Bachelor Duke. Mary Nichols
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well for Harriet to say his father’s niece had married a Langford, but he had never met this cousin and there might have been a very good reason for the family not to acknowledge her. His uncle could have been a reprehensible reprobate who had disgraced the family name; his daughter might have been a demi-rep of uncertain reputation and her husband an unmitigated rogue, which was more than likely if they had to live abroad. Until he knew the truth he could not risk taking her daughter in. ‘If you expected me to fall over myself to offer you a home, then I am sorry to disappoint you…’
‘My disappointment is not on that account,’ Sophie said. ‘It was in thinking that I was dealing with a gentleman.’ She had no idea what made her say that. Perhaps it was the dismay which had been evident on his handsome countenance when they arrived, or the lack of a welcome. Why, he had not even offered them refreshment!
He had never met anyone, certainly not a chit of a girl, who was prepared to answer him back in that fashion and for a moment he was taken aback, and then it amused him. Beneath that muslin-covered bosom there beat a heart of fire. She was beginning to intrigue him. ‘Be thankful that I am gentleman enough not to entertain such a ridiculous idea…’
Lady Myers put her hand on Sophie’s arm to stop her answering. ‘Your Grace,’ she said placatingly, ‘we had no idea… We assumed… Sophie thought…’
‘What did Miss Langford think?’
‘That you were old,’ Sophie burst out.
‘Old!’ He gave a bark of laughter. ‘I am but four and thirty.’
‘I can see that,’ she countered. ‘But Mama told me that the third Duke had died and his younger brother had inherited and so I assumed…’ Her voice faded away to nothing.
‘It is a mistake to assume anything,’ he said, remembering how he had assumed she was a child. If he had stopped to think, he would have realised it was unlikely. His uncle, her grandfather, had been the second eldest of the third Duke’s brothers and would have inherited if he had not died first. It would have made all the difference to the young woman who faced him now; her mother would have been a duke’s daughter and she would not be sitting there in that hideous gown, appealing to his softer nature. Perhaps it was as well he had, over the years, managed to stifle that. ‘The brother you mentioned was my father, the fourth Duke. He died last year and I came into my inheritance.’
‘And does that make a difference? Would he have been more welcoming?’
He suddenly realised how vulnerable she was, that she had the most lustrous eyes and they were bright with unshed tears. His conscience stabbed him. His problems were not the fault of Miss Langford and he could not expect her to understand them. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘We have not made a good beginning, have we? Let us start again. Please be seated. I will have refreshments brought in. Tea, perhaps, or ratafia? ‘He turned and tugged at the bell pull by the mantel. The footman arrived almost immediately and, on the ladies saying they would prefer tea, was instructed to bring the tea tray and some cakes. ‘If I had known you were coming today,’ he said, after the man had gone to obey, ‘I would have asked my sister, Lady Harley, to be present to act as hostess.’
‘You have no wife?’ Lady Myers had availed herself of one of the sofas, a pale green brocaded affair, and Sophie perched herself beside her, every sense alert, wanting to run, but conversely determined not to be driven away, simply because the man had taken a dislike to her. Why he should, she did not know. He was not completely unfeeling; she had seen evidence of his kindness on the way from Dover, but that was to other people, not herself.
‘No, I am single,’ he said, smiling at Sophie to try to mitigate his earlier brusqueness. It wasn’t like him to be impolite, but this pair had taken him so much by surprise, and, at a time when he had so much on his mind, he had been less than welcoming. Not that he meant to alter his decision, but he could have put it more kindly.
‘Oh, I see,’ Lady Myers said. ‘Then as you are a bachelor, we understand that taking in a young unmarried lady would be out of the question.’ She paused, unwilling to abandon her quest. ‘But you mentioned your sister. Does she reside here?’
‘No, her home is in Suffolk, but when she is in town for the Season, she stays here. She undertook to reply to your letter on my behalf, but of course that is of no significance now.’
‘And what would her reply have been?’ Sophie asked. ‘Would she have repudiated me on the grounds that the family did not approve of my parents’ marriage and, because I have been brought up abroad, I am not fit to be seen in society?’
‘Has someone said that?’
‘The present Lord Langford,’ Lady Myers said. ‘Miss Langford’s uncle.’
‘Oh.’ He had been going to suggest she appeal to her father’s family, but it seemed she had already done that and been turned away. He found himself thinking, ‘Poor child!’ and then smiled at his foolishness. She was not a child and he suspected had not been one for a long time. He had no idea how old she was, but she had a maturity that had nothing to do with years.
‘Miss Langford may count on me, of course,’ Lady Myers went on. ‘But how long Lord Myers will remain in London, I do not know. He travels a great deal and I always accompany him…’
‘I see.’ He did see, very clearly. Lady Myers’s offer was made out of duty, out of the charity Miss Langford so much denigrated, and she would be glad to have someone take the girl off her hands. And Miss Langford was intelligent enough to realise that.
‘Lady Myers,’ Sophie implored her, ‘please do not go on. I am not incapable of earning a living and would rather do so than be the object of charity, especially charity so reluctantly given.’
‘Earn a living,’ he repeated, ignoring her accusation. ‘How?’
‘I have an education, I can teach—I have done it before. I could offer myself to a girls’ school or find a position as a governess or companion.’
‘And what will you teach?’ He did not know why he was quizzing her in this way—to see how resolute she was? Or simply to tease? There was a faint blush to her cheeks that could have been embarrassment, or anger—he suspected the latter.
‘Whatever is asked of me,’ she said. ‘The basics of reading and writing, literature, languages. I speak French well, German a little and Italian fluently—’
‘Good heavens, a blue stocking!’
‘That, sir, is better than being a milksop, dependent on the generosity or otherwise of a man who can give it or withhold it at his pleasure.’
He had a sudden vision of what it might be like to be a young lady alone in the world. She must either work or beg, scrimp to eat and to buy the clothes for her back, unable to go into society, unable to enjoy the sort of social occasions most young ladies of his acquaintance took for granted, unable to marry well. He was used to the ladies of the ton, aristocrats who peopled the Regent’s court, simpering helpless females who did nothing without the permission of fathers, husbands or guardians, or demi-reps who flouted convention and were therefore not received in respectable drawing rooms. But the woman who faced him now was neither. He wished he had not been so sharp with her, but he did not know how to retrieve the situation.
The footman reappeared with the tea tray. ‘Lady Harley has just returned, your Grace,’ he said, as he set it down. ‘She asked me to say that as soon as she has taken off her hat, she will join you.’
‘Thank you, Collins.’
The footman began pouring the tea into thin china cups and, while he did so, Sophie was able to look about her for the first time. The room was dominantly pale green and cream, light and restful to the eye and furnished in the French style; it seemed the war with France did not inhibit people from wanting beautiful things no matter where they came from. There was no fire, but the hearth contained a huge bowl of cream roses whose scent filled the room. A Turner hung over the mantelpiece and a cabinet displayed porcelain figurines, which she recognised as Italian