The Prodigal Daughter (12 page)

“What was it like on the Peninsula?” he asked softly, hoping to turn her mind to happier times.

“Boring,” she replied without thought before straightening in surprise. “Actually, no more so than any other life. Winter quarters were the worst, because there was so little to do. We organized dances and theatricals and any other events we could think of to stay busy. Jack and his friends spent the days coursing hares – Harry Smith kept a pack of Spanish greyhounds. It was always nice to supplement rations with rabbit. Pay was so badly in arrears that we never had any money..”

“I would think that summers would have been worse with the army off on campaign.”

She turned to stare in astonishment. “I was always with them. Who else was available to see after blisters and boils and burns?  The surgeons had enough to do.”

Norwood felt a fool. Major Humphries had mentioned her nursing only four nights before. He turned the talk to the sights she had seen and the local customs of Spain and Portugal. With the shift to lighter subjects, she relaxed, proving to be a witty conversationalist and astute observer. As her humor improved, he could see the shadows departing from her brown eyes.

“I think the funniest thing I ever saw was on march one summer,” she offered some time later. “John Kincaid had been on picket duty much of the previous night. By the time we made camp that afternoon, he was dropping in his boots, not even bothering with dinner before falling asleep. But not half an hour later a pair of frisky donkeys romped through, tangling themselves in his tent ropes. The tent rolled up with him inside, the whole writhing mass of them tumbling down the hill. John was swearing luridly enough to burn even Burt’s ears so we knew he was unhurt, but everyone was laughing too hard to help the poor man.”

Norwood’s dark eyes twinkled, though he managed only a slight lifting of one corner of his mouth.

“That reminds me of an incident from my schooldays,” he offered. “I had an amazingly pompous classmate at Eton who alternated between looking down a patrician nose at the entire universe and bragging about how much better he was at any activity than the rest of us. My own arrogance is paltry in comparison.”

Amanda shook her head in mock despair.

Norwood continued. “Wrexham challenged his claims one day. He was a year behind us but had more standing, being a real lord while the rest of us were merely heirs or younger sons. But he was also an inveterate prankster.”

She giggled. “What did he do?”

“Wrexham’s groom had brought up his curricle, as we were all headed home for long break. Even at fifteen, he was an outstanding whip, who always drove very spirited cattle. Nolly went into his usual routine, claiming he could drive anything, so Wrexham dared him to prove it. I don’t know how he managed it, but the next thing we knew, a terrified Nolly was caught behind two galloping horses, curricle nowhere in sight as he bumped across the commons on his
derrière.”

Amanda burst into laughter. “I trust no one was hurt.”

“Nothing but his sensibilities. Nolly had always been roly-poly and is now downright corpulent. When I saw him last spring, he rivaled the Regent in girth.”

“Dear Lord, you aren’t referring to Lord Wedgeburn, are you?”

“Do you know him?” he asked in surprise.

“Hardly. I don’t move in those circles, but I met him in Paris after Napoleon’s abdication. His braggadocio was excessively annoying. A more odious toad cannot possibly exist, begging your pardon. I should not insult one of your friends, I suppose.”

“Not a friend, I assure you. And he has indeed grown despicably obnoxious.”

“That’s all right, then,” she said, gathering her shawl close and turning her feet toward the road.

“May I escort you home?” he asked, noting that the afternoon was waning. The picnickers would be returning soon.

Her good humor vanished. “There is no need, your grace,” she said. “I should not even be here, but I had to stop briefly at the dower house and succumbed to temptation by taking the short cut back to town. It is a pretty walk, though not a public thoroughfare, I fear. I trust you won’t report me.”

“Not at all..” He accepted her refusal with relief, already wondering what had prompted him to make the offer.

She bade him farewell and strode briskly away.

Why had he stayed to talk to the woman after discovering that she was unharmed?  Such conduct was beneath the dignity of the Duke of Norwood. An examination of his motives shocked him. He had succumbed to curiosity, then been touched by her story. It had elicited emotion in his heart for the first time in years. And he could not remember when he had held such an open conversation with anyone. The man who had sat in that clearing offering comfort to a commoner was little different from the frivolous youth he had once been, that absurd creature who had led him down the path to disaster.

It did not help that he found the woman attractive. And that was another thing he could not explain. She was nothing out of the ordinary – brown hair, brown eyes, unfashionably tall, nondescript features – and could never be touted as a beauty. Yet she drew him. She radiated a force that evoked unnatural behavior even in him, pulling him away from more than thirty years of training in propriety.

Memories of the fire returned. She was definitely a witch.

He shivered.

It was time he quit shilly-shallying and completed his business at Thornridge Court. It was unconscionable that he should feel attracted to a soldier’s widow who had spent years doing things no respectable female would even consider.

By the time the picnickers returned, Norwood and Thorne had come to an amicable agreement. If Emily accepted him, the betrothal would be officially announced at a grand ball a fortnight hence. As expected, the wedding would take place following the next Season.

* * * *

Amanda walked home almost in a trance. Her conversation with Norwood was shocking at the very least. She had told him things she had never divulged to another living soul. Why?

The question bedeviled her. There was something about the man that demanded confidences. Only one other person had ever exerted that effect on her – Jack. She remembered how Jack had elicited her tale that long-ago morning when her father’s announcement shattered her life. And now Norwood had done the same.

It must never happen again. It was bad enough to talk about her unladylike experiences, but to a duke of the realm?  She could never face the man again. Yet there was little chance of avoiding it. Her father had decreed that she remain in Middleford. Norwood intended to marry her sister. Even without an official family tie, they were bound to meet many times in the course of their lives.

The duke’s own behavior had been unlike his usual demeanor, she realized suddenly. Where was the arrogance and disdain to which she was now accustomed?  He had started by waking her from a nightmare when he could easily have passed her by, and had then stayed to offer solace and talk her black mood away. Neither action accorded with his customary conduct. It reinforced her suspicion that a quite different man lurked beneath the surface.

A picture of Reginald Potter suddenly floated before her eyes. Goodness!  She hadn’t thought of the boy in years. He had been a young ensign when they first landed in Portugal, as arrogant a lad as she had ever met. It wasn’t until Vimeiro that she discovered that he used the arrogance to cloak fear, both of battle and of failing to acquit himself in the tradition of a long line of military Potters. Reginald had done well that day, though he later died in the retreat to Corunna.

Norwood might also be hiding behind arrogance, not that she could imagine from what. Interest piqued, she decided to learn more about the haughty duke. Lady Thorne was acquainted with his grandmother.

* * * *

Norwood stood rigidly before the chimneypiece in the vacant morning room, waiting for Lady Emily. There was no reason to feel nervous, he reminded himself. Thorne had no vices that needed a wealthy, high-ranking son-in-law to rectify. Emily should be under no pressure. There was also no reason to think about his inappropriate chat with Mrs. Morrison. The widow was a minuscule snag in the fabric of his life and would disappear entirely when he moved on. He stifled the thought that he would continue to run into her whenever he visited Thornridge Court.

To deflect his attention, he examined the room in which he stood. Located on the east side of the Court, it was always bright and cheerful on sunny mornings. But in late afternoon, like now, it was gloomy – not the most auspicious location for proposing. But perhaps it was an appropriate setting for initiating a marriage of convenience. Clouds eclipsed the setting sun, throwing his surroundings into deeper shadow.

“You wished to speak with me, your grace?” said Lady Emily coolly.

“Yes, I did,” he replied. “We both know why we are here. I will be blunt, my lady, for I want there to be no pretense between us. I am in need of an heir. To get one, I must marry. You are a comely young lady of good family whose training accords with my own. I cannot claim to love you, nor do I believe you love me, but I think we could rub along quite well together if we choose to do so. I shall expect you to behave with all propriety and to conform to my wishes. In return, you will have my respect and a free rein to run the household as you see fit, though I expect to be consulted about large expenditures. There would be limited entertaining necessary when we are in London for Parliament. Beyond that, I have no interest in the giddy social whirl, but you are welcome to participate when we are in town. I make the rounds of my estates once a year. You would be free to accompany me or not. Will you do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage?”

“You have stated the situation very well, your grace,” she responded calmly. “And your offer is most generous. I accept.”

“Thank you. You have made me the happiest of men,” he intoned dutifully, placing a chaste kiss on her gloved hand. “Shall we join your guests for dinner?”

Chapter Eight

The Marquess of Thorne looked up in surprise when Jameson appeared in the library doorway.

“The Duke of Wellington to see you, my lord,” the butler announced woodenly.

“What brings you to Thornridge Court, your grace?” Thorne asked several minutes later when the two men were sipping excellent brandy, seated on either side of the window that overlooked the formal gardens.

“I was in the neighborhood and thought to sound you out about some bills that will be coming up before Parliament next session. One would provide pensions for the lads who fought so well on the Peninsula. But even more important, the Whigs are pushing harder than ever to scrap a system that has stood us in good stead for centuries.”

“Not another reform measure,” groaned Thorne.

They settled in for a lengthy discussion of politics.

* * * *

Wellington’s arrival caused a stir throughout the district. Major Humphries immediately scheduled a dinner party that would include all of Thorne’s guests. He also coerced Amanda into attending.

“I cannot put myself forward in such exalted company,” she demurred when he first tendered the invitation.

“Fustian, Mrs. Morrison,” he countered. “You know very well Old Hooky will be upset that you declined to join him for dinner. What would Jack have said?”

She knew very well what Jack would have said, and not just about the duke. He would have castigated her roundly for allowing Thorne to dictate either her friends or her social calendar. She had done so once already by crying off the squire’s party. A second time would establish a pattern that would give Thorne control of her life. Impossible.

And so she had accepted, using the occasion to put off mourning. It had been well over a year since Jack’s death, and society no longer demanded the outward show. Not that she had ceased to miss him. A dozen times a day she wished she could share something with him, or longed to feel his arms around her. But he’d had little patience with pious affectations. What one wore was irrelevant. It was the contents of the heart that mattered. And so he would understand. She had nothing in mourning that was suitable for a formal dinner party.

Sighing, she pulled out the nicest of her evening gowns, a favorite creation in Brussels lace over a deep rose slip that she had purchased in Paris. What matter if she dressed in the fashion of two years earlier?  She had no aspirations to society, but Wellington deserved her best efforts. With it she wore her mother’s pearls, which she had managed to keep through all the years of tenuous living. They had often been her solace. No matter how bad things were, there was one last option before they must starve.

She shuddered with nervous fear as she completed her
toilette.
What would Thorne say to find her rubbing elbows with the area gentry?  There was every possibility that he would explode in anger. Not even his very stiff-rumped propriety could be counted on to contain his fury. No one had dared counter his wishes in the years she had been away. With no reason to control his countenance, he had forgotten how. Or perhaps he had merely grown testier with age. But the upcoming confrontation promised embarrassment, if not outright mortification.

Setting aside the problem of her father, she considered the other guests. She had not seen the Cravens since her sixth year, so they were unlikely to recognize her. The Bradfords might, though she had been kept firmly in the schoolroom during their visits, even when her half-siblings were presented to their aunt and uncle. Lady Thorne would welcome her attendance without mentioning their relationship. Emily was another question mark. Would her continuing antagonism raise questions from the other guests?  She hoped not. Everyone else either accepted her as Mrs. Morrison or was a stranger.

Wellington was one who knew her, of course. They had first met in Portugal after Vimeiro. She shook her head, recalling the last time she had seen him. Whatever else happened, the evening was going to reopen a lot of wounds.

Brussels. He had found her in a makeshift hospital, nearly dropping from exhaustion after two days of continuous nursing.