Least Likely To Marry A Duke. Louise Allen
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No intellectual to match Papa. But a good woman. One who was loved. One who created a happy home.
‘Are you pious and traditional, Miss Wingate?’
Startled, she glanced up, and caught a flicker of something unexpected in the heavy blue gaze. Amusement? Warmth? Sarcasm, probably. ‘Pious? I hope I am a faithful churchwoman, but I lay no claim to piety. You know already that I am not traditional, Your Grace. But as I am not married, who knows whether I would be such a wife as my mother was.’
They had reached the fountain and she moved away from him to sit on the stone rim of the pool. She trailed her hand in the cool water and waited until the fish rose, as they always did, to nibble hopefully at her fingers. In the distance the laughter and calls from the young people told her that they had found the maze and over that happy sound drifted the first rippling bars of a piano sonata.
‘Who is the pianist? They are very skilled.’ The Duke propped his cane against the stone and stood beside her, too much on his dignity, she supposed, to perch on the fountain rim and risk the spray. He looked up and his gaze sharpened on the eastern tower.
‘She is a friend of mine. There is no pianoforte in her house and so she uses mine to practise.’ The others would be up there, too, in the Demoiselles’ Tower as Mr Hoskins, with one of his unexpected flights of fancy, called her private turret. Lucy playing; Melissa, fingers inky, working on her latest novel; Prue with her nose in a Greek grammar; and Jane painting the view, or her friends at work. The door at the top of the decorative external stairway that encircled the tower was firmly closed, thank goodness.
‘That is very generous of you. Your friend makes good use of the opportunity.’ He paused so long that Verity looked up to see him frowning in the direction of the catcalls and laughter. ‘Excuse me if I am jumping to conclusions, but if the fact that she does not own her own pianoforte means that her financial circumstances are a trifle restricted, might she be interested in teaching my sisters?’
There was no pianoforte in Lucy’s home because her parents, who could perfectly well have afforded one in every room, considered music, other than church music, to be decadent and probably sinful. Most things were sinful, according to Mr and Mrs Lambert, especially anything that gave pleasure. Verity sometimes wondered how Lucy and her four brothers were ever conceived. Miserably, probably. She had learned to play at school, from which she had been removed when her parents discovered that three of the pupils were the illegitimate daughters of an earl. When they realised that Lucy had been practising on the old piano in the church vestry she had bruises on the palms of her hands for days and now they had no idea she was still playing.
‘I am afraid not. It is not lack of funds, it is her mama’s sensitivity to any loud noise that prevents Lucy from playing at home.’ Loud sounds including laughter. ‘It is a good pianoforte, but I am an indifferent player, so I am delighted that she puts it to such good use.’
‘No doubt you are proficient at other musical instruments. The harp, perhaps? Or you sing, I have no doubt.’ The question seemed automatic, as though he took it for granted that she was merely being coy.
‘No, I play no musical instruments, Your Grace, and my singing is of the kind better heard at a distance.’
Like bagpipes—ideally with several intervening glens.
‘You are too modest, I am sure, Miss Wingate.’ He was still frowning in the direction of the maze, she noted. And finding it impossible to believe that I do not have the full set of desirable ladylike attributes. The Duke’s opinion of her must be sinking lower with every discovery about her true nature. Excellent. I will seem so very ineligible that he will not even recognise Papa’s hopes of throwing us together.
‘I do not indulge in false modesty, Your Grace. I am aware of my strengths and abilities and quite clear about my weaknesses.’ That earned her a very penetrating look. Perhaps young ladies were not supposed to discuss weaknesses. Now that she thought of it, there was a possible double entendre there. Or was she sensitive about it because her worst weakness had most definitely not been the kind of thing one discussed in polite society? ‘Shall we walk to the maze and see whether your sisters and brother have discovered the way to its heart?’
‘Most certainly.’ He offered his arm again as she stood, the frown lines between his brows relaxing as they moved to a safer topic. ‘Is it a complex pattern?’
‘Very, Your Grace.’ It was quite trying, being so comprehensively disapproved of. How difficult for him, but, of course, he could not ignore the attention due to a bishop living in the neighbourhood. Verity found a bland smile from somewhere. ‘The summer house in the centre is very charming, but it rarely receives visitors, the maze is so devious.’ She did not look up at her tower as they passed it. She doubted very much if her friends had interrupted their work to come to the windows, but they might have been distracted by the children and she had no desire to explain her ‘reading circle’ to the Duke if he saw a collection of female faces looking down at him.
‘And here is the entrance. It is a very ancient maze, Tudor, my father believes, judging by the thick trunks of the yews in the hedges. I can hear the young people and it does not sound as though they have reached the centre yet.’
‘One can normally hear them all too clearly, Miss Wingate,’ the Duke said drily. But there was a hint of affection there, a touch of amusement in the deep voice, and Verity felt a sudden, unwilling, twinge of liking.
He does love them after all, she thought. Perhaps there is a warm heart under that starchy exterior, even if it is only for his badly behaved siblings.
‘Their mama believes in a very liberal approach to child-rearing, I understand?’
‘“Each child, if left to his or her own devices and not bound by the chains of convention and artificial disciplines, will unfurl as a perfect flower.” That is a direct quote, Miss Wingate. I have yet to discover what bloom Basil is destined to be. A bramble, perhaps. Or deadly nightshade.’
‘I am sure the theory is well meant,’ Verity ventured.
Of all the dangerous ideas! Children need security and boundaries and an education that will open their eyes to the delights of the world, as well as preparing them for its pains and duties.
‘Now that, Miss Wingate, is damning with faint praise.’ This time the amusement was plain to hear.
Goodness. The man has a sense of humour. How unexpected. And how admirable that he can smile about the task he has before him. ‘I agree that it is wrong to suppress joy in a child, or to warp their natural character. The knack, I suppose, is to allow the flowers to continue blooming, but to ensure they are fitted for the soil in which they must continue to grow,’ she suggested. ‘If I might stretch the horticultural simile somewhat.’
‘Exactly that, Miss Wingate. I have three sisters and three brothers. The girls must make good marriages and the boys must find occupation suited to their rank and talents. They cannot simply run wild their entire lives. We will get there, I am certain, but to be quite frank with you, it will be an uphill road.’
‘Basil, you beast! You said you could find the centre easily and now we are lost and you have no idea at all how to get out and we will starve in here and our bleached bones will be found in a hundred years!’ The shrill voice came from just behind the nearest stretch of yew hedge.
The Duke sighed. ‘It seems I have a long way to go yet.’
‘Lady Araminta,’ Verity called. ‘Stay where you are, keep talking and your brother and I will come and find you.’ She lowered her voice and smiled up at the Duke, suddenly at ease with him. ‘I assume Lady Araminta enjoys Gothic novels.’
‘Apparently, yes. I must speak to her governess about that. Bleached bones, indeed.’