Chapter 6
R ufus read the collection of information carefully as his coach raced through the streets of London towards the club where both he and the Duke of Westleigh were members.
Notorious. That’s what the Briarwoods were.
It was a simple word, singular and descriptive.
And that was the general summation of his man, Mr. Foyle.
The Briarwoods were quite simply legendary. He was aware of them. After all, he did work with the Duke of Westleigh, attempting to get bills through the House of Lords, often through back channels, making certain that the country didn’t collapse given the state of the monarchy and Europe.
Still, the Briarwood family was spoken of often with either gossiping or reverent tones, sometimes with great disdain, often with great awe, for they operated in a way that seemed to be almost outside the bounds of society.
It was something that he wanted for his family going forward. After all, powerful people didn’t need to care what other people did, and he, like his father, believed that dukes were a law unto themselves.
The union of two such lines, though exceedingly different, could be very good.
Miss Miller’s uncle, the Duke of Westleigh, was wealthy and powerful. The family had more money than most of England. They had a great deal of land and interests all over the globe. Their ties stretched like a spider’s web, if one wanted to imagine something villainous in regard to the Briarwoods, though he doubted villainy was in their capacity.
Despite their origins by way of the mistress of a king, they were fiercely loyal to the crown and had an honor of their own.
Yes, Miss Miller was the ideal ally.
To some, it might’ve seemed better if she was the daughter of an earl, not of a printer, but in many other ways, it was better that she was her own person and had not been raised in England.
Some of the ton might hate her for being so closely affiliated to the world outside of the ton, but he rather thought she’d be better for it.
After all, she’d been raised in a hotbed of independence and clarity. With his guidance, yes, she would be the perfect duchess.
He’d read about the various Briarwoods and quickly surmised that all of the family quirks could be dealt with. He was accustomed to dealing with challenging people. He knew how to maneuver them and arrange the results he wanted.
He did not have many friends because of his ability to watch and assess. But as he had learned so very long ago, dukes did not need friends. Dukes needed control.
And then, of course, there had been the encounter in the garden with Miss Miller. He could not stop thinking about her. Her effervescence for life, her sense of amusement, and how she had looked while taking in the scent of that rose before she had gone toe to toe with him in conversation.
Not to mention the kiss. He had dreamed of that kiss. She would not be a cold, dutiful wife. There would be passion between them, and yet she would still be his ideal.
So, as his coach pulled up before the club, he drew in an anticipatory breath. Yes, this new plan was going to go marvelously well.
He climbed down from the coach easily, strode up the stairs, handed his coat and top hat over to the footman, headed up the next set of wide stairs past the foyer, and honed in on the area that the Duke of Westleigh preferred.
The duke would be present, for there had just been a meeting he had led. After such things, Westleigh went to the club and stared into the fire or read.
Though the love the duke had for his house on the Thames was legend, it was also full to the brim. A bit of peace was just the thing an overworked duke needed after a long day before heading home or out to a ball with his wife.
Rufus strode past men smoking, drinking, and arguing in small groups at various tables. But as he passed, the conversation paused, and several sets of eyes followed him.
When one was a duke, one became accustomed to being stared at. It was the nature of things. And as he crossed into a fairly crowded room and turned towards a back nook, he spotted the Duke of Westleigh.
The imposing statesman sat before the fire, his dark, slightly silver-lined hair glinting in the golden light, a cup of tea in hand. He was a notorious teetotaler, having given up alcohol. Legend had it that brandy and wine brought on black moods in the duke.
Rufus crossed to Westleigh and sat himself down in the chair opposite.
The duke arched a brow. “I’ve been expecting you.”
“Have you?” Rufus asked.
“Indeed I have. My sons told me about the event in Regent’s Park.”
That shouldn’t have surprised him. But it did. His father had never had time for him. “Did they?”
“Oh, yes.” The duke lifted the porcelain cup to his lips and took a drink, letting out a satisfied sigh. “My sons tell me everything.”
Rufus couldn’t imagine having such a relationship with one’s father. He’d told his father almost nothing because his father had no desire to hear his opinions.
Rufus cleared his throat. “Then you’ll understand why I’m here.”
“No, not yet.” Westleigh’s eyes glinted in the firelight. “I have to admit I’m most curious. You seem to enjoy my niece, Miss Portia Miller. Is that correct?”
“Enjoy is not the correct word,” Rufus ventured, feeling comfortable as the first phase of the negotiation had clearly begun. “I found her rather astounding, formidable, and exactly the sort of young lady I think would make a tremendous duchess.”
The Duke of Westleigh paused and gave no reaction. “You wish to make her your duchess?”
Rufus nodded. “I think she suits. She has the sort of character needed. She won’t easily be tread upon, and she won’t faint in my presence like my poor mother did in my father’s.”
Westleigh’s lips curved into a strange smile. “Your father was a bit of an ass, as was your grandfather. And given such sires as you have had, why do you think I would give my permission for her to marry you?”
He blinked. Rufus was a duke. Of course Westleigh would give permission. It had never occurred to him this could be a factor in the negotiation of a marriage settlement.
“I’m nothing like them,” he replied honestly.
The duke cocked his head to the side and contemplated the contents of his teacup as if he could see vast worlds there. “That’s not entirely true.”
He tensed at that. Was he? Was he like his father and his grandfather?
Perhaps an exterior view would suggest such a thing, but he had done everything he could over the years to make certain that he wasn’t the cruel bastard that his father wished him to be. He had no desire to crush the people around him into submission. Oh, he always achieved what he wanted. But he did not use a cudgel as his father had.
Rufus had other methods.
He spoke so little, he supposed some might think he was cruel. For he did not give approval with ease.
“I’m a duke,” he said at last. “It would be an advantageous marriage.”
Westleigh laughed. “Do you think I don’t know such a thing? Of course I do, and I’m well aware that most dukes go about marriage in the way that you are going about it now. They collect facts and negotiate the thing like a treaty, forgetting that the whole affair is about two people. No doubt, you have a collection of information about us to decide whether or not she’s worthy, but because I’m a duke, you will overlook anything that’s odd. And she’s beautiful, of course.”
Two people? Was a marriage ever about two people? The idea was laughable. A marriage was a contract negotiation. A dance between money, land, and the promise of heirs.
“She’s beautiful, it’s true, but that’s not what intrigues me about her,” Rufus replied factually. “And yes, I do have a large collection of information about your family, which I surveyed before coming here this evening.”
Westleigh rolled his eyes. “Of course. How very dukely of you.”
“She’s not afraid,” Rufus said bluntly.
The duke paused. “And that is a quality you wish for in a wife?”
“It is a quality I need in a wife. I am intimidating. I’m aware of it. It seems to be a family trait, though I have tried to soften it. People assume that I’m a bastard like my father, just as you did, and I need someone who can stand up to me and who will take up the duties of a duchess without flinching. She seems like she can do that. She certainly stood up to me in the park.”
“But she’s not at all like you, you know,” the duke warned softly. “She’s a Briarwood.”
Rufus shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter,” he said. “I’m sure that it all shall work out in the end.”
The Duke of Westleigh paused, eyeing him carefully. “You understand that if you marry her, you are marrying the family.”
“How difficult could that be?” the duke scoffed.
Westleigh’s eyes shone with amusement. “You don’t have a great deal of family, do you?”
“Just my sister,” he said. His darling sister. Margery had been a lifeline in the solitude of his life, giving him someone to look after. She was born when he was nearly eleven and she had become his whole world. The only good thing. The only thing that was not cold or cruel.
Westleigh’s look grew a touch calculating. “She’s having her Season as well.”
“Yes,” Rufus affirmed, though warily now. Westleigh was up to something.
Westleigh placed his teacup down and clapped his hands together. “Tell you what, give your sister into the keeping of my grandmother and into the keeping of my wife, and I shall consider the marriage proposal. Though truthfully, it’s not me you should be asking.”
“Isn’t it?” he demanded, wondering what difficulty lie in what seemed to be a generous offer. He was guiding his sister through her first Season, but the aid of the formidable Dowager Duchess of Westleigh and the beloved current duchess would be an advantage. Unless, of course, they led Margery astray with their eccentric ideas.
This was, of course, the challenge of this alliance. He was choosing a woman from a family that was almost as powerful as his own…and so they would not simply submit to his every wish.
But someone who would not submit was what he desired above all, even if it felt…strange.
Westleigh bridged his fingers. “You’ll need to get the approval of her mother and father. And I will tell you this. My sister and my brother-in-law are unique, just like their daughter.”
“One would imagine so,” Rufus drawled. “Given the fact that your sister chose to be an actress in New York and marry a printer.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?” Westleigh challenged.
A muscle tightened in Rufus’s jaw before he blurted, “Every family has interesting people in it.”
“Not yours,” Westleigh countered with an amused tone. “At least not for a few centuries.”
“Then we’re clearly due,” Rufus replied flatly, having been ready for this. Still, he was surprised at how much this chafed. He was now so accustomed to the world bending to his whims. But that was also why this was so needed.
Why she was so needed.
“My, my,” the duke ventured softly, “you came prepared for my doubts.”
“I always come prepared,” Rufus said tightly, and he did.
After years of punishment, he’d learned how to navigate people who challenged him, who underestimated him. No one underestimated him now.
And while he’d largely expected to be given what he wished quickly after a few arguments were made, Rufus did understand why Westleigh might give pause.
Westleigh’s family was definitely different than Rufus’s.
His family had had land in this country since the Norman invasion and his power stretched back in a way that Westleigh’s simply did not. Westleigh’s family had achieved their dukedom and power through a scheming and talented woman, who’d had a child by the king and managed to leverage a dukedom for him.
Rufus’s family had passed down power uninterrupted through the rise and fall of dynasties and religious wars.
“A little new blood wouldn’t hurt,” he said softly.
“Well, I have to tell you one other thing,” the duke said. “My permission can be given. But in truth, it’s not the permission that will matter.”
“How the bloody hell could your permission not matter?” Rufus demanded.
“You’ll have to get the lady’s permission. And if she says yes, none of us will stand in her way.”
Rufus laughed, but that laughter died at Westleigh’s expression. He sat up straighter. “You will let the lady decide. Is that truly how it works in your family? You don’t have a committee of Briarwoods to decide who one should marry?”
It was Westleigh’s turn to laugh, and it filled the room, causing several heads to turn in their direction.
“Actually, Ferrars, we do. My mother is quite the matriarch, and she always knows who someone should marry and who they shouldn’t.”
“So shall I have to gain her approval as well?” Rufus asked, beginning to wonder if he should abandon the whole affair, but then he recalled spotting Miss Miller across the park—how happy she had looked and how full of life.
“Of course you shall,” Westleigh said merrily. “After all, your sister will be in her keeping.”
He ground his teeth but kept his face impassive, a skill he’d developed as a boy. He didn’t like the idea of being paraded before a family and judged. He was used to coming, presenting his ideas, and getting his way.
Westleigh sighed. “We are a bit much. Perhaps you should choose the daughter of an earl instead.”
“No,” Rufus countered. “She’s the one. I know it.”
Westleigh stilled, then leaned forward ever so slightly. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“She’s the one. I know it,” he replied simply. “Forgive me. Are you growing hard of hearing, Your Grace?”
The duke laughed again. “Oh, indeed, I am becoming most decrepit.” Westleigh was in his late forties and clearly fitter than men half his age.
Westleigh was silent for a long moment, then said softly, his lips curving in a maddening smile, “Yes, you must certainly marry her.”
“Why do you say so now?” Where were all the hoops that the good duke had planned to make Rufus jump through? All the obstacles he’d suggested.
What had he said that there was now no difficulty?
“Oh, no reason at all. No reason at all,” Westleigh said, taking up his teacup again. “It’s just a suddenly strong feeling that you belong in my family, Your Grace. We’re going to do you a world of good.”
“I’m fine as I am, thank you. I’m simply in need of a wife.”
Westleigh lifted his cup in a salute. “Well, if she will say yes, the Briarwoods are happy to supply you with one.”