Chapter Two
“THE WOMEN ARE MULTIPLYING like spring lambs in Dorset,” Julian said, scowling down at the guests assembled in the courtyard. “I vow Glenys showed me only half the guest list.”
Radnor sauntered over to the window. “Ladies bring their maids, chaperones, sisters, and companions, so one lady turns into three, like the loaves and the fishes. To some fellows, that’s one of the nicer aspects of these gatherings.”
“This has become a refrain with you. We both know that I will not be marrying any of these women.”
Julian was in the ducal sitting room, enjoying the last few moments of privacy before joining the crowd on the back terrace. The terrace and the central court connected through an arch in the castle’s southern wall, and guests were strolling about like so many sheep waiting for somebody to bring them fresh fodder.
A shriek went up as two young women charged each other, arms flung wide. This display was followed by synchronized air kisses and more public effusions.
“In all of Papa’s lectures and exhortations,” Julian said, “he never once warned me about the ladies of polite society. I received endless admonitions about drink, gambling, the crown, the church, the tenants, and even our dear neighbors, the Sherbournes, but never did he instruct me regarding the ladies.”
Julian spoke in Welsh, which he’d not do with even Radnor if other titles were within earshot.
Radnor turned him by the shoulders and fluffed his cravat. “And how does the abundance of feminine pulchritude below challenge a man of your consequence?” he asked in the same language.
“I haven’t sufficient charm,” Julian said. “Not enough for the demands of that entire platoon of females.”
Radnor held up a gold cravat pin tipped with an emerald. The gem was not of the first quality, but nobody would notice unless they were examining Julian’s attire from very close range and in good light.
“Hold still lest I stab you through the heart before Cupid has a chance.” Radnor situated the emerald near the center of Julian’s lacy cravat.
“Cupid had best aim his arrows elsewhere.” Julian examined Radnor’s efforts in the vanity mirror. “You always get it off center.”
“And you always fix it,” Radnor replied, as Julian moved the pin a quarter inch to the right. “So you aren’t charming. You’re a duke. Being a duke beats being charming any day or night. Even I have trouble being charming to Delphine St. David, though. How on earth did she get onto the guest list?”
Julian gave himself a final inspection. His sartorial tastes were considered old-fashioned, tending toward heavily embroidered waistcoats, and cravats and cuffs on the lacey side. Tonight’s waistcoat had begun life as one of Grandpapa’s formal court coats, back before the late king had lost his wits. At Julian’s instruction, the castle seamstress had salvaged the exquisite embroidery, thus saving money while providing a touch of financial revenge on a profligate ancestor.
“Delphine is family,” Julian said, returning to the window, “and she’s dangerously bored. I could no more keep her away from a gathering like this than I could…I forgot to introduce myself.”
“Have you been at the brandy already?”
In the courtyard below, Miss Elizabeth Windham and an older lady had joined the guests enjoying the walkways.
“I cannot afford to be at the brandy,” Julian said. “I forgot to introduce myself to the Misses Windham earlier today.”
He’d nearly forgotten what it was like to be around a lady who didn’t simper and flutter at everything in breeches. Elizabeth Windham wasn’t a classic English beauty—red hair prevented that cliché from befalling her—but in her quiet composure, she was attractive.
“It’s not like you to forget who you are,” Radnor observed. “Which one is she?”
“Miss Elizabeth Windham is the redhead near the dragon.” The redhead with the tidy figure and calm blue eyes.
“You’ll have the next three weeks to remedy your oversight. She’s not a debutante.”
Miss Windham hadn’t been a debutante for some time, another point in her favor. She’d also been genuinely concerned for her sister, which was impressive considering the behavior of many young women when making the acquaintance of a bachelor duke.
“She and Glenys might be of an age,” Julian said. “And there’s a younger sibling along, Miss Charlotte Windham, also red-haired and beyond the silliest years.”
“Lady Glenys was never silly.” Radnor produced a silver flask. “Care for a nip?”
“I’ll be meeting most of my guests for the first time, bowing over countless hands, and running the gauntlet of chaperones and companions, and yet you suggest I have strong spirits on my breath.”
“You never know,” Radnor said, tipping the flask to his lips. “If you display a fondness for drink, you might have fewer debutantes popping out of linen closets at you.”
Julian swiped the flask and took a sip. Excellent brandy produced a quiet warmth that would fade all too quickly. “My thanks. What do you know of the Windham ladies?”
“The two young women are Moreland’s nieces.” Radnor pushed the curtain aside and peered down at the courtyard. “Lord Anthony Windham, the duke’s brother, has four daughters. One daughter recently married a Scottish duke, another daughter married the duke’s heir. Miss Elizabeth and Miss Charlotte are the older two and nearly on the shelf.”
“If Elizabeth Windham is on the shelf, why will my window bear the imprint of your nose when you quit this room, Radnor?”
“Because Sir Windy is standing too close to her,” Radnor said. “One must not turn one’s back on Nigel Windstruther when a pretty lady is about.”
“All the ladies deserve respect and protection. Pretty ought not to matter.”
Though honor did not require that a man ignore feminine beauty. The words that came to Julian’s mind where Miss Windham was concerned didn’t relate to physical attributes, though, but rather to the intangibles.
She was gracious, sensible, steady, settled. Julian’s first impression of her had been that she would have taken half the day to escort her ailing sister abovestairs if necessary, no hurry, no self-consciousness about their progress.
Elizabeth Windham was a woman who’d stick to her plans, and sensible plans they’d be, too.
“Good God,” Radnor said, taking another sip of brandy. “Now Hound Dog is on the scent.”
Viscount Haldale—Hound Dog being his nom de guerre—spent his fortune mostly on soiled doves and hunters, or as the wags said, on mounts and being mounted. Haldale joined Miss Windham, Sir Nigel, and the older lady, bowing elaborately over the hands of both women.
“We’d best get down there.” Radnor put his flask away. “What were you thinking when you invited those two, Haverford? If Lady Glenys allows either of them so much as a dance, then her judgment is not to be trusted.”
“Lady Glenys will dance with all of the bachelors, just as I will stand up with all of the debutantes. Haldale and Sir Nigel came with sisters, with whom I will also dance.”
“I daresay you’d sound more enthusiastic about having a tooth drawn,” Radnor muttered, leading the way toward the door. “You’ll frighten all the poor little dears, and I’ll have to charm them out of returning to London by post.”
“You must not exert yourself on my behalf,” Julian said, taking Radnor down the footmen’s stairs, which saved time and offered privacy. “It does occur to me—merely in passing—that you are in want of a wife, and one of my lovely guests might willingly fulfill that office.”
“If you start matchmaking, Haverford, our friendship is quits.”
Julian paused before opening the ground-floor door. “Likewise, I’m sure. However, when you are overtaxed by the ladies’ demands, then you shall remove to Radnor Hall, claiming the press of business calls you away.”
Tuck tail and run. The best plans were often that simple, though Julian’s plan—be a gracious duke and endure the next three weeks—struck him as a bit too simple.
“Thank God for the press of business,” Radnor said, pushing the door open. “You will please introduce me to Miss Windham.”
“You aren’t already acquainted?”
“I was probably introduced to her ages ago, but a woman with blood that blue can forget even a handsome, witty, charming, single marquess when it suits her.”
“Modesty, however, makes a lasting impression. You should give it a try. Is Miss Windham an heiress?”
Not that her financial circumstances mattered, of course.
“I’m sure her settlements are respectable.” Radnor gave Julian’s cravat a flick, so the emerald was clearly visible amid the lace. “But her dowry should be a matter of utter indifference to a duke who took a vow of chastity when he turned thirty.”
“I took a vow of prudence when Helena Mulbridge claimed I’d trifled with her when I was a mere lad of nineteen.” The memory still gave Julian nightmares, while his father had laughed uproariously. “Miss Windham’s enviable connections and her poise will doubtless result in the bachelors bothering her without mercy.”
While Julian would admire her from afar.
Radnor paused before a pier-glass and smiled at himself.
“Too bold,” Julian said. “Try for more élan.”
“Élan? What the devil has élan—? Like this?” Radnor put some eyebrow into it, and a hint of humor in his gaze.
“Much better. You’ll frighten every woman under the age of fifty. About Miss Windham?”
“Rumor has it that Lord Anthony is mad to fire her off, especially now that two younger sisters have scampered up the church aisle. I fancy a bit of maturity in a woman.”
“Opposites attract, I suppose.”
Radnor was damned good-looking. His dark hair had a Byronic curl, and his eyes were a warm brown. He was kind, funny, tolerant of human foibles, and no fool. When the right woman came along and made an honest marquess of Radnor, Julian would miss his friend.
His lordship set off at a more decorous pace. “Scoff all you like, Haverford, but if the object of this exercise in extravagant hospitality is to find a husband for Lady Glenys, then the sooner Miss Windham is spoken for, the more chance you have of seeing your sister married off.”
“So when you drool all over Miss Windham’s bodice, you’ll be doing me a favor?” Julian asked, as they stepped out onto the terrace.
The image of Radnor fawning over Elizabeth Windham had no appeal. None at all.
“Just so. I’m a marquess. The other fellows will retire from the lists when they see that the lady has earned my favor. No need to thank me. What are friends for, after all?”
* * *
“I counted forty-two carriages,” Griffin St. David said. “That’s a lot of carriages.”
Biddy kept kneading the bread. Biddy liked to knead bread, and that was good, because Griffin loved to eat it, especially with butter and jam.
“Forty-two is a lot,” she said. “Hadn’t you better be at your studies, Master Griffin? His Grace will come around again, asking what you’ve learned, and you won’t want to disappoint him.”
His Grace was Julian, though Biddy never called Griffin’s older brother anything except “His Grace,” or “the duke,” or “his worship.” Griffin did not want to disappoint Julian, ever, but Biddy was wrong. With all those carriages up at the castle, Julian would be too busy to visit anytime soon.
“Why did so many carriages go up the drive, Biddy?”
She smacked the dough hard, which was to make certain the bread baked up without holes. Griffin used to help her make bread—he was very good at smacking the dough—until Abner had explained that making bread was women’s work.
Women grew vexed if men stole their work and left the ladies feeling less than useful, according to Abner. Griffin suspected Biddy had different views on the matter.
“I couldn’t say what all those carriages are about, Master Griffin. Can you tell me any new stars?”
Griffin knew the stars well enough, and liked to lie on his back in the garden and talk to them. “You know all the ones I know. I’ve never seen forty-two carriages before.”
“That is a lot, though why they’re at the castle, I could not say.”
Biddy didn’t want to talk to him. She was seldom cross, but when she said the same things over and over, she didn’t want to talk anymore.
“I’m going for a walk,” Griffin said.
She left off punching the bread dough. “This evening might not be a good time for a walk, Griffin. Looks like rain to me.”
The evening sun shone brightly, and the clouds weren’t the kind that brought rain. Biddy was telling a fib.
“This is a good evening for a walk. I didn’t take a walk this morning, because I hoped Julian would visit, even though he hadn’t sent his card. Then he paid a call on me. Now I want to take a walk.”
Biddy wiped her hands on her apron, which got flour all over it. “You can’t go up to the castle now. They have company there.”
Griffin took a pinch of dough. Soon the kitchen would smell wonderful, and then the fresh bread would taste wonderful. “They have lots and lots of company. I counted forty-two carriages.”
“If there were two people in each carriage, how many people would that be?”
Biddy was trying to distract him from taking a walk, and for a moment, that would work. Griffin could not do large sums in his head, but he loved sums on paper.
“I will solve that riddle, then take a walk,” he said. “I want to see the carriages, Biddy. I won’t pay a call. I know a gentleman doesn’t pay a call without sending a card first. Besides, I’m not dressed for visiting.”
Biddy had to tie his cravat when he went out socializing, because he could never get the fancy knot right. Julian was very good at fancy knots. When Glenys tied them, they were always too tight, but Griffin would never hurt his sister’s feelings by complaining.
“If you walk up the hill, you can see the carriages, but promise me you won’t visit at the castle, Griffin. Your word on that as a gentleman.”
A gentleman never broke his word. Griffin took another bite of dough while he considered whether he could make this promise. Biddy got very disappointed when he broke promises, and Julian paced about and lectured and looked worried.
Griffin hated when Julian worried. “I will not stop in at the castle this evening.”
“Take King Henry, then. Come home before dark, and don’t leave the property.”
This time of year, the sun set very late, meaning Griffin would have a good, long ramble. “I love you, Biddy Bowen.”
“Go on with you, Master Griffin, and be careful.”
She always told him to be careful, but he wasn’t a little boy anymore. He had his own house, his own servants, and his own dog, after all.
Griffin took a final pinch of dough and left the kitchen, then stopped by his room for his telescope, and called for King Henry. He went into the study to work out the two-people-in-each-carriage question with a pencil and paper. The vehicles were lined up behind the Haverford carriage house, so he could count them again from Tudor Hill.
He would not pay a call, though. A gentleman always kept his word, and a gentleman told the truth, but a gentleman also formed his own plans and made his own decisions too.
Julian always said so.
* * *
“Now will you allow me to return to Charlotte’s bedside?” Elizabeth muttered.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Arabella Windham, Lady Pembroke, scoffed. Her scoffs were more effective for being amused. “This buffet is like the organizational gathering before the race meet begins, when you draw lots for your position at the starting line. If you retire abovestairs, the ladies will label you standoffish, and the gentlemen will become more persistent.”
Elizabeth and her aunt strolled past a topiary wolf that was a bit too lifelike in the courtyard’s evening shadows.
“Those fellows are the same gentlemen who considered a quadrille with me a penance earlier this year,” Elizabeth retorted. “They are hardly likely to turn up persistent now.”
“You have yet to dance a quadrille with Haverford,” Aunt replied, coming to a halt.
Two men had joined the group on the terrace. Both were dark-haired, tall, good-looking specimens, but one was dressed with subtle touches of individuality. His cuffs were edged with lace, his cravat was exquisitely knotted, his hair longish and devoid of fashionable curls.
And he could carry a woman the length of the house as if she weighed no more than a pampered house cat.
“Which one is Haverford?” Elizabeth asked. She knew which one, though his companion was also a fine-looking fellow.
“The one who bears a resemblance to Lady Glenys, of course. You must pay attention, Elizabeth. I’m to report to your parents that you’re the toast of the house party, have smitten swains slobbering over your hand by the score, and have passed a few gallants Charlotte’s way too.”
“Before we’ve had our first meal?”
Sir Nigel and Lord Haldale had been Aunt’s first meal. She’d disentangled Elizabeth from their fawning after the longest five minutes of Elizabeth’s life.
“Don’t be daft, my dear. Before the end of the week will serve. Haverford and Radnor are both maturing nicely. I have heard talk of an unnatural relationship between them, but you mustn’t heed it. Radnor in particular did his bit for the petticoat regiment when he came down from university, much like his father and uncles did.”
“Aunt, we are in public.”
On the journey to Wales, Elizabeth had come to appreciate that Arabella Windham was an ally, for all her outspokenness. Aunt had been widowed relatively young, before her daughters had made their come outs, and in all these years, she hadn’t remarried.
Her literary salons were lively and well attended, her reputation spotless, and her store of social intelligence an endless marvel.
“Young men are lonely,” Aunt said, taking Elizabeth by the arm and moving her past the wolf. “They hardly know it, they’re so busy with their cockfights, mistresses, and stupid wagers. Drink excuses their rare flights of honesty and allows them to forget when they turn up a bit too human. Your Uncle Peter came up with that theory.”
Aunt never referred to him as Elizabeth’s “late” Uncle Peter, though Elizabeth had only vague memories of the man. He’d been tall, quiet, pale, and kind. Most of Elizabeth’s recollections of Uncle Peter were of him sitting in a Bath chair or shuffling about on the arms of two stout footmen.
A bad heart, according to the physicians. A very good, bad heart, according to Aunt.
“Now that’s an interesting addition to the gathering.” Aunt paused near a pot of salvia that looked in need of a drink. “Delphine St. David is a cat among the pigeons, and there go the pigeons.”
Both Sir Nigel and Lord Haldale had left the punch bowl to bow over Mrs. St. David’s hand.
“She’s fast?”
Aunt opened a fan sporting a pair of painted doves, and used it to shield her words. “Despite being married to the duke’s second cousin, she’s a comet streaking across the firmament of willing young men,” Aunt said quietly. “Whoever invited her knew what they were about, because she’ll separate the gentlemen from the hounds. Shall we sit?”
“Of course. I hope you were able to rest before changing for dinner.”
“Elizabeth, if you attempt to nanny me, I’ll see you compromised with Haldale. I would not have made this journey had I thought it would tax me unduly.”
Haverford was working his way about the courtyard, while Radnor had joined the group greeting Mrs. St. David.
“You cannot be nannied,” Elizabeth murmured, pouring her glass of water into the salvia, “but I’m to be treated like a dimwitted schoolgirl?”
Aunt patted her hand. “No need to sulk, Bethan. You’ve more titles hanging from your family tree than the rest of the guests put together.”
Because of those titles, the prospect of the next three weeks left Elizabeth feeling as wilted as the salvia beside the bench. For the past ten years, she’d vacillated between being the charming, pretty-ish schoolgirl who diligently flattered every man to whom she wasn’t related, and the bluestocking who’d given up on matrimony and men for unassailably sound reasons.
Contorting oneself into what potential suitors wanted was tiring and hadn’t borne results worth repeating. Why were men unconcerned about what women wanted?
“How did you do it, Aunt? How did you endure being a titled widow with means? Sometimes I think I’d have been better off marrying the first fool to try to steal a kiss under the rose arbor.”
Aunt snapped her fan closed. “Elizabeth, this is not the time to indulge in a case of the mollygrubs. You might be surprised to know I’m as determined to keep you from settling for the wrong man as I am to see you give the right man his due.”
His due being everything Elizabeth owned, intimate rights, and the rest of her life.
“Excuse me, ladies. I’ve yet to properly welcome you.” His Grace of Haverford accepted Arabella’s hand and bowed. “Lady Pembroke, if you’d do the honors?”
As Aunt trotted through the introductions, Haverford bowed over Elizabeth’s hand, his grasp neither protracted nor familiar, more’s the pity. Nothing in his demeanor suggested he’d passed Elizabeth a porcelain basin not two hours earlier.
“Could that be Benedict Andover?” Aunt remarked, when the topic of the lovely weather had been suitably flogged. “I haven’t seen dear Benny for an age. Your Grace, Elizabeth, please do excuse me. One must not miss an opportunity to catch up with old friends.”
She swanned off, waving her fan in the direction of a lean elderly gentleman with snow-white hair clubbed back in the old style.
“I’m sorry,” Elizabeth said, rising. “Aunt Arabella was about as subtle as an artillery barrage. Don’t feel compelled to keep me company, Your Grace. I’ve imposed on your kind nature enough for one day.”
Haverford stood out from the other gentlemen, in part because of his height, but also because he was subtly…splendiferous. Other men wore embroidered waistcoats, but not in such bold colors. Other men sported lace on the edges of their cravats, but not in such elegant abundance. The duke made an impression without trying, and how Elizabeth envied him his self-possession.
“Don’t do that,” he said, his expression remaining cordial despite his terse words. “Don’t make yourself an object of pity. I’m simply greeting guests and saving myself a scold from my sister, at whose feet the blame for this entire gathering must lie.”
He hadn’t meant to say that, based on the intensity with which he studied the topiary swan at the end of the walk.
“I thought the purpose of the party was to parade eligible bachelors before Lady Glenys.” Elizabeth’s parents had promised her that this house party would feature only the most well-bred, handsome, well-heeled bachelors, gentlemen worthy of the notice of a duke’s sister—or a duke’s niece.
Haverford leaned two inches closer. “Lady Glenys conceived of this party as a means to remedy my bachelor status. I mitigated the damage as best I could. I trust you’ll keep that in confidence.”
He smelled of cedar, a simple, lovely scent. Now that Elizabeth wasn’t pouting over her own fate, she noticed a surfeit of fetchingly attired, desperately vivacious young ladies amid the crowd.
“You poor lamb,” she said. “You will be pleased to know that I have no intention of pestering you for a proposal.”
He nodded to some prancing dandy over at the punch bowl. “Nor have I any intention of offering any proposals. I’ll keep your secret if you’ll keep mine.”
What a lovely smile he had. A little off center, a bit conspiratorial, and—who would have thought?—a touch dashing.
“We have a bargain, Your Grace. Please do not take my aunt into your confidence or even my sister Charlotte.”
“My lips are sealed, et cetera and so on, Miss Windham. Let me introduce you to Lord Radnor, if you’ve not had the pleasure. He’ll appreciate a woman of sense.”
Within a few minutes, Elizabeth was being escorted to the buffet on the Marquess of Radnor’s arm. He was charming, witty, handsome, and boring. Haverford, by contrast, had been more genuine than Elizabeth had anticipated, and standing close to him, she’d seen the determination lurking beneath the satin and lace.
Haverford truly didn’t intend to propose to anybody—a refreshingly honest sentiment.
Also—for no reason Elizabeth could discern—a trifle disappointing.