The Duke’s Obsession Bundle (107 page)

“So this is the good part?” Nick asked from beside her.

“The party piece is always saved for the second half,” Ellen explained, though it occurred to her belatedly, Nick had been to far more entertainments than she. “That way all the latecomers won’t miss it.”

“One wouldn’t want to miss this,” Nick murmured, only to be thumped on the arm by Darius.

She looked around one last time for Val, and then she spied him, his progress being marked by the growing hush of the audience as he strode across the stage.

Oh, he looked so handsome, so distinguished. He was too lean, maybe, though it was hard to tell when he was so far away, but how fortunate the lights caught his dark hair, his elegant, muscled form as he approached the conductor’s podium.

What
on
earth?

He tapped a baton on the music stand and signaled to the oboist, who offered the pitch. When the squeaks, toots, and honks of tuning up were silenced, Val turned to face the audience.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” His voice carried straight into the darkest corners of the hall and straight into Ellen’s heart. “There is a slight misprint on tonight’s program. We offer for our finale tonight my own debut effort, which is listed on the program as
Little
Summer
Symphony
. It should read,
Little
Weldon
Summer
Symphony
, and the dedication was left out, as well, so I offer it to you now.

“Ellen, I know you are with me tonight, seated with my parents and our friends, though I cannot see you. I can feel you, though, here.” He tapped the tip of the baton over his heart. “I can always feel you there, and hope I always will. Like its creator, this work is not perfect, but it is full of joy, gratitude, and love, because of you. Ladies and gentlemen, I dedicate this work to the woman who showed me what it means to be loved and love in return: Ellen, Baroness Roxbury, whom I hope soon to convince to be my lady wife. These modest tunes and all I have of value, Ellen, are dedicated to you.”

He turned in the ensuing beats of silence, raised his baton, and let the music begin.

Ellen was in tears before the first movement concluded. The piece began modestly, like an old-fashioned
sonata
di
chiesa
, the long slow introduction standing alone as its own movement. Two flutes began it, playing about each other like two butterflies on a sunbeam, but then broadening, the melody shifting from sweet to tender to sorrowful. She heard in it grief and such unbearable, unresolved longing, she wanted to grab Val’s arm to make the notes stop bombarding her aching heart.

But the second movement marched up right behind that opening, full of lovely, laughing melodies, like flowers bobbing in a summer breeze. This movement was full of song and sunshine; it got the toes tapping and left all manner of pretty themes humming around in the memory.

My gardens, Ellen thought. My beautiful sunny gardens, and Marmalade and birds singing and the Belmont brothers laughing and racing around.

The third movement was tranquil, like the sunshine on the still surface of the pond, like the peace after lovemaking. The third movement was napping entwined in the hammock, and strolling home hand in hand in the moonlight. She loved the third movement the best so far, until it romped into a little drinking song, that soon got away from itself and became a fourth movement full of the ebullient joy of creation at its most abundant and beautiful.

The joy of falling in love, Ellen thought, clutching her handkerchief hard. The joy of being in love and
being
loved
the
way
you
need
to
be
.

Ah, it was too much, and it was just perfect as the music came to a stunning, joyous conclusion. There was a beat of profound silence and then a spontaneous roar of approval, a deafening wall of applause, cheers, foot stomping, whistling, and calls for an encore. Val stood to the side, looking dazed and pleased, until the first violinist rose and gestured with his bow toward the podium. Even Ellen could hear the concertmaster happily yelling at Val to bow, for the love of God, and the applause did not diminish until Val turned, said something to his musicians, and held up his baton again.

The little drinking song served wonderfully as an encore, and the orchestra had to play through it yet again before the audience let the musicians and their conductor go.

In the ducal box, Ellen sat dazed and so pleased for Valentine she could not stop laughing and crying and being glad she had been there to see it. Her exile was now worthwhile. Through years and even decades of gardening in solitude, she would recall this night and those lovely sentiments tossed to her before all of London as if she were the prima donna on the stage.

And she would not—she would
not
—let herself worry that Freddy would get wind of this and pitch another tantrum.

“Come along.” Nick took her arm when they left the box, and with his superior height, navigated her deftly through the crowds.

“Where are we going?” Ellen asked, for she did not recognize the path they were traveling.

“To meet your fate, my lady,” Nick said, but his eyes were sparkling, and Ellen didn’t realize the significance of his comment until she was being tugged backstage toward a growing buzz of voices. “The green room is this way”—Nick steered her along—“but for you, we will refer to it as the throne room. Ladies and gentlemen…” Nick bellowed as he gently pushed Ellen into a crowded, well-lit room. “Make way for the artist’s muse and for a large fellow bent on reaching that punch bowl.”

Applause burst forth, and the crowd parted, leaving Ellen staring across the room at Valentine where he stood, a glass in his hand, still in his formal attire. He’d never looked so handsome to her, or so tired and happy and uncertain. He set the glass down and held out his left hand to her.

“My Ellen,” he said, as if introducing her. She tried to make her steps dignified before all these strangers, but then she was walking very quickly, then, hang it, she pelted the rest of the distance right into his arms, holding on to him with every ounce of her strength. She did not leave his side when the duke and duchess were announced or when his various siblings and friends came to congratulate him. She was still right by his side when the duke approached.

“Well.” Moreland smiled at his youngest son. “Suppose I was mistaken, then.”

“Your Grace?”

Ellen heard surprise in Val’s voice, and pleasure.

“I kept trying to haze you off in a different direction, afraid the peasants wouldn’t appreciate you for the virtuoso you are.” The duke sipped his drink, gaze roving the crowd until it lit on his wife standing beside Westhaven. “I was worrying for nothing all those years. Of course they’re going to love you—you are my son, after all.”

“I am that,” Val said softly, catching his father’s eye. “I always will be.”

“I think you’re going to be somebody’s husband too, eh, lad?” The duke winked very boldly at Ellen then sauntered off, having delivered a parting shot worthy of the ducal reputation.

“My papa is hell-bent on grandchildren. I hope you are not offended?”

Ellen shook her head. “Of course not, but Valentine, we do need to talk.”

“We do.” He signaled to Nick, where that worthy fellow stood guarding the punch bowl. Nick nodded imperceptibly in response and called some inane insult over the crowd to Westhaven, who quipped something equally pithy right back to the amusement of all onlookers, while Val and Ellen slipped out the door.

By the light of a single tallow candle, he led Ellen to a deserted practice room. He set the candle on the floor before tugging her down beside him on the piano bench.

“I can’t marry you,” Ellen said, wanting to make sure the words were said before she lost her resolve.

“Hear me out,” Val replied quietly. “I think you’ll change your mind. I hope and pray you’ll change your mind, or all my talent, all my music, all my art means nothing.”

Remember this, Ellen admonished herself. She ordered herself to recall the cedary scent of Val’s shaving soap, the feel of his arm embracing her where they sat on the hard bench, the reassuring heat of his body still warm from the exertion of conducting a major work. To recall the beloved sight of his face, so grave and tired now that the excitement of the debut was ebbing.

Remember
this, because it might have to sustain you for a long, long time.

“You need to know,” Val began, “Freddy has left the country, and he is not expected back.”

“Gone?” Ellen’s jaw literally dropped. “Freddy detested travel by anything except curricle.”

“He’s better off on the Continent, believe me. Between Sir Dewey and Benjamin Hazlit, my private investigator, I have sworn statements sufficient to bring charges against Freddy on everything from conspiracy to commit arson, to attempted murder, to breaking and entering, and a host of lesser charges. I have a statement from the herbalist on the Roxbury estate. Freddy bribed her to teach him about poisons and further bribed her to sell him a supply of pennyroyal and to label it spearmint. She didn’t untangle his purpose until your third miscarriage, and by then, it was too late. She suspects Freddy did kill the late baron, but we’ll never know.”

“I wish I could kill Freddy,” Ellen said, staring at Val in shock.

“You won’t have to,” Val assured her. “He’s in debt to so many people from whom one does not under any circumstances borrow, that they’ll hunt him down and gladly make an example of him. Most damning of all, my father uncovered evidence Freddy has sold his vote in the Lords for coin, and that could cost him his title, should Prinny take him into dislike over it. Would you like that?”

“And the regent would benefit?”

“The regent would benefit handsomely.”

Ellen shook her head. “It doesn’t seem fair that one of the oldest titles in the land goes into escheat for the regent’s convenience. Freddy has an heir, and he may be a decent enough fellow.”

“He’ll certainly be an improvement over Freddy, but the Roxbury estate is of no moment to me whatsoever. Tell me you’ll marry me.”

“You’re sure he’s gone?” Ellen asked, unable to keep her voice from breaking. “He’ll stay gone? You’re safe from him?”

“I am safe from him.” Val held her gaze. “
You
are safe from him. I promise you this, Ellen, with my most solemn word. My family owns two shipping companies, and we’d spot him before he disembarked at any domestic port. His ship was headed for Italy by way of Portugal, because he already has enemies in France. He can afford to run for a bit, since he took his personal jewelry with him. Recall, though, that he’s alone, he doesn’t speak the language, doesn’t know the customs, and I have friends who will keep an eye on him in Rome. Will you marry me?”

“You’re going to keep composing, aren’t you?” Ellen peered at him worriedly. “That music, Val. It was… sublime. I could almost hear the frogs croaking and feel the tears on my cheeks—well, I could feel the real tears—and the flowers, I could smell them in the sunshine during that second movement. I think the Belmont boys were there too, and so was Marmalade. You have to keep writing. You have to. Is your hand all right?”

Val sat back and braced one of his hands on each of her arms. “If I promise to keep composing,
will
you
marry
me
?”

“Yes.” It was a simple word but the most
radiant
in her vocabulary. Radiant like the notes of his symphony. “
Yes.
I will marry you, Valentine Windham, and you will write music, and our lives will always have something of the divine in them.”

“Always,” he agreed, hugging her to him.

And in his head, he heard a new tune: sweet, strong, and clear, underpinned by sturdy, driving rhythms and lush, generous harmonies. It was at once merry and profound, and as he bent to kiss his prospective wife, Val knew it might turn into something worthwhile, when he had some time to work on it.

And as it turned out, Valentine Windham was right. The working title of that piece, destined to be just as popular as his debut symphony, became, “Little Weldon Summer Christening.”

Careful readers will note that St. Just explains to Valentine that St. Just’s adopted daughter will hold the title on behalf of her legitimate heirs. This is in contravention of conventional wisdom telling us that adopted children would not have inherited titles. In the usual case, the conventional wisdom would prevail because an adopted child would not meet the criteria in the letters patent for most titles, which typically required the title to pass to “the oldest legitimate male natural issue surviving at the time of the titleholder’s death.”

Titled men could and did adopt children, but having letters patent reworded was a much trickier proposition. His Grace influenced the wording of St. Just’s original letters patent, which put a very different face on the heritability of St. Just’s earldom. Furthermore, in Bronwyn’s case, I can assure my readers that both the Helmsley and Rosecroft earldoms included baronies among their predecessor titles, and among the old baronies, it was not at all unusual for female heirs to be able to hold titles in abeyance, sometimes for centuries. As for whether an illegitimate female might qualify, well, this is, as the scholars say, an area for further research—or a just a touch of literary license I hope the purists will find excusable.

Then, too, we know that Prinny’s brothers and his sister, the Princess Sophia, had among them something like twenty illegitimate children, and I hope The First Gentleman might have found it in his heart to indulge a royal eccentricity on behalf of our dear Bronwyn’s offspring. His Grace, when fixed on a goal, can be very determined and persuasive after all.

Lady Maggie’s Secret Scandal

Coming May 2012 From Sourcebooks Casablanca

“The blighted, benighted, blasted, perishing thing has to be here somewhere.” Maggie Windham flopped the bed skirt back down and glared at her wardrobe. “You look in there, Evie, and I’ll take the dressing room.”

“We’ve looked in the dressing room,” Eve Windham said. “If we don’t leave soon we’ll be late for Mama’s weekly tea and Her Grace cannot abide tardiness.”

“Except in His Grace,” Maggie said, sitting on her bed. “She’ll want to know why we’re late and give me one of those oh-Maggie looks.”

“They’re no worse than her oh-Evie, oh-Jenny, or oh-Louise looks.”

“They’re worse, believe me,” Maggie said, blowing out a breath. “I am the eldest. I should know better, I should think before I act, I am to set a good example. It’s endless.”

“I like the example you set.” Eve gave her a smile. “You do as you please, you come and go as you please, you have your own household and your own funds. You’re in charge of your own life.”

Maggie did not quite return the smile. “I am a disgrace, but a happy one for the most part. Let’s be on our way and I can turn my rooms upside down when I get home.”

Evie took her arm and as they passed from Maggie’s bedroom, they crossed before the cheval mirror.

A study in contrasts,
Maggie thought. They were the bookends of the Windham daughters, the oldest and the youngest. No one in his right mind would conclude they had a father in common. Maggie was tall with flaming red hair and the sturdy proportions of her mother’s agrarian Celtic antecedents, while Evie was petite, blond, and delicate. By happenstance, they both had the green eyes common to every Windham sibling and to Esther, Duchess of Moreland.

“Is this to be a full parade muster?” Maggie asked as she and Evie settled into her town coach.

“A hen party. Our sisters ran out of megrims, sprained ankles, bellyaches and monthlies, and Mama will be dragging the lot of us off to Almack’s directly. Sophie is lucky to be rusticating with her baron.”

“I don’t envy you Almack’s.” She did, however, envy Sophie her recently acquired marital bliss. Envied it intensely and silently.

“You had your turn in the ballrooms, though how you dodged holy matrimony with both Her Grace and His Grace lining up the Eligibles is beyond me.”

“Sheer determination. You refuse the proposals one by one, and honestly, Evie, Papa isn’t as anxious to see us wed as Her Grace is. Nobody is good enough for his girls.”

“So he took it out on the boys and now they’re wed with babies on the way.”

“Finally. Then Sophie had to go and ruin things by marrying her baron.”

Their eyes met and they broke into giggles. Still, Maggie saw the faint anxiety in Evie’s pretty green eyes, and knew a moment’s gratitude that she herself was so firmly on the shelf. There had been long, fraught years when she’d had to dodge every spotty boy and widowed knight in the realm, and then finally she’d reached the halcyon age of thirty.

By then, even Papa had been willing to concede, not defeat—he still occasionally got in his digs—but truce. Maggie had been allowed to set up her own establishment and the time since had seen significant improvement in her peace of mind.

There were tariffs and tolls, of course. She was expected to show up at Her Grace’s weekly teas from time to time. Not every week, not even every other, but often enough. She stood up with her brothers when they deigned to grace the ballrooms, which was thankfully rare of late. She occasionally joined her sisters for a respite at Morelands, the seat of the duchy in Kent.

But mostly, she hid.

They reached the ducal mansion, an imposing edifice set well back from its landscaped square. The place was both family home and the logistical seat of the Duke of Moreland’s various parliamentary stratagems. He loved his politics, did His Grace.

And his duchess.

One of his meetings must have been letting out when the hour for Her Grace’s tea grew near because the soaring foyer of the mansion was a beehive of servants, departing gentlemen, and arriving ladies. Footmen were handing out gloves, hats, and walking sticks to the gentlemen, while taking gloves, bonnets, and wraps from the ladies.

Maggie sidled around to the wall, found a mirror, and unpinned her lace mantilla from her hair. She flipped the lace up and off her shoulders, but it snagged on something.

A tug did nothing to dislodge the lace, though someone behind her let out a muttered curse.

Damn it
? Being a lady in company, Maggie decided she’d heard “drat it,” and used the mirror to study the situation.

Oh, no.

Of all the men in all the mansions in all of Mayfair, why
him?

“If you’ll hold still,” he said, “I’ll have us disentangled.”

Her beautiful lacy green shawl had caught on the flower attached to his lapel, a hot pink little Damask rose, full of thorns and likely to ruin her mantilla. Maggie half turned, horrified to feel a tug on her hair as she did.

A stray pin came sliding down into her vision, dangling on a fat red curl.

“Gracious.” She reached up to extract the pin, but her hand caught in the shawl, now stretched between her and the gentleman’s lapel. Another tug, another curl came down.

“Allow me.” It wasn’t a request. The gentleman’s hands were bare and his fingers nimble as he reached up and removed several more pins from Maggie’s hair. The entire flaming mass of it listed to the left, then slid down over her shoulders in complete disarray.

His dark eyebrows rose and for one instant, Maggie had the satisfaction of seeing Mr. Benjamin Hazlit at a loss. Then he was handing her several hair pins amid the billows of her mantilla, which were still entangled with the longer skeins of her hair. While Maggie held the fluffy mass of her mantilla before her, he got the blasted flower extracted from the lace, and held it out to her, as if he’d just plucked it from a bush for her delectation.

“My apologies, my lady. The fault is entirely mine.”

And he was laughing at her. The great, dark, brute found it amusing that Maggie Windham, illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Moreland, was completely undone before the servants, her sisters, and half her father’s cronies from the Lords.

She wanted to smack him.

Maggie instead stepped in closer to Hazlit, took the fragrant little flower, and withdrew the jeweled pin from its stem.

“If you’ll just hold still a moment, Mr. Hazlit, I’ll have you put to rights in no time.” He was tall enough she had to look up at him—another unforgivable fault, for Maggie liked to look down on men—so she beamed a toothy smile at him when she jabbed the little pin through layers of fabric to prick his arrogant, manly skin.

“Beg pardon,” she said, giving his cravat a pat. “The fault is entirely mine.”

The humor in his eyes shifted to something not the least funny, but Maggie’s spirits were significantly restored.

“Your gloves, sir?” A footman hovered, looking uncertain and very pointedly not noticing Maggie’s hair rioting down to her hips. Maggie took the gloves and held them out to Hazlit.

“Can you manage, Mr. Hazlit, or shall I assist you further?” She turned one glove, and held it open, as if he were three years old and unable to sort the thing out for himself.

“My thanks.” He took the glove and tugged it on, then followed suit with the second.

Except his hand brushed Maggie’s while she held out his glove. She didn’t think it was intentional, because his expression abruptly shuttered. He tapped his hat onto his head and was perhaps contemplating a parting bow when Maggie beat him to the exit.

She rose from her curtsey, her hair tumbling forward, and murmured a quiet, “Good day,” before turning her back on him deliberately. To the casual observer, it wouldn’t have been rude.

She hoped Hazlit took it for the slight it was intended to be.

“Oh, Mags.” Evie bustled up to her side. “Let’s get you upstairs before Mama sees this.” She lifted a long curling hank of hair. “Turn loose of that mantilla before your permanently wrinkle it—and whatever happened to put you in such a state?”