Chapter 7
Frederic swung himself off his horse. His enthusiasm—which couldn’t help but feed off the clear, country air on the brisk ride over—quailed a little at the formidable front door. Here he was, fresh from a night of scandal, seeking a wife—he, who thought he would never marry.
His anxiety threatened, had he permitted it, to make him peek through the keyhole and dash back to his horse. He clenched his jaw, cleared his throat, and knocked.
A middle-aged maid with premature streaks of gray opened the door. Her eyes widened. Frederic bowed.
“I have come to inquire after Lady Caroline,” he said.
The woman stared at him. Her nose quivered. For a horrible moment, he was struck with dead certainty that he had enquired at the wrong house. The next, he wondered if she was going to shut the door in his face. Finally, she stepped aside and curtsied.
“Do come in, Your Grace.”
The hall was plain but decorated with sense and simplicity—a comfortable sort of place. The windows trembled with light, airy white curtains that let in the morning glow and chuckled with the light breeze. His boots clicked on warm, golden marble as he followed the maid forward.
A caramel-colored spaniel pounded down the staircase, barking uproariously as it sped over the blue carpet.
“Heel, Ajax,” the maid ordered, shooing it with her hands.
The dog paid her no attention. It jumped off the stairs, ears waving like flags, and onto the tile, skittering. Then, it caught sight of Frederic.
It paused, lifting one ear. Frederic stared at it.
The dog turned on its heel and sprinted back the way it had come, its collar jangling like a sled at Christmastime.
Frederic and the maid watched it go.
“You’ll have to excuse us,” she said. “The mistress is very fond of animals. There’s a monkey, too, in the sunroom.”
Did she say a monkey? He hadn’t expected a menagerie. She gestured him toward a sitting room of some sort and opened the door before him.
“This way, Your Grace. The viscountess will attend you.”
Frederic stepped into the room. He thought immediately of a cathedral at noon—filled with light and solemn quiet. A row or two of worn books slumbered on their shelves. A large, gray parrot hunched sleepily on a perch in the corner. Frederic settled himself into a seat. The maid left.
Frederic breathed out a little. The moment was coming faster than his nerves—which he had carefully steeled—could bear.
Why was he so unsettled? It was hardly a love bond that he was proposing—a more mercenary reason to marry perhaps couldn’t be found.
And yet—something in him burbled and hissed like a pot on a stove.
He quenched it like a hot iron in oil. This was a task to be completed, nothing more.
“Winifred!” a voice boomed across the hall. Frederic jumped. “Someone has misplaced my riding crop, and I won’t stand for it!”
Heavy footfalls tramped through the entryway. Frederic listened in wonderment. The woman’s voice would have put an early morning reveille to shame.
“Winifred! There’s no use pretending you can’t hear me.”
Privately, Frederic agreed. Her voice echoed around the hall like a heavy drum.
“I’ve told the staff a hundred times not to let the spaniel have my crop, but it will go on chewing it, anyway. That blasted—ah, there you are!”
A hurried, whispered conversation, then silence. Frederic drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch. The sitting room door opened. He stood, bowed, and raised his eyes.
The short, blowsy-curled woman of the night before stood before him in a green riding habit and knee length black boots.
He looked down at her in surprise. She was shorter than he remembered, even with the imposing black hat.
Given her soiled riding boots, she must have just entered from the stables.
“So, it is you,” she said grimly. “I wondered, perhaps, if Winifred had been joking.”
Frederic raised his chin.
“Winifred, it appears, was not, your ladyship.”
She straightened, then curtsied.
“We are honored by your presence, Your Grace,” she said, respectfully enough, especially considering the night’s events.
They might even have expected him this morning, waiting on his proposal.
Frederic bristled. Well, whether or not his gallantry was anticipated, there was nothing left but to continue forward.
“There can be little doubt in your mind, my lady, as to why I have come.”
She looked at him quizzically. Her eyes travelled over his face and seemed pleased with what they found.
“I’d be most grateful, Your Grace, if you would clarify any lingering doubts that I might have. Please, take a seat.”
She pulled a chair out from a side table and perched on it. Frederic returned to his spot on the couch.
The sitting room door opened, and Martha, one of the kitchen maids, entered, brandishing a dark-feathered duster. The viscountess cleared her throat. Martha glanced at them. Her eyes—had they widened any further—would have threatened to bulge out of her skull.
She skittered out of the room as if her skirt had caught fire, slamming the door behind her. Frederic fought back a smile. The viscountess removed a pair of black leather gloves.
“We are unaccustomed to visitors,” she said. “We prefer to keep to ourselves.”
Frederic frowned. If they were so used to being at home, would Lady Caroline suit being a duchess paraded about in public? But then—he wasn’t here for concerns or even for preference. He was here for honor.
“I hope your mother is well,” the lady said. “She and I are old acquaintances.”
Frederic nodded deferentially. He hadn’t known of his mother’s connection to the viscountess, but then—there were many of his mother’s acquaintances that he did not, sometimes by preference, know on an intimate footing. They had a tendency to stick to him rather more closely than he preferred.
“She is very well, thank you,” he said. “But I have come bearing particular news on my own behalf.”
The lady leaned back. A hopeful light entered her eyes like reed lights on Michaelmas.
“Have you?”
Frederic adjusted his coat.
“I have come to inquire after Lady Caroline.”
The viscountess stared at him as if she was reading an intricate map. What, exactly, was she hoping to see? Frederic cleared his throat.
“I have come to inquire,” he said, “as to whether or not she would honor me with her hand in marriage.”
Relief flushed over him. He smiled in spite of himself. The viscountess’ eyes brightened.
“Have you, indeed?”
The caramel-colored spaniel peeked around the corner of the couch, ears raised hopefully.
“I am prepared to make her my wife,” he said. “She will, as a result, of course, become the Duchess of Blackmore.”
The words settled comfortably as he said them which he noted with some surprise.
“I am sure Caroline will be honored by your proposal,” she said. “But to be blunt, your Grace, Caroline has narrated to me in full the events of last night.”
He tightened his lips and raised his chin.
“I have no reason to believe,” she continued, “that any impropriety occurred between you.”
Frederic, surprised, felt gratitude pulse through him. He hadn’t realized how important it was to him that the truth be known—to the viscountess in particular. He bowed.
“With all the fervor I possess, I can assure you my lady, that your niece acted only in a manner that would reflect credit on a lady.” His eyes flashed. “Even, I might add, in the face of the crass and wholly inappropriate behavior of those who assumed to label themselves as such.”
The viscountess, Frederic could tell, was struggling mightily not to look smug. She was proud of her niece and ought to be.
“She really was quite gallant,” he continued, “though her accusers flung vituperative and insolent gossip, she returned only grace.”
The viscountess beamed.
“Caroline has been the bright spot in our lives,” she said. “I am immensely glad that you have come to a similar conclusion as we have.”
Her face clouded.
“Though there was no impropriety on either of your parts, I am concerned that the damage to Caroline’s reputation might be beyond repair. She will not accept pity, even if it means her own ruin.”
“As the wife of a duke, your ladyship, her honor would be restored, and she would be settled well above any existing scandal.”
“Then you are certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“You still wish for her hand in marriage?”
Internally, Frederic hesitated. What on earth was he doing, bargaining for a wife no one else wanted?
True, he was not daunted by the hurdles that might have deterred other men.
Her scars were of no consequence to him.
The idea of a curse served as kindling for his indignation.
Tragedy required no unearthly reason and certainly struck too arbitrarily to admit a curse as the sole culprit.
No, his reservations regarding matrimony stemmed from another course entirely. He could never—would never—sire an heir. In this he was firm. But it wouldn’t do now to dwell on such preferences.
“Yes,” he said. “I do wish for her hand.”
And as a wonder to himself, he felt it. The viscountess leaned back in her chair, stroking her chin. Had he not been in so delicate a position, Frederic would have been inclined to compare her to a barrister in court.
“Winifred!” she called, finally. The lady’s maid poked her head around the doorway like a pigeon on its perch. “Please fetch Lady Caroline. The duke has something to say to her.”