Chapter Five #2
Her father held up his hand. “I do not want to hear anything about your life with Southen, your affection for him, however long it lasted, or the consequences. What is done is done. I accept your apology. I am flabbergasted that after all this, you finally consented to an arranged marriage.”
The consequences? He was talking about her son.
Her contrition gave way to annoyance, but she would keep her feelings to herself.
It was best to move on. “Yes, Father, I find it bitterly ironic that I seek an arranged marriage now, but in this instance, I am the one seeking it. Not you or some elderly aristocrat. All I ever wanted was some say in my life. In my future.”
“Augusta, women do not have any say. We are property,” her mother murmured.
The shocking realization behind that statement and the reminder shook Augusta.
In England in 1818, it was true, both legally and socially, and it would likely remain so for decades to come.
And once she married, she would become the duke’s legal property, a man she had met only once.
Women depended on men for financial support, stability, and a home from birth to old age.
“It is a sad state of affairs, isn’t it, Mother? ”
“It’s the world we live in,” her mother answered.
“Augusta? A description of the duke, if you please,” her father interjected.
“The duke is well over six feet in height, has the bearing of a soldier, broad of shoulders, and he wears a gold mask, covering the left side of his face. He has blue eyes, and I could see a few scars near the left eye socket. I have not seen him without the mask, although Mrs. Dove-Lyon stated he was injured while in the army. I do not know the particulars. His hair is brown with gold streaks, tied back in a queue. His country seat, Bamford Park, is located near Purleigh in Essex. He was forthright and kind in our dealings.”
Her mother smiled. “I am glad to hear that.”
Her father harrumphed. “That aligns with what I was told. Allenby was a career soldier; his last commission was as a captain in the 8th Regiment of Foot in the American War of 1812. Before that, he fought in the Peninsular War in Spain with the King’s Dragoons.
He was injured in Upper Canada in ’13, and his cousin and heir to the dukedom died in the same battle.
Since his recovery and return home, he has been a recluse, staying in the country. ”
“So he meets with your approval, then?” Augusta asked.
“My daughter marrying a duke? How could I not approve? But this man is maimed, perhaps carrying scars within. Are you prepared to deal with that?” Her father’s concern left her speechless.
Augusta had not expected her father to show any emotion.
It also sparked a flicker of doubt. Would the duke be an overtly brooding man with a violent temper that erupted at any moment?
The butler entered the room. “The Duke of Allenby, my lord.”
Allenby entered the room, his long coat billowing around him. He wore the gold mask and handed his hat and gloves to Jacobs, the butler, then strode immediately toward her father, extending his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”
Her father returned the handshake. “And I, you, Your Grace. May I present my wife, Viscountess Hampton?” Her father’s tone was brisk, as usual, but Allenby seemed to take no offense.
“Please, my lady, do not rise.” Allenby took her mother’s outstretched hand and bent elegantly over it. “A distinct pleasure.”
“Please take a seat, Your Grace,” her mother offered, pointing to the sofa next to Augusta.
He did, while her father sat in the wing chair beside her mother. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Cheevers,” Allenby murmured.
“Your Grace.”
Allenby reached into his coat pocket and held out a paper to her father. “A special license, signed by Bishop Sweeney.”
Her father took the paper and examined it. “I know the bishop. Everything appears to be in order.”
“Then we will proceed, as Bishop Sweeney awaits us.” The duke extended his hand, and her father handed him the license. “There is no need for you to attend, unless you wish it.”
“So soon?” her mother questioned.
“Yes, we must make haste. You are ready to depart, Mrs. Cheevers?”
“I am, Your Grace.”
“What about the business end of this arrangement?” her father asked. “We should retire to my study to discuss the particulars.”
“There is not much to discuss. As for a dowry, I do not see why one is required. However, I will ask for a small stipend, just to do thing the right way. Shall we say, three thousand pounds? My solicitor will be in touch to make the arrangements. There is no rush.” The duke stood.
“I daresay this is not a subject to be discussed in front of the ladies, but very well. Three thousand,” her father replied. He looked relieved, as if he expected the duke to ask for more. “As for attending, it is best we do not.”
Augusta was actually thankful. She instinctively knew why he refused. This way, her father could feign surprise when the marriage became public fodder for society gossip.
“I also have a request, my lord. In the future, you will treat your daughter with respect. She will be a duchess. If we cross paths in London, you will not give her the cut direct, and if we invite you and the viscountess to our town house, you will accept. You will also acknowledge Reese.”
Her father began to sputter, but Allenby raised his hand to silence him. “Reese is your grandson. I will provide him with my protection and ensure he receives the best education. I will also give him my name. From this day forward, he will be my son, Reese Bamford. You will address him as such.”
At that moment, Augusta just may have fallen a little in love with the scarred duke.