When the Duke Found Love (9 page)

“I’ll grant that our family has much to celebrate with His Grace’s betrothal,” she said, pausing until she was certain she’d everyone’s attention. “But His Grace is not the only one with joyful news. Tonight I—I have accepted Lord Crump’s offer of marriage.”

“Dear Lady Diana!” exclaimed Lord Crump, his eyes round with astonishment. “How happy you have made me!”

Diana tried to smile. He’d every right to be surprised: not only had she not accepted his proposal of marriage, he hadn’t made one. She was trusting he wouldn’t share that little fact, and he didn’t. In fact, he seemed perfectly willing to pretend that he had. Perhaps he was even relieved that he wouldn’t actually have to do so now.

He took her hand in his, giving her fingers a clumsy pat.

“Dear Lady Diana,” he said again. “How grateful I am for your regard, and how agreeable to have matters settled between us so soon.”

“Oh, Diana, I am delighted!” Mama exclaimed, rushing forward to wrap her arms around Diana. She was weeping with joy, which made tears sting in Diana’s eyes, too. Soon Charlotte and Aunt Sophronia had joined them, all hugging and weeping in a wonderful, womanly display of rejoicing and love.

At least it would have been wonderful if Diana had truly loved Lord Crump. With every blessing and kiss of good wishes that she received on her cheek, the reality of what she’d just done struck her more keenly.

Over her mother’s shoulder, she saw Sheffield again. He was standing to one side, watching her. When his eyes met hers, he didn’t smile as she’d expected. Instead he held her gaze for a moment longer, his expression thoughtful. Then he looked away and joined the other gentlemen.

That, and no more.

The next morning, Sheffield sat alone at a small table near the coffeehouse’s window, idly glancing over a week-old paper from Paris as he sipped his coffee. The coffee was better than he expected, the beans well roasted and the brew murky-dark and thick, the way he liked it, and the news was not so old that it failed to entertain.

The coffeehouse keeper had not recognized him beyond being a gentleman, and so while he’d been shown to a favorable seat, he hadn’t been badgered with the obsequious attention that often followed dukes. He was thankful for that. His meeting here this morning would be far more agreeable without any ducal fanfare, which was why he’d dressed plainly and hired a hansom instead of rolling out in his coach with the gold-picked crest on the door. With Fantôme curled asleep against his feet beneath the table and the spring sunshine warm on his shoulders, he felt comfortably at ease. Simplicity definitely had its pleasures.

Besides, he’d earned a small respite in this day. The morning still wasn’t done, yet he’d already accomplished much. He’d risen early to meet with Marlowe, his primary man of business here in London. Although Sheffield was conscientious about his properties and affairs even while abroad, there were still many things to review with Marlowe: changes in the household staff of his London house; the latest progress on the new stables at Oakworth, his country house in Hampshire; recommendations regarding the apple trees in his orchard; and the arrangement of new statues in the garden. There was also a stack of letters from petitioners and acquaintances, and appeals from worthy charities to consider.

Once he’d finished with the most urgent of Marlowe’s business, Sheffield had an inquiry of his own. He’d a vague memory of a church living tied to the parish that served his tenants at Oakworth, plus other families in the nearby village. Dispensing livings to worthy clergymen wasn’t generally one of Sheffield’s interests, and while Marlowe had expressed modest surprise when Sheffield asked, he still gave the answer that Sheffield had hoped for.

But that hadn’t been all. Sheffield had also arranged this meeting here, and on his way he’d stopped at his favorite bookseller’s. There he’d found exactly what he wanted, or rather, what he thought Lady Enid would want: an exquisite old edition of Homer’s
Odyssey
, bound in red leather. He’d written a brief inscription inside to Lady Enid and had it sent to her. Then, because it didn’t seem right sending only a book to a lady, he’d also had a large bouquet of red roses, fresh from the country, delivered to her as well. He’d no more intention of marrying Lady Enid than she did him, but the rest of London didn’t know that, and Sheffield wished to maintain his reputation as a thoughtful lover.

Which, reputation or not, he was. He liked women too much to be anything else, whether from Brecon’s influence or his own French blood. His life would undoubtedly be much less complicated if he’d a harder heart where women were concerned. He knew plenty of gentlemen who put their own pleasure first and gave not a thought for the poor woman who’d done the pleasing, but he wasn’t one of them. He enjoyed discovering the little differences and nuances that made every woman special, and which, to his mind and his cock, made seduction such an endlessly fascinating experiment.

But that joy of discovery could also turn into a trial. How else to explain last night, and now this morning? Even as he’d been assiduously considering and choosing the perfect small gift to send to Lady Enid, his shameless thoughts kept racing back to kissing Lady Diana.

No, it went back further than that, to the afternoon when Fantôme had found her in the park. He had been fascinated with her then, and last night had only served to increase that fascination. She was an undeniable beauty with her golden hair and wide blue eyes, and of course her delectable breasts, but it was her impulsiveness that truly intrigued him. Most ladies were wary with strange men, but she wasn’t, not at all. What was the word that Brecon had used?
Willful
. To him, she wasn’t so much willful as direct. Clearly she did what she wanted, when she chose, and with whom. Little wonder that Brecon and her mother were so concerned. Lady Diana was completely, charmingly unpredictable. He’d never come across another woman who behaved like that, and as a man, he was irresistibly drawn to the challenge.

He smiled, thinking of how she’d kissed him. He’d been surprised, yes, but what had surprised him far more was tasting her inexperience. She’d kissed him freely, but she wasn’t in the habit of doing it. He’d realized it from the instant he’d begun to kiss her in return, and how startled she’d been by the intimacy of it. He’d wager a hundred guineas that she was a virgin, despite the tattle. She hadn’t backed away, though, and she’d learned quickly and eagerly. How much more he’d like to teach her!

So why, then, was she so determined to wed a dry old stick such as Crump?

“Begging pardon, sir,” a waiter said, bowing slightly beside the table. “That gentleman, there at the door, he says he’s to meet a gentleman with a white dog. Do that be you, sir? He said his name be Dr. Pullings, sir. Do you know him, sir? Should I show him here, sir, or send him away?”

Sheffield leaned to one side so he could see the door and the newcomer beside it: a young man with an open, round face, plain dark clothes rusty with wear, a flat, uncocked hat, and the kind of shapeless, dun-colored wig with a limp black ribbon that was favored by impoverished clerics.

“Yes, I’m the man with the white dog,” Sheffield said, bemused to be described in such a way, “and yes, I am expecting Dr. Pullings. Show him here directly.”

The waiter went to fetch Dr. Pullings, and Sheffield refolded the paper and put it to one side. He hadn’t been reading it much, anyway. His own life at present seemed far more dramatic than anything a mere Parisian journalist could contrive.

“Good day, Dr. Pullings,” he said, offering the other chair. “I thank you for joining me on such short notice.”

“Good day, Your Grace, good day,” Pullings said, bobbing a nervous bow. “It is I who must be grateful, Your Grace, and forever in your debt.”

The waiter’s head twitched at that doubled “Your Grace.” So much for anonymity, thought Sheffield wryly; the entire coffeehouse would soon be attempting to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“You’re hardly in my debt yet, Dr. Pullings,” he said. “Here. Sit. What shall you have? Coffee, tea, chocolate?”

“Tea, Your Grace, thank you very much,” Pullings said, sitting on the edge of the other chair with his hat on his knee. He was younger than Sheffield had expected, younger even than he himself. His nose and cheeks were lightly freckled, adding to his boyishness, and he had an insistent Adam’s apple that betrayed his nervousness. His clothes were even shabbier than Sheffield had first thought, the seams of his coat faded and the fraying cuffs of his shirt turned at least once. He was the perfect model of an impoverished scholar-cleric, and exactly the sort of young man certain to horrify Lord Lattimore as a suitor for Lady Enid.

“I realize I said little in my letter,” Sheffield began. “I’m sure the entire arrangement must seem peculiar to you.”

“No, Your Grace, no, no,” Pullings said. The tea appeared before him, and with an anxious clattering of the spoon in the cup he stirred in his sugar. “That is, I’d a letter last night from—from the lady involved, who explained everything.”

Sheffield wished there were some polite way to explain that he needed be addressed as “Your Grace” once, and thereafter an everyday “sir” would suffice. But despite his nervousness, the poor fellow had taken care not to use Lady Enid’s name in public, and Sheffield approved.

“I’m glad the lady explained it all, Dr. Pullings,” he said wryly, “because in all honesty, I’m not sure I could do the same.”

Pullings’s face fell. “You’ve changed your mind, then, Your Grace,” he said with obvious despair. “I cannot blame you. It was too generous of you to be true.”

“I haven’t changed my mind,” Sheffield said quickly. “That is, so long as our conversation goes as I hope, then I haven’t.”

This
was
a deuced odd circumstance, interviewing the sweetheart of the woman he himself was committed to marry. No matter how desperately Lady Enid had sworn she was in love, Sheffield wanted to make sure that Pullings was worthy of her attentions before he tried to bring them together. On principle he’d no wish to side with Lord Lattimore, but he didn’t want to see Lady Enid be swept away by a Greek-and-Latin-spewing fortune-hunter, either.

“I swear to whatever you wish, Your Grace,” Pullings declared. “I will not surrender the lady, not to you or anyone else.”

“Even if she came to you without a farthing to her name?” Sheffield asked, feeling like the devil’s advocate. “I understand her father will give her nothing if she marries against his wishes.”

“I would take her in her shift alone, Your Grace,” he said, his eyes flashing with an unministerly fire. “She is that dear to me. Our souls, our hearts, are as one, and will be so forever, no matter what the Fates may conspire to keep us asunder.”

“No need for things to be quite so, ah, dramatic,” Sheffield said, thinking how closely Pullings’s words echoed Lady Enid’s. Clearly these two spent a great deal of time declaiming their devotion to each other, and quite poetically, too. Yet in a way he envied them. He’d been in and out of love for years, but he’d never once felt this strongly for any woman, and he doubted that any of those women in his past would have said the same about him, either.

““No need for drama, nor poetry,” he continued. “Consider this simply a way for all of us to oblige one another.”

“Love is never an obligation, Your Grace,” Pullings said earnestly. “It is a joy, a blessing, a—”

“Well, yes, all that,” Sheffield said, thinking how he’d never want to sit before Pullings as he was preaching a sermon. “Here is my offer. There is a small parish connected to my property in Hampshire. The present vicar is an elderly fellow who plans to withdraw at Midsummer’s Day to spend the rest of his days with his son’s family. The living’s yours, and the lady, too, if you will permit her to act as my intended until that time.”

Pullings’s jaw fell open. “A parish in Hampshire,” he whispered. “A living of my own … Oh, Your Grace, I do not have words to thank you for your generosity, your munificence, your—”

“The lady,” Sheffield said. “You must agree to that part, too.”

Pullings frowned. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I must beg your assurance that if the lady acts this part, then you will show her the utmost respect.”

“Not so much as a kiss on the cheek,” Sheffield said soundly. “You’ve my word of honor on that. I respect the lady too much to disrespect her in that way. In September you two can elope and set up housekeeping in Hampshire, easy as can be. No one shall know the truth but us.”

It wouldn’t really be easy as can be, not exactly. Sheffield knew that, even if the young man across from him didn’t. It would be a huge, raging scandal—an earl’s daughter running off with her brother’s old tutor, a duke abandoned at the altar (almost), a disappointed king—but nothing that Sheffield couldn’t weather. Besides, he’d never been the wounded party in a love affair. He was actually rather looking forward to the experience as a diversion.

“It will be a grievously large deceit, Your Grace, with many untruths necessary for success,” Pullings said slowly, his palms pressed flat on the table on either side of his teacup, as if bracing himself. “And yet it may be the only way.”

Sheffield sighed impatiently. “If you wish to marry the lady, then yes, it likely is the only way.”

“Then I shall accept, Your Grace,” he said finally. “On behalf of both of us, I accept. We shall evermore be in your debt.”

“Excellent!” Sheffield smiled and held his hand out to the other man, who took it gingerly. “I shall be honored to play your Cupid, Dr. Pullings.”

“I—we—are the ones who are honored, Your Grace,” Pullings said solemnly. “It is bold of me to say so, but our Heavenly Lord in His wisdom cannot smile on the holy sacrament of matrimony debased into a union of titles and fortunes.”

“Exactly so,” Sheffield said, surprising himself by being in complete agreement.

“I am glad you agree, Your Grace,” Pullings said. “I can only pray that this ruse of ours will be of benefit to you and the fair lady you truly love as well.”

Even as Sheffield began to deny the existence of such a lady, the image of Lady Diana Wylder abruptly appeared in his thoughts, a vivid memory of her determined smile as she’d reached up to kiss him. It was the damnedest thing. He didn’t love her. How could he, when he scarcely knew her? He didn’t love anyone, not at present.