Read June Calvin Online

Authors: The Dukes Desire

June Calvin (2 page)

His sister-in-law’s response to that suggestion did not surprise him, however. “Certainly not! Once was quite enough!” Deborah’s full lips firmed with determination.

“Ah, well.” Vincent, embarrassed, skirted any discussion of her marriage. He was ashamed of his late brother’s cruelty to his wife. So far they had managed to prevent it from being generally known, and pride demanded that he keep it thus. Such behavior, while lawful, was frowned upon by the
ton.
Fortunately, Deborah hated scandal as much as she hated her husband’s memory, so she could be counted on to continue to say nothing.

“Then our business is at an end. Will you stay to nuncheon?” He stood.

It was a pro forma invitation, as both knew. Deborah avoided her in-laws whenever possible, and they were content to have it so. Making a polite excuse, she escaped to the hall, where Croyden dispatched a footman to bring her mare around. Deborah fled the butler’s company, pacing the front portico until Buttercup arrived. Croyden had been an avid observer of her tumultuous, unhappy marital struggles at Woodcrest too many times for her ever to be comfortable in his presence.

How would she tell Jennifer?
Deborah felt the tears sting her cheeks as she made the short ride to the dower house. Her daughter abhorred the idea of marriage; though Deborah had tried to reassure her that not all men would behave as her father had done, the child had seen too much not to dread putting herself into any man’s power.

She was relieved that Jennifer was not in the house when she arrived. She washed the tears from her face and changed from her heavy black riding habit into a cool summer morning gown before seeking her daughter in the most likely place, their garden.

Her heart rose in her throat as she saw Jennifer romping about with her King Charles spaniel puppy. Her light brown curls were bouncing, her cheeks flushed from her pleasurable exertion. She was a child, just a child. To have to marry so soon!

But they would have to do as Vincent commanded, of course. He was Jenny’s guardian. He was not deliberately cruel as his brother, Seymour, had been, but he had little true feeling for women’s sensibilities, and such as he had was quite used up in concern for his two insipid daughters.

A few minutes of thought had brought Deborah to the conclusion that it was not dislike of administering Jenny’s fortune that caused Vincent to hurry her toward marriage. No, Jenny must marry while still a child so that Lettice and Patience would not have to compete with their beautiful, well-dowered cousin in the marriage mart.

“What is it, Mother?” With her usual sensitivity, Jennifer rushed up to Deborah as soon as she caught sight of her. “Why are you so Friday-faced? Does Uncle Vincent want you to play at some party or something?”

“No, Jenny, it is much more serious than that.” Deborah led her daughter to the bench beneath the willow tree, where it was marginally cooler on this warm summer day.

When she had explained her brother-in-law’s edict, Jenny threw herself on her mother’s breast, weeping. “I don’t want to. I don’t want to marry, ever!”

“Now, Jenny, we have discussed this.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Just because I had an unfortunate marriage does not say that you will. We shall just have to choose your husband with great care. At any rate, you don’t wish your uncle to choose. He would focus upon a title and a fortune, without regard for whether his candidate and you would suit.”

Jenny sat up, her lower lip trembling. “I’m afraid, Mother.”

Deborah nodded, staring off into the distance toward the magnificent outlines of Woodcrest, where she had been brought as a young, innocent bride a little more than nineteen years ago. She had been afraid then, too, and with good reason. Her parents had chosen Seymour for her. He had seemed a good choice—handsome, titled, wealthy, witty, sophisticated. They had forgotten to inquire if he had a heart.

“If you will allow yourself to be guided by me, Jenny, I do not despair of finding a man who will treat you well. I believe I have gained some insight into the sex.”
Dearly won,
she thought.
Oh, so dearly won.

Jenny nodded fervently. “I will, Mother.”

Deborah patted her hands soothingly. “I will make it my first concern to know whether he is apt to be kind and gentle, and no gamester. But in case we are deceived, or he should change, I will insist that the marriage settlements be structured in such a way that he cannot waste all of your portion, so that you do not have to live on the charity of your in-laws, as I do!”

“Yes,” Jenny agreed, nodding her head until her soft curls bounced. “And one who will agree to let you make your home with us.”

“That may be asking too much,” Deborah cautioned, but her brown eyes kindled with hope. This was an idea she had not yet contemplated.
Was it possible? Oh, to be free of Vincent and Winnie, and out of sight of the towers of Woodcrest!

I shall look in the peerage,
Deborah thought.
And study the papers. I must find out who is available, sufficiently wealthy, and yet likely to be kind to a young wife.
Reluctantly, but with a grim determination born of necessity, she began laying plans for finding a suitable husband for her daughter.

Chapter 2

“’Tis a great mistake to have one’s ball so early in the season, do you not agree, Your Grace?”

Before the Duke of Harwood could respond to the plump woman by his side, he was interrupted by a dignified matron, Lady Penton-Smythe, another member of the cluster of females surrounding him.

“Do you say so, Amelia? I was just thinking how fortunate she is to have it all behind her. With her daughter’s ball out of the way, she can just relax and enjoy the season.”

“But only consider, my dear Adelaide. This early in the season, some of the best people are not yet in town. And then, with so few on hand, and so many yet unknown to one, one is forced to include someone who simply won’t take. Such as the Cornwall chit over there.” Amelia Gracemont so far forgot herself as to point briefly with her fan.

“Who?” Lady Penton-Smythe turned to stare.

“Jennifer Silverton, daughter of the late Viscount Cornwall. See her there with her mother? All arms and legs and eyes. She has no conversation and can barely dance for stumbling over her own feet, though it hardly matters, for who would ask her to dance, except for fortune hunters and men hoping to curry favor with her mother? Such a shame to bring a daughter to town so ill-prepared. I’ve been preparing my Hermione so that she knows how to conduct herself in society.
She
won’t detract from a man’s consequence, no, even if he should be a duke, do you not agree, Your Grace?”

The Duke of Harwood, thus appealed to, turned his cool grey gaze upon the young woman standing by Mrs. Gracemont. Though only slightly taller than her mother, and scarcely less rotund, she had somehow mastered the trick of looking down her short nose upon the world in a supercilious manner.

“Oh, I absolutely do agree, Mrs. Gracemont. Indeed, your daughter has so much consequence of her own, she scarce needs to marry a man with any. Coals to Newcastle. She will be the making of some plain mister of no social pretensions. I know a very wealthy ironmonger whose son requires just such a wife to establish himself in society. Shall I arrange an introduction, ma’am?”

Mrs. Gracemont froze in horror, torn between the fear of offending the duke and the absolute necessity of disavowing interest in pledging her daughter to a Cit. The other ladies in the group were equally stunned, though one nervous giggle was heard. In the rare conversational vacuum thus created, the duke was able to free himself from the cluster of matchmaking mothers.

Excusing himself, he glanced around the Penwickets’ ballroom, first locating Sarah, who was dispiritedly trudging her way through a country-dance. Then he began examining the fringes of the ballroom, seeking the object of Mrs. Gracemont’s scorn. He located her quickly, a coltish young woman in a gauzy white dress, identifiable to him by her close resemblance to her beautiful mother, who was wearing a striking gown of deep coral satin.

“All arms and legs and eyes,” he whispered to himself. Yes, she was that. Antelope eyes, Byron would have called them, and very like those of her mother. She would be a beauty, too, one day, just as Lady Cornwall was. Tall, perfectly proportioned, and graceful, Deborah had always been a woman no man could ignore.

Harwood’s eyes swept over the dowager viscountess, pleased to note that his wife’s friend had kept her looks. She must be—what—thirty-eight? And looked young enough to be the sister of the child by her side, not her mother.

But why bring so green a girl to the Penwickets’ ball, or any ball, for that matter? She was obviously still too young to face society, and sadly frightened at that, as well she should be with harpies such as Mrs. Gracemont and Lady Penton-Smythe about to rend her limb from limb for the sin of being prettier than their daughters.

Well, no matter. She was here, and Harwood saw a chance to repay a very old favor.

The duke worked his way around the ballroom floor, still managing to keep Sarah in the corner of his vision. He ignored several feminine attempts to catch his attention and detain him.

Lady Cornwall became aware of the tall, dark-haired man bearing down on her with firm purpose in his stride. She mentally braced herself, preparing to repel the enemy as politely but firmly as she could. The silver at his temples made him ineligible for Jennifer, and she herself had no interest in masculine attention.

When he drew near enough, the duke saluted Lady Cornwall by name. Surprised, for she did not think she knew him, she looked up at him blankly.

“Justin Stanton, Lady Cornwall. We first met some nineteen years ago at another ball. You were kind enough to take my very frightened young duchess under your wing.”

The wary look in the viscountess’s eyes abated somewhat. “Can it be . . . ?” She recollected him now—remembered his narrow, high-bridged nose and wide forehead above penetrating grey eyes, his thin face and firmly molded chin and jawline. Lines radiating from his eyes and deep creases at the corners of his mouth were the main visible changes in the duke’s appearance. He wore his hair long, pulled back in a queue in the old fashion, though now there was no powder, nothing beyond nature’s silver tracery at his temples to lighten his raven-dark locks. His perfectly cut evening clothes underscored his sleek yet powerful build.

“Harwood?” Memories flooded her. Memories of a tiny, nervous young girl with this tall man hovering near her, so anxious that she not be hurt by bristling matrons who felt it their duty to let the new duchess know she’d married above her station. Deborah smiled welcomingly at the duke, offering her hand.

“At your service.” He bowed formally over her gloved hand. “And this must be your daughter. So very much like you, and promising to be as beautiful.”

Lady Cornwall nodded, retrieving her hand swiftly. “May I present my daughter, Jennifer, sir?”

“Enchanté.”
The duke took the young girl’s hand, smiling what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “The first ball of the season. A momentous occasion,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Jennifer gave the duke a deep, respectful curtsy, and then wobbled so on arising that her mother had to steady her by taking her elbow. Lady Cornwall flashed an apologetic look at the duke.

He did not allow any flicker of evidence that he noticed the young girl’s bobble. Instead, he looked toward the dance floor. “I want you to meet my daughter as soon as this dance is over.”

Lady Cornwall’s smile reached her eyes for the first time. “Is she here? I can’t wait to see her.”

The duke gave a small bow of acknowledgement. “Takes after her mother, as you shall see.” The dance had ended. He lifted his head a little, signifying that Sarah, who had been seeking him with her eyes, should come to him. She all but pulled her partner from the floor. The unfortunate young man stumbled behind her, chagrined awareness that he had not managed to charm Lady Sarah showing on his face.

Introductions being made, they all stood rather awkwardly for a moment. The duke took his daughter’s hand to be sure he had her full attention. “Lady Cornwall was extremely kind to your mother in her first season. You may recall her speaking of her friend Deborah.”

Sarah’s face, heretofore fixed with a social smile, lit up. “Are you Dee? Mama often told me the story of how terrible she felt, the first few times she went among the
ton.
You always joined her in the drawing rooms and made her feel welcome when the old biddies snubbed her.”

Lady Cornwall smiled reminiscently. “She was a very dear person. Harwood, you certainly spoke true—Sarah is the image of Eleanor! Except for her eyes, which are the same grey as yours, where Eleanor’s were a brilliant blue.”

“Is this your first season, Lady Sarah?” These were the first words Jennifer had managed. Her large brown eyes were fastened eagerly on the young girl before her.

Sarah sighed. “No, it’s my second. And I’d far rather be at Harwood Court, I can tell you.”

Jennifer nodded her head vigorously. “Me, too. That is, I’d rather be anywhere but here!”

“Jennifer.” Lady Cornwall’s voice held a warning tone, but Sarah suddenly came alive.

“Oh, I’m so glad I’m not the only one. Let us promenade.”

The young man who had been hovering on the fringes of the group, not sure how to leave but not particularly wanting to stay, brightened and offered Sarah his arm.

“No, Geoffrey, we mean to have a comfortable coze. Go away, do!”

It was Harwood’s turn to remonstrate. “Sarah . . .”

But Sarah’s bright head was already lifted eagerly to her taller companion as the two walked away, chatting excitedly.

Geoffrey gave Lady Cornwall and the duke a sketchy bow and retreated hastily. Harwood chuckled as he watched the boy go. “I’m afraid my daughter has deplorable manners sometimes.”

“At least she has self-confidence.” Lady Cornwall watched her daughter’s progress around the floor with worried eyes. “Jennifer is so overwhelmed by everything.”

Harwood’s smile faded. “She must not be but . . . Let me calculate . . . fifteen, sixteen?”

Lady Cornwall bristled at this reference to her daughter’s age, feeling defensive. “She will be seventeen in June.”

She relaxed a little as she saw that the duke’s expression lacked any hint of condemnation. Instead, he nodded his head sympathetically. “Ah, I see. It is awkward when their birthdays fall just at the end of the season. I sent Sarah to my sister to be presented last year when she was seventeen. She wasn’t very interested in the
ton
then, but I thought it was partly her youth. However, she is even more disdainful of the season this year.”

Deborah’s curiosity was aroused, but she could not well pry into his comments, for fear he might return the favor. Pride, which had kept her going and kept her prisoner so often, prevented her from explaining why she had brought Jennifer to the marriage mart so young. Instead she offered, “Then you know how difficult it can be, getting a young girl to overcome her shyness. And I have so few acquaintances, having been from town so many years . . . but I do not mean to bore you with my problems. Doubtless you will be wanting to dance.”

“By all means.” A waltz was just beginning. Harwood held out his hand to Lady Cornwall. She drew back, almost in horror.

“Heavens, I didn’t mean with me. I mean, that wasn’t a hint. I don’t intend to dance. I shall need to keep an eye on Jennifer.”

The duke took her refusal in good part. “Just so. I must needs watch Sarah, too, lest she insult every eligible
parti
in the place.”

Lady Cornwall’s questioning look was so devoid of malicious curiosity, so sympathetic, that the duke, not normally a confiding man, found himself explaining about Sarah’s disappointment, and her determination not to marry. He offered Deborah his arm and she, caught up in his story, took it absentmindedly. They trailed after their daughters in a companionable coze that was observed with interest by a goodly number of people in the ballroom.

***

Dolphus Heywood, Lord Morton, watched the progress of the young girls and their parents around the room with intense interest. He had already begun to harbor proprietarial feelings toward Seymour’s daughter and widow. The girl, with her fine dowry, would do very well for either of his sons. Perhaps better for the second, Newton, who was in need of an heiress, as he would inherit nothing from his father. Though to be sure, Harvey would get little enough other than entailed land and debts if Dolphus did not come about soon.

Another rich wife was what Lord Morton needed, but of course Deborah wasn’t eligible, as Seymour had thoughtlessly spent every sou of her money, leaving nothing for a second husband. But she would make an admirable mistress and doubtless be glad of the opportunity, for hadn’t she been a widow for two years now?

It did not occur to him that Lady Cornwall might have remained in the country after her husband’s death, and even long after she was out of mourning, because she had no interest in a lover. Nor did it occur to him that his powers of attraction left anything to be desired. He did not see the watery, bloodshot eyes when he looked into the mirror, nor the parti-colored grey and yellow of his hair, except to preen himself that it was more abundant than that of most men his age. He did not notice the fine varicose veins that threaded his nose and his fat cheeks. And the only time he acknowledged his embonpoint was when he struggled into his corset for nights such as this.

No, Lord Morton’s mirror still showed him the golden youth he once had been, with the clear, smooth peaches-and-cream skin any girl would envy, the bright yellow hair, and perfect teeth. When he looked in the mirror he saw, essentially, what his two handsome sons, both in their twenties, saw in theirs.

Well he knew that both boys were fortunate in taking after their illustrious sire, not their plain, mousy mother, a Cit’s daughter whom Dolphus had wed and then scorned while eagerly spending her fortune. His sons were alarmingly remiss in seeking out heiresses of their own. The older, Harvey, was more interested in carousing, while the younger was mad for sport, especially coaching.

Damn the lads, why were they not here? He could have presented them to Lady Cornwall’s child and let one of them charm her into wedlock before any serious rivals could appear on the scene.

It would be as well to go and renew his acquaintance with the beauteous widow and begin charming her daughter, to lay the groundwork for their arrival. But he would wait until she was away from Harwood. Something about the duke set Lord Morton’s teeth on edge.

***

Lydia Smithfield fluttered her ornately painted chicken-skin fan idly as she watched with glittering sapphire eyes the progress of Harwood and that Cornwall woman around the room. She scarcely heard the buzz of gossip around her as she considered the duke.

He had only improved with age, she thought, sensuously measuring his length, the strength implicit in those long legs and broad shoulders. His black hair was only slightly frosted at the temples. She shivered a little as her eyes caressed his person. She had always desired the Duke of Harwood, had often daydreamed of the havoc those firm lips might work upon a woman’s body. More than once she had imagined those cool grey eyes darkening with desire for her.

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