“You look fairly miserable.”
Looking up from the tiny figure that was standing before him on his desk, Anthony met his brother’s gaze as Winston entered the study and moved toward one of two empty chairs that stood on the opposite side of the table.
Anthony shrugged as his brother lowered himself onto one of the seats. “Just busying myself with my latest project,” he said. He’d no desire to talk about the conversation he’d had with Mr. and Mrs. Chilcott earlier in the day, for the experience had left him not only drained but also with a sense of hopelessness that he was finding hard to shake. They were all against him, including Miss Chilcott. Reaching out, he picked up the figure he’d made of her using an old teaspoon, some wire and a bit of horse hair. He’d fashioned a gown from the piece of torn fabric he’d found and painted her face to the best of his ability on the spoon. Twirling her gently between his fingers, he met his brother’s gaze. “I should probably just give up.”
Winston raised a brow. “Is it that hopeless?”
Anthony sighed. Reluctant though he was, he knew that he might as well tell his brother everything, so he did, as accurately as he could manage but without any mention of the intimate moment he’d shared with Miss Chilcott on the way to her aunt’s house. Some things deserved to be kept private. When he was done, he couldn’t help but note the look of disbelief on his brother’s face.
“Mrs. Chilcott said that to you?” Winston asked, gaping. He frowned as he shook his head, as if trying to make sense of it. Anthony understood him—he’d been trying to comprehend the woman’s boorishness since the moment he’d left her house. “She clearly has no respect for your title, Anthony.”
“That goes without saying,” Anthony said dryly. He paused for a moment before adding, “Her daughter claims she hates the nobility and all it stands for. I just hadn’t expected her to be quite so . . . difficult to deal with.”
“One cannot help but understand her reasoning though.”
“Whose side are you on?” Anthony growled as he set the figure of Miss Chilcott down and glared across at his brother.
Winston rolled his eyes. “Yours, of course, you idiot, though you have to admit that your talk of having found some profound connection with Miss Chilcott that you believe will lead to true love—all in the space of one evening—does sound just a little bit unbelievable.”
“You think I’m being fanciful,” Anthony blistered. He’d had a headache since leaving the Chilcott’s, which had abated during the course of the evening, but he could feel it threatening to return now in full force.
“I would prefer to think of you as hopeful. However, all I am saying is that it would be odd if Mr. and Mrs. Chilcott would welcome you with open arms on the basis of such a claim, agreeing to end their daughter’s acquaintance with a suitor who, while he may not be the ideal match for her and might be a cold fish with some rather peculiar notions, is firmly grounded in reality—the Chilcotts know what to expect of him.”
“Are you saying that I am not realistic?” Anthony asked. He spoke slowly in an attempt to keep his rising temper at bay.
Winston regarded him for a moment. “I’ve always thought you were,” he eventually said. “Being a rake and all that . . . Well, you know how it is—rakes don’t usually believe in love, or at the very least, they don’t plan to find themselves immersed in it. But you’ve changed over the last few years, and now, with this whole business regarding Miss Chilcott, I daresay you’ve taken on quite the romantic streak, and we all know that romantics are not grounded in reality, Anthony.”
Anthony frowned. “That’s not true.”
“Of course it is,” Winston countered. “Romantics are dreamers, and dreams rarely have anything to do with reality.”
“What the devil are you talking about? You married Sarah, didn’t you? And Lord knows you dreamed of her for an eternity before anything came of it.”
“True, but I never would have presumed that she’d accept my proposal or that her father would give us his blessing unless they’d been certain that my intentions were honorable and that I wanted her for her and not for something more . . . devious . . . though of course I did.” Winston grinned broadly at that, which could only suggest that there was real passion between him and his wife.
“Would you please speak plainly?” Anthony said, crossing to the sideboard to pour two glasses of brandy.
“What I’m trying to say is that you might have more success at convincing them by avoiding whatever feelings you have for their daughter until you can speak of them without sounding as though you merely wish to toss her on your bed.”
“I alluded to no such thing!” Anthony turned abruptly in response to his brother’s words and the brandy sloshed over the side of one of the glasses, wetting his hand. He handed the other glass to Winston and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket so he could wipe away the liquid.
“Of course you did,” Winston protested. “How else do you suppose they might interpret your talk of being inexplicably drawn to their daughter? You need only look to Mrs. Chilcott’s response—inappropriate though it may be—to find your answer.”
Silence filled the room while the two brothers stared back at each other. Anthony eventually raised his glass to his lips and took a deep sip before sitting back down on his chair. “I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”
Winston sighed. “Honestly, I can’t say. It’s possible that they would have turned you away regardless, but I do believe you might have stood a better chance if you’d done it differently. You should probably have romanced the mother to get to the daughter—flowers, chocolates and such.”
“Hmmph . . . I doubt that would have made a difference. I’m a duke, Winston, most parents would be thrilled at the prospect of their daughter marrying so well. Not the Chilcotts though. From what I gather they’d be more accepting of me if I were a laborer, which of course is absurd. In any case, using my title for leverage is having no effect at all—quite the opposite. I believe I’ll have to find another way.”
Winston nodded. “Well, I wish you the best of luck.” There was no need for him to say that Anthony would need it. The implication was abundantly clear, the only problem being that luck was something Anthony was beginning to feel he had in short supply. What he really needed, was a miracle.
“Lady Crooning and her daughter are here to see you, Your Grace,” Phelps announced the following morning as Anthony and his secretary were going over some of the duke’s investments. He wanted to finish quickly so he could spend some time with his houseguests, who’d been entertained entirely by Winston, Louise and his mother for the last few days while he had been traipsing after Miss Chilcott. It really wouldn’t do. So, he’d arranged for a picnic down by the lake, hoping that this would serve to prove that he hadn’t neglected his visitors, as well as allow him the afternoon free to seek out Miss Chilcott’s company again. He had to spend more time with her if they were to further their acquaintance, and, by doing so, he hoped to weaken whatever objections she had toward him until she had no choice but to accept the obvious—that they were meant to be together.
Reluctant to waste precious time on a countess whose company he wasn’t particularly fond of, not to mention her daughter, whom he liked even less, Anthony requested that Phelps ask his mother to do the honors. “She is better acquainted with Lady Crooning anyway,” he added.
Phelps remained stubbornly in the doorway however. “The duchess is already with them, Your Grace. It was she who requested that I ask you to join them.”
Damn!
It was with great reluctance that Anthony rose to his feet, muttering a few words to his secretary before following Phelps from his study. Pausing just outside the parlor, he pasted a bright smile on his face before nodding for Phelps to open the door. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said upon seeing Lady Crooning and her daughter Lady Harriett perfectly poised upon the sofa, each gracefully holding a teacup. Anthony bowed toward the ladies, then turned to his mother, leaned down to place a kiss upon her cheek and whispered, “I should have your head for this.”
The duchess responded, as he had expected, with a deep chuckle as she waved her hand with delight. “Do join us, Your Grace—we’ve been so looking forward to your company.”
“Is that so?” Anthony asked as he planted himself in one of the other armchairs and regarded his mother in the hopes of eliciting an explanation from her.
“We wished to thank you for your hospitality the other evening. The ball was a grand success,” Lady Crooning said as she placed her teacup delicately upon its matching saucer.
If one ignores the attendance of two uninvited guests, one of whom was shot, then yes it was, Anthony thought dryly. “Thank you,” he said instead, “but you didn’t have to trouble yourselves by coming all the way out here and offering your appreciation in person—a simple note would have sufficed.”
“Yes, well . . .” Lady Crooning’s face took on a strained expression. “We thought we might take the opportunity to invite you to visit us for dinner one evening and,” she added, smiling a bit too serenely for it to be genuine, “to take a look at Harriett’s watercolors. She’s quite the artist, you know.”
“I’m sure she is,” Anthony muttered, removing his gaze from Lady Crooning and looking straight at Lady Harriett, who immediately blushed. He should have known that the countess was trying to unload her daughter on him, for she’d never been a close friend of his mother’s and could have had no other reason for visiting. He only wondered why in God’s name his mother hadn’t told the blasted woman that he wasn’t available to receive her. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I must regrettably decline. You see, I still have houseguests to entertain. It would be rude of me to abandon their company for an evening. Surely you understand.”
“Yes, yes of course,” Lady Crooning said, looking not the least bit pleased about his rejection. She quickly brightened again however, which put Anthony immediately on edge. “Not to worry though. The Season will begin soon enough, isn’t that so? And with the Darwich Ball to kick it off no less—our invitation arrived yesterday. Now, we all know how boisterous these things can be and what a trial it is to seek your dance partners upon arrival. It would be so much simpler if one had already secured at least one dance in advance.”
Oh, no.
“Which is why,” Lady Crooning continued blithely, “we’ve had the splendid foresight of bringing Harriett’s dance card with us. I’m sure you won’t mind adding your name to it, Your Grace, considering how fond you are of dancing.”
Anthony could have kicked himself for having danced all those dances the other evening. It wasn’t that he had a particular aversion to the activity, especially not when he considered the waltzes he’d enjoyed with Miss Chilcott, but it had armed the countess with the ammunition she required to corner him into agreeing to dance with her daughter. He had no choice—not unless he wished to be frightfully rude. So he smiled and said, “It would be an honor.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Lady Crooning and Lady Harriett exchanged the smuggest smiles he’d ever seen. They clearly viewed him as prey to be caught and devoured. Accepting the dance card that Lady Harriett had removed from her reticule and thrust in his direction while her eyes shone with victory, Anthony quickly scribbled his name, hoping he would have secured Miss Chilcott’s hand in marriage by the time the Darwich Ball came to pass. A monumental task, it seemed, given the resistance he’d met with so far. However, he wasn’t about to give up just yet—especially not with Lady Harriett looking at him as if she’d been a cat who’d just found a mouse on which to pounce.
Annoyed by their audacity, Anthony picked up his teacup and leaned back in his seat. “I wonder,” he then drawled in a pensive tone, “if you are familiar with the Chilcotts?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother gape, but he chose to ignore her.
Lady Crooning frowned. “I don’t believe I know them, Your Grace. Do they live in Moxley?”
“Yes—at the end of Brook Street, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Oh,” Lady Crooning remarked, scrunching her nose a little. “No, we never venture over to that part of town.”
“Really?” Anthony asked, feigning innocence as he lured the countess further into the trap he was weaving. “And why is that?”
The countess shifted in her seat, while her mouth worked from side to side as if she wasn’t quite sure of how best to explain herself. It was her daughter who eventually raised her hand to the side of her mouth, leaned forward and whispered, “That’s where the poor people live. We prefer to stay away so as not to be affected by their inferiority.”
Anthony raised his eyebrows a notch and turned to his mother with a pointed look. “Did you hear that, Mama?”
His mother nodded unblinkingly and Anthony returned his gaze to Lady Crooning and Lady Harriett, offering them both his most benign expression. “What a pity that you would think so.” They looked immediately wary, as well they should have, for no matter his smile, Anthony was now quite furious with both of them. “You see, I intend to make Miss Chilcott my wife, but since you think her beneath you . . .”
Both ladies gasped, but rather than apologize, the odious Lady Crooning had the nerve to say, “You cannot be serious. You’re a duke and she . . . she’s a . . . a . . .”
“A what?” Anthony asked, his face now tight with irritation and lack of patience.
Lady Crooning didn’t finish that sentence however, saying instead, “Society will flog her.”
“I’m sure they shall,” Anthony said, enjoying the look of surprise on the ladies’ faces. “It’s not the first time this family has taken on the ton, however, and while there are those who will disapprove of my choice in wife, I’ve never really been one to care about the opinion of others. I’d much rather be happy.”
“You cannot mean that.” The countess and her daughter spoke in unison.
Anthony didn’t even bother to hide his distaste for the two women any longer. “I most certainly do. I have no wish to surround myself with snobbery, and as far as Society goes, I’ll have you know that Miss Chilcott’s character is superior to most of those dolts who think themselves grand on the basis of a title they did nothing to earn.” He moved to rise. “Now, if you please, I should like to return to my study. There is still—”
“Well I never,” the countess said, her cheeks reddening as she rose to her feet, yanking her daughter up with her.
“If you wish to leave,” Anthony said unflinchingly, “I will call for Phelps to show you out.” He could sense his mother’s tenseness as if it had been his own and knew he’d have to apologize to her profusely for subjecting her to such rudeness, but he simply couldn’t bear listening to Lady Crooning or her daughter for one more second. He wanted to strangle them—the fact that he’d only given them a set down was really a testament to the level of command he had over his own actions.
“Thank you for the tea, Your Grace,” Lady Crooning said tightly, acknowledging the duchess with a halfhearted attempt at a curtsy before stomping toward the door with her daughter in tow.
Much to Anthony’s surprise, they stopped in the doorway and turned back to face him. “I trust you will not forget the dance you promised Harriett,” Lady Crooning said.
It was Anthony’s turn to be shocked. Had the woman no self-respect for herself or her daughter? He looked at Lady Harriett, who appeared oblivious to how degrading it ought to have been for her that her mother was practically begging a duke to dance with her. He nodded however and said, “I am a man of my word.”
And then they were gone, and Anthony allowed himself to breathe a sigh of relief. He turned to his mother, who, he noticed, did not look the least bit pleased. “That was completely unnecessary,” she said. “Not to mention incredibly embarrassing for all of us.”
“I’m sorry, Mama, but she is the one who wormed her way into our home, expecting me to fall on my knees for her daughter. You should have known better than to ask me to help entertain them.”
His mother shook her head a little sadly. “You know that I lack the strength of character required to deal with a woman like her. If you hadn’t come, we would in all likelihood be dining at their home this very evening.”
Reaching for her hand, Anthony gave it a tight squeeze. “You’re a duchess, Mama—she is nobody compared to you.”
The corner of his mother’s mouth edged upward a little. “Who’s being a snob now, Anthony?”
“I only wish to encourage you to be more confident, Mama. You should have no trouble putting women like that in their rightful place.”
“Your father always did say that I was too polite for my own good,” she muttered, her eyes glistening a little at the mention of the old duke.
Feeling the need to comfort her, Anthony pulled her into a tight embrace—something he hadn’t done since the day his father had died. “There’s nothing wrong with being polite,” he whispered, “but there are those who will see it as a weakness and try to take advantage. You must learn to sort these people out from the rest, and you must learn to be firm with them.”
She shook her head against his chest. “When did you become so wise?”
“I am merely offering you the same advice that Papa once gave to me,” he whispered, his own eyes beginning to burn at the memory of the man who’d filled such a large part of his life. He knew there were many aristocrats who spent little time with their children, allowing nannies to do all of the work instead. Not his parents though. His father had taken an immense interest in his upbringing—had designed the tree house that had been placed in one of the large oaks in the garden himself.
They’d played pirates there together, his father giving him treasure maps with impossibly difficult riddles to solve that he must have spent hours concocting in the evenings after Anthony went to bed. Yes, he’d had tutors, but his father had always taken the time to sit down on the library floor with him, books scattered all around them as they’d pored over the atlas, the works of Plato, Aristotle and Socrates, Motte’s translation of Newton’s The Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy and a hundred other works that his father believed essential to a young boy’s education.
Stepping out of the embrace, the duchess wiped her damp eyes with the back of her hand, made an attempt at a weak smile and said, “I miss him so desperately much, Anthony.”
Fearing his voice would crack if he tried to speak, Anthony just nodded.
“I still expect him to walk through the door any minute, you know,” his mother continued. She heaved a great sigh, then leveled Anthony with a frank expression. “I’ve never been a very strong person, Anthony. Your father—he was my rock. With him gone I . . .” Her voice broke and she looked away.
“You have me, Mama,” Anthony told her gently. “And you also have Winston and Louise. If you need anything—anything at all, we’re here for you.”
“That’s why I called for you to join me for tea with Lady Crooning, though I do think you overstepped a little.” She grinned slightly. “You were awfully rude to her.”
Anthony couldn’t help but smile. “I was rather, wasn’t I?” To which his mother nodded. Anthony shrugged. “Well, she deserved it.”
“Perhaps she did, but that doesn’t make it all right,” his mother said. “You must try to show a bit more grace and restraint in such situations. Had your father been here—”
“He would be disappointed in me, wouldn’t he?” Regret filled him at the realization of how differently his father would have handled the situation. Anthony had to do better if he wished to live up to the former duke’s name.
His mother was serious as she met his gaze. “Your memories of your father are not from when he was young like you. I know that you idolize him, but he made his own mistakes too. You make a fine duke, Anthony, and I have no doubt that your father would be proud of you.”
Clenching his jaw to stop the sob that was trying to work its way out of his throat, Anthony nodded and turned toward the side table. “Would you care for a drink?” he asked as soon as he felt capable of speaking without his voice cracking.
“I wouldn’t mind a sherry,” his mother replied. He could hear her moving about as he poured a glass for each of them, selecting a cognac for himself. “You really think she’s the one, don’t you?”
Anthony stiffened for a moment and then turned. “I do.” Stepping toward his mother, he offered her her glass.
Taking it, she stared down at it, her brow knit in a serious frown as she said, “Then you must stop at nothing to win her.” She looked up at Anthony, and there was such encouragement in her eyes that Anthony knew without doubt that she was just as determined as he in turning Miss Chilcott into the Duchess of Kingsborough. In case he had any doubt however, she raised her glass toward his and said, “You have my full support.”
They clinked their glasses together, and Anthony silently reflected on how important a moment it was. His mother might not have had the strength of character required to give women like Lady Crooning a proper set down, but she was kind and loving to a fault, and the fact that she trusted him so completely with something that he barely understood himself meant the world to him. Now, if he could only convince Miss Chilcott and her parents, everything might just work out the way he hoped after all.