BLACKTHORNE KNEW HIS solicitor was only doing his job. Nevertheless, he felt more and more like a hapless fox being run to ground by baying hounds. He kept a tight hold on his temper as he said, “Your message sounded urgent, Phipps, so I’m here. But I meant what I said this morning. I don’t want to see any prospective brides today.”
“Forgive me, Your Grace, but if you intend to read the banns for three weeks before the wedding, you have less than a week to make your selection. This young woman is scheduled to return to America shortly. If you don’t speak with her now, the opportunity may be lost.”
Blackthorne turned his back on his solicitor and leaned both palms against the mantel in his study. Even though it was May, it was a chilly day. Unfortunately, the crackling fire did nothing to warm his frozen heart. It had been a year since Fanny’s death, but he wasn’t ready to take another wife.
It had been hard—impossibly difficult—watching Fanny die a day at a time. He’d believed he loved his wife on the day they married, but he hadn’t realized how his feelings would deepen over time, as they lived their days together and made love at night.
At first he hadn’t realized Fanny was sick. She’d simply asked to be excused from her wifely duties on occasion, stopped attending every party to which they were invited, and no longer hosted dinners.
Then she’d gotten pregnant. Her sparkling green eyes could have lit up a ballroom, she’d been so happy. He’d been pleased and proud, chest puffed out like a strutting cock—until the doctor told him that he’d warned Fanny her body couldn’t support the extra burden of a child, that the consumption that was daily stealing her strength would likely take advantage of her pregnancy to kill her.
Blackthorne had been stunned to discover that Fanny was in such poor health. He’d been furious when he learned she’d endangered her life by keeping him in the dark about the effects a pregnancy would have on her body. He’d confronted her, using his most daunting ducal voice, and demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me you were ill? Why would you allow me to get you with child, when it’s so dangerous for you? I don’t understand. Explain it to me, please.”
She’d looked into his eyes, a tender smile on her face, and said, “I want to give you a son. I want to leave you this gift.”
“I’d rather have you!”
She’d stepped into his arms, and they’d closed around her, as though he could keep her safe by holding her tight. He’d wanted Fanny a thousand times more than he’d wanted an heir. He’d told her his younger brother’s boys could inherit for all he cared.
One of them still might. Fanny had died along with their son, who’d been stillborn.
Blackthorne realized he hadn’t seen his nephews for some time, but he trusted the arrangements his wife had made for their care. He’d confirmed with his solicitor that they were being well taken care of at Tearlach Castle, where they had room to run and play in fresh country air.
His conscience niggled at him over the fact that he hadn’t visited them, or had them visit him, for more than two years. He’d assuaged it with the knowledge that he’d had two very good reasons—first, Fanny’s illness, and then, working night and day to keep the estate afloat in a sea of debt—for abdicating their care and supervision to a governess.
Unfortunately, nothing he’d done had brought him back to solvency. Marriage to a wealthy woman was his only option. And since he had no intention of loving his mail-order bride—some American trading her money for the title of duchess—he’d been putting off the necessary nuptials.
He gave a long-suffering sigh. “All right, Phipps. I’ll speak to the girl. How old is she? Who is she?”
“She’s eighteen, Your Grace.”
Blackthorne wasn’t that much older than Miss Wentworth, only twenty-seven, but he would rather have married someone who’d lived in the world awhile. Who knew what fantasies of life as a duchess the girl had concocted?
Phipps ignored his groan and continued, “She’s an orphan, so there will be no parental interference.”
Blackthorne made a dismissive sound in his throat. One less hurdle to leap. “And her fortune?”
“More than enough to meet your needs.”
He hadn’t allowed himself to think about his bride’s looks. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. He’d been more concerned about temperament. About kindness. About having someone he could abide interacting with for the rest of his life.
When he’d been married to Fanny, there had been no question of seeking physical pleasure with another woman. But he wasn’t sure what to expect with a bride who was marrying him merely to become a duchess. He would need to consummate the marriage, of course. But he had no idea whether the woman would want to continue marital relations.
He’d wanted children with Fanny. He wasn’t so sure how he felt about having children with a wife who’d been forced upon him. There was also the issue of whether she wanted to have children with him. They would have to work through those issues over a lifetime together.
He had the choice, of course, of letting Blackthorne Abbey fall into ruin. Of having all his estates sold off to the highest bidder. Of having the dukedom become a shell that consisted of a title, the entailed, crumbled-down Abbey, and little else.
Blackthorne sighed. He’d gone over his options in his head endlessly without ever coming to any good answer for what was best. He was willing to try marriage to a stranger and attempt to make the relationship work. That seemed the lesser of two evils.
But he wasn’t hopeful. He wasn’t optimistic.
His opinion was likely colored by the candidates he’d interviewed so far. He’d been surprised by how many young—and much older—women had responded to his advertisement in the American papers, especially since he’d required them to come to him, rather than going to America himself.
He hadn’t set limitations on who might apply, which meant he’d seen a great many women who were unsuitable for one reason or another. He rubbed a hand across his eyes, dreading the coming meeting. He might as well get it over with.
“Tell her I’ll see her at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“She’s here right now, Your Grace, waiting for you in the Garden Room.”
Blackthorne could hear the hounds baying again. He looked for some way to delay the interview, but he was already dressed for company in a plain black frock coat and trousers, a white shirt, a gold brocade vest, and a four-in-hand tie. On the other hand, his black hair needed a cut, and although his valet had shaved him that morning, when he rubbed a hand across his chin, he felt the beginning of whiskers. On the other, other hand, spending time on his appearance would only delay the inevitable. If the girl was already here, there was no sense keeping her waiting.
The Garden Room had been Fanny’s idea. She’d added windows to the backyard-facing wall and put in a garden that brought the outdoors inside. He’d done his part by making sure there were always bouquets of fresh-cut hothouse flowers for her to enjoy as well.
The garden behind the house had been left fallow since Fanny’s death, and he’d never bought another flower. The Garden Room seemed empty without the profusion of colors and scents—and without his wife. He’d met every candidate there, because it allowed him to compare their behavior with his memories of Fanny in the same space.
“Wait for me here,” he said, then added cynically, “I won’t be long.”
Phipps raised a judgmental brow, probably because he realized that Blackthorne had every intention of dismissing this woman as quickly as he had all the others. “Very well, Your Grace.”
Blackthorne marched down the hall of his mansion on Berkeley Square and nodded curtly to the footman standing by the door to the Garden Room. The servant opened the door and the duke entered, stopping just inside to wait for the door to be closed, before he moved farther into the room.
The woman had her back to him. She was staring out the tall windows at the street below, and even though she must have heard the door open, she hadn’t turned around.
He observed a fetching feminine silhouette and the most beautiful golden curls he’d ever seen, spilling down her back. He waited with bated breath for her to turn around. Would the face match the form?
“There’s an altercation on the street,” she said, ignoring him and taking another step toward the windows.
Right away, her behavior was different. He crossed the room in several long strides and looked to see where she was pointing. In the street below, a carter’s horse had fallen to its knees. The carter was whipping the animal in an effort to get it back onto its feet.
“We have to help!” she cried.
Before he could speak, she grabbed his hand and headed for the door. Her gloved hand was small and engulfed by his. She gave a slight tug but seemed confident that he’d follow her. He still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, just the hint of a strong chin and an upturned nose—with a pair of spectacles perched upon it.
She didn’t wait for him to open the door, just pulled it open herself and headed out past the startled footman, who stared goggle-eyed at the duke being led like a naughty boy toward the front door of the house.
The butler had more warning than the footman, and the front door was open when they arrived. The girl led him through it and down the steps to the street. He’d gotten a glimpse of startling blue eyes—the same color as her dress—when she glanced over her shoulder to make sure he was still following, even though she had hold of his hand.
She had the face of an urchin, with freckles dotting a peaches and cream complexion and lips the color of berries. But the formfitting bodice and tiny waist of the fashionable gown revealed an appealing, womanly figure. It seemed her only flaw was a bit of nearsightedness. The wire-rimmed spectacles did little to hide a pair of enchanting blue eyes.
Blackthorne wasn’t sure whether he was more astonished or amused by the girl’s precipitous behavior. She seemed to have no idea of proper protocol in the presence of royalty, but he found it refreshing that she didn’t seem awed by his title.
She released his hand when they reached the carter, who was still whipping the horse.
“Stop that this instant!” she ordered.
The carter looked startled to hear a female voice admonish him, but his jaw dropped when he turned and saw what was obviously a lady standing with her hands on her hips in front of him. “This is my horse. I’ll whip him if I please.”
“If you insist, I’ll buy him from you,” the girl said.
Blackthorne could see where this was headed. The carter would ask an outrageous price for the animal, and the girl would pay it. She obviously had a soft heart, but he wondered about her common sense.
“He’s a good horse,” the carter said.
“He’s underfed and overworked,” the girl responded pertly. “I’ll give you ten guineas.”
The carter snorted. “He’s worth fifteen.”
“He’s on his knees,” the girl replied. “If you can’t get him up, he’ll be worth a lot less than ten to the butcher.”
The duke felt a twinge of admiration as he watched her haggle. She might be too softhearted, but at least she wasn’t a dupe.
The carter pursed his lips and eyed the broken-down horse. Then he held out his hand. “Ten guineas, milady, and he’s yours.”
The girl froze and then turned to stare up at him. “I don’t have a farthing with me. Would you? Could you please pay the man?”
Blackthorne smiled at her audacity. Then he reached into his coat pocket for a leather purse and dropped ten guineas into her white-gloved palm. She smiled up at him, and his heart jumped.
Then she turned and laid the coins in the carter’s hand. Before his fist had closed, she’d crossed to the horse and was on her knees beside its head, petting its neck, and crooning to it. A moment later, she’d coaxed the animal to its feet.
“Would you mind unharnessing him?” she said to the duke.
Blackthorne was amused again. Did she think dukes went around harnessing and unharnessing vegetable wagons? Apparently, she did, because she turned her attention back to the spavined horse, as though it were the most natural thing in the world for the Duke of Blackthorne to be unharnessing a carter’s broken-down nag.
Outwardly, his visage was stern, daring anyone in the street to remark on the outlandish situation in which he found himself. But inside he was chuckling. Inside he was grinning from ear to ear.