south? I didn’t know there was any evidence of Picts having reached this area. My father collected Roman artifacts, and I inherited his passion. I have several pieces myself—including a collection of Roman coins from Hadrian’s time and a rather remarkable bronze mirror.”
Interest sparked within her chest. “And you have these in your own home?”
“Among many other things.”
She exhaled as a wave of excitement rushed through her. No, she couldn’t give in to hope like that. If he was interested in antiquities and history, it only meant he was an educated man, as he should be given his status.
“Is that the time period that interests you the most?” he asked, his voice growing soft.
“Yes, I’m fascinated with ancient history,” she said. “Especially the Dark Ages. Roman chronicles described the Picts. And I’ve seen drawings of their standing stones in Mr. Gordon’s Itinerarium Septentrionale . What most intrigues me is their unusual social structure—their kings were crowned through the female line, something unheard of in other societies of that time. Personally, I have a theory that the mirror and comb symbols carved on their stones suggest women held positions of great importance.”
He frowned, and she wondered if he was about to object to her suggestion that women could ever hold positions of importance. She wouldn’t be surprised.
But instead, he asked, “Have you ever been to Scotland?”
“Never.”
But oh, how she wished she could go. She had seen enchanting drawings and paintings of Scottish landscapes, castle ruins, and standing stones. Her mama’s family was from Scotland, and she yearned to understand how her ancestors had lived and worked. Her father disapproved of her interest, but she had always dreamed that one day she could join an archeological expedition and be one of the first to discover the secrets of the past.
She longed to know whether her theory was correct, that Pictish women had held positions of power that went beyond just determining succession.
“What stopped you from going?” he asked.
“Duty, of course,” she chuckled. “To my father and his parish. I help in Miss Lockhart’s women’s almshouse as well.”
He nodded and looked into the distance, as though memorizing her words. “Naturally you do. Look, Miss Fairchild, I hope you understand that you may keep reading history books—God knows, I have an entire library of them—and organize charitable events in Mayfair. But digging around in the dirt and especially returning to Whitechapel, even to the women’s almshouse, as a duchess will not be acceptable.”
“Oh, indeed?” The words came out sweet as honey, but her knuckles hurt as her hands clenched.
“I’m afraid so.”
As they followed the path past the paddock, Modesty spotted some late dandelions growing along the gravel’s edge. She bent to pluck a few leaves.
“Would you excuse me a moment, Your Grace?” Without waiting for his answer, she approached the fence where Bessie stood watching them with her usual keen interest. She offered the leaves through the wooden slats. Bessie’s lips tickled her palm as the goat delicately accepted the treat.
The duke came to stand by her side. “As I was saying, Miss Fairchild, a duchess must maintain certain standards of—” He broke off with an undignified yelp. Bessie, apparently finding the dandelions insufficient, had stuck her nose through the slats and latched on to his fine coat.
“Bessie!” Modesty called out, trying and failing to keep the laughter from her voice. “Do forgive her, Your Grace. She has excellent taste in fabric.”
The duke attempted to shake off the goat while maintaining his dignity—an impossible task if ever there was one. The goat, now enjoying the game, clamped down harder and tugged. For a moment, Modesty allowed herself the pleasure of watching him struggle.
“Is this”—he grunted, dancing sideways—“a regular occurrence on your walks?”
“Oh, yes,” Modesty said cheerfully as she leaned over the fence and distracted the goat by scratching around the base of her horns. Looking blissful, and immensely pleased with herself, Bessie finally released him. “Though usually it’s just turnip tops she’s after, not wool from London’s finest tailors.”
They continued walking, though the duke looked more than a little rumpled now, and she wondered if he was regretting his hasty offer of marriage. “Let’s see,” he said. “How much would I need to prepare you? Can you play any instruments? Sing? Paint in watercolors?”
It seemed as if he planned to move on and pretend the goat incident had not occurred, though she noticed him brushing at his coat surreptitiously. She forced her lips into a sweet smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I can whistle a jaunty tune and produce watercolors that would please any toddler. Will that suffice?”
His jaw muscles twitched. “How many balls have you attended? Even small country balls?”
She felt her cheeks burn. She should just reply sincerely. She didn’t normally indulge in sarcasm, had always tried to be agreeable and unassuming, but there was something about this man that made her set barbs in every word she spoke. “Oh, countless ones, Duke. The turnip harvest festivals are particularly grand affairs.”
He sighed. “So none? You cannot dance at all?”
“I was a little busy caring for people. Dancing is usually not very useful to the poor.”
His eyebrows lowered. “Do you ride at all? I have some of the finest thoroughbreds in England.”
“I’m more familiar with cows. Do they handle similarly?”
His profile was so still it could be minted on a coin. It certainly was striking enough. She didn’t care. She couldn’t have felt more judged, lowlier than she did in this moment.
“Miss Fairchild, I am simply trying to get to know you better.”
“So that you can pretend to be in love with me?” She scoffed and shook her head. “What is it that you appreciate, besides horses, balls, and saving your reputation?”
“History, Miss Fairchild. I also take great pride in breeding horses—I’ve recently turned my attention to pure-blooded Andalusians. And…I have my close friends.”
“Yes, the Seven Dukes, I heard.”
“I take my seat in the House of Lords and endeavor to serve the country to the best of my ability. I read extensively. I ride, hunt, fence, and engage in various sporting pursuits. My soirées and balls are considered among the finest in London, if I may say so.”
“Your Grace,” she replied. “I think you’ve realized by now what a mistake we’re both making. It seems there could be no two people more different from you and me. You live for yourself. I live for others. You live in a mansion. I live in a drafty vicarage with crumbling walls. How do you think our marriage would work out? I think it will be a complete disaster.”
He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. The silence between them stretched as wide as the gap between their worlds—his of fine wool coats and leisure, hers of muddy boots and honest work. And somewhere in between lay Augustus’s future, binding them together whether they liked it or not.