A Duchess to Remember (24 page)

Besotted. That’s what he was. In every sense of the word.

Hadn’t he learned the hard way that one cannot buy or barter for love? He’d been so determined
not
to love Cecily, hadn’t he? So sure that he could possess her and take her to wife without ever succumbing to tender emotions himself. His childhood had been a grim lesson in giving his love too freely. He’d thought himself hardened indeed until Cecily came along.

From the beginning, he’d known she was special. He’d pursued her madly, ignoring the signs that his heart was far too deeply engaged. Between them there was sympathy, a meeting of minds, shared dreams, ambitions, even a level of trust. And a world of desire and passion he ached to explore.

Cecily teetered on the edge of love; he was sure of it. Why couldn’t she let herself fall?

Rand took Montford’s letter from his pocket and smoothed it out. He stared at the elegant, precise handwriting.

If he had any sense of self-preservation, he’d cut his losses and walk away. She was so clearly convinced she’d be happier with Norland. Who was he to stand in her way?

But the mere thought of her saddled with that insensitive oaf for a husband made Rand’s blood race, thick and hot through his veins. His very soul rejected the notion of her marrying anyone but him.

He couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t let her make such a colossal mistake. She would think him high-handed and dictatorial, no better than the Duke of Montford. But by God, he
loved
her. He might not be able to command her love in return, but at least he could prevent her throwing any chance they might have away.

*   *   *

The Duke of Ashburn strode into the extraordinary meeting of the Ministry of Marriage as if he were the commander of this group of powerful aristocrats and not its prodigal son.

His big shoulders were shrouded in a drab greatcoat with a plethora of capes. A high-crowned beaver hat sat low on his head, its brim shadowing glittering eyes, a straight blade of a nose, and rapier-sharp cheekbones.

His well-formed mouth lifted a little at one corner, as though he was ever so slightly amused at the effect his sudden appearance had created. In his left hand, he gripped a long menace of a whip.

Ignoring the murmurs of surprise and disapproval that passed around the long dining room, the duke laid the whip on the long mahogany dining table and removed his hat. A casual flick of the wrist sent the hat spinning through the air, to land in a startled footman’s quick hands.

Ashburn took his seat at the head of the table, a place ordinarily reserved for the chairman of the meeting. He stripped off his gloves and tossed them down next to his whip, then picked up the meeting’s agenda.

The Duke of Montford watched this ostentatious entrance with mingled irritation and amusement. Ashburn had never set foot in one of these meetings, despite having the right as head of his noble house. Clearly, he meant his first visit to be a memorable one.

“Good God, sir! What is the meaning of this?” exclaimed Lady Warrington.

One sleek brow quirked up but Ashburn didn’t raise his gaze from the page. “My dear lady, I am here for the same purpose as you are.” He waved a nonchalant hand. “Do carry on.”

Having assimilated the agenda’s contents, Ashburn let it fall from his long, elegant fingers. Then he leaned back in his chair, dug his hands in his pockets, and looked bored. With his hooded lids drooping over those startling golden brown eyes, Ashburn reminded Montford of a well-fed lion contemplating a nap in the sun.

Montford said, “I am sure we are honored by your presence, Your Grace. Might one ask why so
sudden
an interest in the proceedings?” He knew, of course, but it would not do to appear complicit in Ashburn’s scheme.

With a mocking look, Ashburn said, “Do you think I mean to usurp your authority, Montford? Far from it.”

“I?”
Montford said blandly. “I have no more authority here than the next person.”

“Ah,” said Ashburn with a low laugh. “My mistake.”

He cocked his head, then looked around at the rest of the ladies and gentlemen gathered around the table. Softly, he said, “But what do we wait for?”

The answer stood behind him, looking confused and more than a little put out.

Lord Delmere, the chairman of the meeting, had arrived in Ashburn’s wake. He hovered indecisively behind the seat Ashburn had appropriated, a frown multiplying the wrinkles on his high forehead. Clearly, Delmere wanted to order the duke to move but didn’t dare.

“There is a place vacant beside me, Lord Delmere,” said Lady Arden, smiling. “Do sit down and let us begin.”

The meeting proceeded more efficiently than usual, with comments and arguments kept to a minimum. Thankfully, the most cantankerous of their number was absent today: Lord deVere had been called out of Town on important business. Montford was relieved that his old rival had stayed away. Aside from Lady Arden, deVere was the most likely member of the ministry to smell a rat at Ashburn’s sudden appearance.

The anticipation built; everyone waited for the Duke of Ashburn to reveal the reason for his presence. Were they curious? Apprehensive? Or eager to enjoy a little blood sport?

Knowing his cohorts, Montford suspected the last.

But Ashburn kept his own counsel throughout, merely casting his vote along with everyone else when necessary. The rest of the time, he sat in an elegant, insolent slouch, his chin sunk into the snow white folds of his cravat. Silently, he contemplated some undefined spot on the table before him, his thick black eyelashes shadowing those liquid amber eyes.

But when the chairman inquired if there were other business, Ashburn roused from his abstraction.

“Lady Cecily Westruther’s marriage to the Duke of Norland,” he said in his deep, drawling baritone. He looked up. “Has a date been set?”

“The wedding is less than a week away,” Montford answered evenly.

Ashburn sent a quick glance around the table. “I hereby exercise my right of veto to stop the match from proceeding.”

A gasp flew through the room; then a buzzing murmur broke out. Montford did his best to look shocked and angered, as if he hadn’t conspired with Ashburn to achieve this very result.

Each member of the Ministry of Marriage had one chance to veto an arranged alliance. Once exercised, the power of veto could never be used again by that family.

While it was true that this power existed, no one had possessed the gall to invoke it since the ministry was formed.

“Good God, Your Grace!” exclaimed Lady Arden. Despite her allegiance to Ashburn, this was too bold even for her. “Surely it is too late in the day for this. You ought to have raised your objections in the proper course of discussion, not waited until the eleventh hour.”

Ashburn shrugged. “I have the right. I’m exercising it.”

Pandemonium broke out then, all of it directed at Ashburn. Their slings and arrows glanced off the armor of his imperturbable calm. He even smiled—a faint, upward curl of the lips—when the noise rose to a din.

Lord Delmere banged his gavel for silence, bleating, “This is indeed most irregular! And, might I add, most ungentlemanly of you, Ashburn. Ungentlemanly in the extreme. Why, I—”

Ashburn turned his head to look at Delmere, who blanched and let his voice fade to nothing.

Everyone knew that for all his youth, Ashburn was not a man to be crossed.

Montford supposed he ought to make a show of opposing Ashburn’s gambit. “Might I suggest we adjourn the matter until we’ve all had the opportunity to consider the implications?”

“No, that won’t do.” Ashburn regarded Montford with a slight smile. “You want to stall the process until it’s too late. I’m exercising the right of veto against Lady Cecily’s marriage and I’m doing it
here
and I’m doing it
now
.”

Lady Arden’s eyes widened. “Are you in love with the chit yourself, dear boy? Is that what this is about?”

His eyes lit with amusement and a little challenge. “In love?
I?
”

“Then why?” demanded Lady Warrington. “What objection can you possibly have to the match?”

Instead of answering her, Ashburn gestured to the secretary, who had been scratching away, madly trying to keep up with the comments that flew around the room.

“Enter it in the minutes, will you, Mr. Wicks?” Ashburn scanned his audience, seemingly unconcerned at the furor he’d created. “If there’s nothing else to discuss, shall we adjourn?”

*   *   *

When no word or sign came from Rand for the next few days, Cecily concluded that he had abandoned the thought of winning her.

That was for the best, of course. She ought to count herself lucky to have escaped him so easily. If he truly meant to wage war on her marriage, she had little doubt he’d find a way to annihilate it.

The hollow feeling inside her had more to do with a series of sleepless nights than any sense of loss or … or longing. Or anything like that.

She spent the morning shopping with her maid, but without Rosamund or Jane, spending her pin money felt like an abominably flat way to pass the time. Even a new bonnet could not entirely lift her spirits.

She needed to get on with those schemes of hers, but she felt as if she hung in an odd state of suspension. Planning anything when she was about to be married seemed like tempting Fate in some strange way.

She no sooner set her foot in Montford House after her shopping expedition than the duke bade her attend him in his library. “Would you spare me a few moments, Cecily?” Montford said.

“Yes, of course,” she said, unpinning her hat and handing it to a footman.

It never rains but it pours,
she thought, and turned on her heel to follow her guardian to his domain.

“Sit down, Cecily.” His Grace indicated a chair on the other side of his desk. Cecily searched her memory, but she could not think what she might have done. Certainly nothing Montford might have discovered, at all events. Nothing worthy of the duke’s famous Speech.

Now that she observed him, Montford’s patrician features appeared grave. Grimmer than usual, she thought, as if he had some terrible news to impart.

“Oh, Good God, Tibby’s sister!” Cecily said, sitting abruptly. “Has she taken a turn for the worse?”

“Not that I have heard,” said Montford. “However, I fear Miss Tibbs will not be at liberty to return to London for some time.”

“That is a shame, of course. But I scarcely expected her to do so,” said Cecily. “I think her sister must be gravely ill, don’t you?”

“I fear so. This has nothing to do with Miss Tibbs.”

A worse prospect occurred to her. A clutch of fear. “Not Jane. The—the baby?” Her voice cracked as she said the last word. She had tried not to let her concern for Jane show, but everyone knew of the high mortality rate of women in childbirth. She gripped the edge of the desk. “For pity’s sake, Your Grace, tell me!”

“Calm yourself, Cecily. It is nothing like that. Jane is in perfect health.”

Relief swept over her. She drew a long, unsteady breath. “But then what is it, Your Grace? If it is something unpleasant, do not keep me in suspense.”

“It has nothing to do with Tibby or any of your cousins, Cecily.” He paused. “It has to do with you.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. From the time he’d taken charge of her, Cecily had prided herself on being a handful. Yet, she’d be the first to admit that the consequences of disobedience could be mighty unpleasant if Montford chose.

This time, he surprised her by saying, “Your situation troubles me, Cecily.”

“Does it?” So she wasn’t in for a dressing-down after all. “In what way?”

His brows knit. “That is part of what troubles me. There is no logical reason for my concern. Norland is highborn, titled, wealthy, genteel, amiable. He would not beat you or abuse you; if he had
affaires,
he would be discreet. We negotiated the most favorable marriage settlements possible on your behalf.”

“What more could any lady ask?” Cecily agreed with an inexplicably sinking feeling. She wished to get this interview over with. It was exceedingly awkward to discuss what sort of husband Norland might be.

“And yet…” Montford used a fingertip to push his papers into line. “And yet for you, Cecily, that is not nearly enough.”

She flushed with embarrassment, pride, but mostly denial of this unprecedented statement. “But, Your Grace—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “I have urged you before to reconsider, have I not? Then, there was no other worthier candidate for your hand.
Now,
however…”

“Ashburn,” whispered Cecily. “He has spoken to you, hasn’t he?”

“He would make you an excellent husband, Cecily,” said Montford.

“Why?” she demanded, panic rising in her throat. “He is no better born or wealthier or—or in any way superior to Norland!” In fact he was one hundred times more dangerous to her happiness than Norland could ever be.

“And yet, the difference between the two men is quite vast, wouldn’t you agree?” said Montford.

She did not make the obvious answer to that. Instead, she said, “I am persuaded that I’ll be happy with the Duke of Norland. I have made the right choice and I shall stick to it. You—you should be glad of that, Your Grace. Imagine the talk if I cried off now.”

“Jane and Rosamund seem content in their marriages,” Montford said in a musing tone. “I confess, I am surprised.”

“Their cases are different from mine,” Cecily argued. “Surely you do not mean to forbid my marriage to Norland at this late stage!”

He shrugged. “It would be improper for me as your guardian to prevent your marrying a man who is demonstrably eligible. But mark my words, Cecily. If it were in my power, that is what I would do.”

As she digested this, he steepled his fingers together. “However. It is incumbent on me to inform you that an impediment to your marriage to Norland has arisen.”

“An—an impediment?” She swallowed. The letter. They’d found it. She was finished. Utterly ruined. Oh, but poor, poor Norland!