A Duke by Any Other Name Read online

  Wilhelmina, Duchess of Rothhaven, ran her finger over the signature inked at the corner of her son’s latest epistle. In the first paragraph, Nathaniel would inform her that a generous sum had been transferred to the London accounts for her use.

  In the second, he would report on the health and well-being of the Yorkshire staff, nearly all of whom had been at Rothhaven since Wilhelmina had arrived as a bride thirty-odd years ago. If a trusted retainer had to be pensioned off, those remaining took up the slack, or—in a very few cases—Nathaniel hired a grandchild, niece, or nephew of the departing employee.

  The boy was nothing if not loyal. Unlike his idiot father.

  “Every time I see my son’s signature franking a letter, I rejoice, Sarah.”

  Sarah looked up from her cutwork. “Because His Grace thrives, Cousin?”

  “Because he thrives, because he’s so conscientious regarding his duties, because if he’s minding Rothhaven, we can continue to kick our heels here in the south.” Wilhelmina hadn’t any particular fondness for London, but she loved her offspring very much. Better for all concerned if she kept her distance from Yorkshire and let Nathaniel go on without her meddling.

  “You earned your freedom,” Sarah said, adjusting the angle of her scissors. “An heir and spare in less than three years.”

  The late duke had bestirred himself to leave his wing of the family seat to congratulate Wilhelmina on that feat, the only time His Grace had thanked her for anything.

  Sarah offered her a smile. As girls coming of age in York, they’d dreamed of a London Season. The great day had arrived, and of all the ironies, after traveling hundreds of miles from Yorkshire, Wilhelmina had caught the eye of a Yorkshire ducal heir. She and Sarah both had, actually, but he’d offered for Wilhelmina, and an offer from a future duke was not to be refused, even if his family seat lay at the edge of the world’s most desolate moor.

  And even if that future duke had had about as much personal warmth as a January gale.

  Sarah worked the little scissors at her paper, leaving a pile of trimmings on the tray in her lap. “Yorkshire is beautiful in spring. I wouldn’t mind seeing it again.”

  Wilhelmina gave the same reply she’d always give. “Perhaps next year.” She set aside Nathaniel’s letter and held up her embroidery hoop, debating whether to add another spray of leaves to the handkerchief she was working on. “The Season is all but upon us, and that is the best time to bide in London.”

  Sarah snipped away. “Don’t you ever grow homesick?”

  “I miss my offspring. I do not miss Rothhaven.”

  Sarah peered at her over gold-rimmed half spectacles. “Meaning you do not miss the ancestral pile, or you no longer miss your late husband? He was certainly a handsome devil and quite vigorous.”

  Oh, he’d been a devil. Thank the heavenly powers Nathaniel hadn’t turned out anything like him. “Who could miss a dwelling that has all the charm of an icehouse? The Hall is a magnet for dust and cobwebs, and nobody can live there for long without risking rheumatism. I really do wish Nathaniel would let the dratted property out.”

  Though he couldn’t. Wilhelmina knew that.

  “He needs a duchess,” Sarah said, putting down her scissors. She unpeeled the folds of the paper, her movements as always patient and careful. “He’s not getting any younger.”

  “He’ll marry in good time. Nathaniel has his hands full with Rothhaven.” Another response that hid a world of heartache. Nathaniel could not marry, and for that too, Wilhelmina blamed her late husband.

  “Rothhaven Hall holds unhappy memories, doesn’t it?”

  Unhappy memories were inevitable in the course of a long life. When a woman had borne two children to a man undeserving of love, and then seen both of those children treated terribly, her memories bordered on hellish.

  “Rothhaven Hall holds creeping damp and mildew, as best I recall. What is that supposed to be?”

  Sarah’s cutwork was a chain of barely connected figures, far more of the paper having been snipped away than remained.

  “I intended it to be a replica of the lace pattern you devised for the curtains in the music room.”

  “Best give it another go, my dear.” Paper was expensive, but Sarah well deserved her little pastimes. She’d been a friend, companion, and occasional shoulder to cry on for decades. What mattered the stationer’s bill compared to loyalty like that?

  “What does Nathaniel have to say?” Sarah asked, upending her tray into the dustbin beside her chair.

  “Spring is arriving—always a relief. The flocks and herds thrive, Vicar Sorenson sends his regards.” That was the third paragraph of the letter, but it was the postscript Wilhelmina treasured most.

  Nathaniel missed his mama, he wished they need not dwell so far apart. Over the past year, the postscripts had become more elliptical, like Sarah’s cutwork. What went unsaid far surpassed the few sentences jotted on the page, but that could not be helped.

  The larger situation was entirely hopeless. Nathaniel would never marry, and the ducal line would die out. If anything gave Wilhelmina satisfaction, it was knowing that her late husband’s most desperate ambition would never be realized.

  The Rothhaven succession would end thanks to the previous duke, and well it should.

  Don’t leave me. The words welled up from an old, miserable place in Althea’s memory. A violent father inflicted one sort of pain, a mother who’d died too young another, and loneliness yet another.

  Quinn, as the oldest of the Wentworth siblings, had gone out looking for work from a tender age, leaving Althea to manage Constance and Stephen. Papa would disappear for days at a time, then stumble home reeking of gin, his mood vile. Althea dreaded to hear him pounding upon the door, but as a child with only one extant parent, she’d dreaded to hear of his death even more.

  Then Quinn had found steady work that meant he no longer dwelled with his family, and Althea had learned to dread every moment. Thanks to Quinn’s wages, she, Stephen, and Constance had had more to eat, but she would have traded her food for an older brother’s protection in an instant.

  Now she dwelled alone amid splendors unthinkable to that girl, and Rothhaven was deigning to share a cup of tea with her. He had asked her to explain her unusual pedigree, which suggested a degree of isolation on his part that surprised even Althea.

  “If you haven’t heard of the Wentworth family’s improved fortunes, Your Grace, then you truly are a dedicated recluse.”

  He paused, a cheese sandwich halfway to his mouth. “I like my privacy, but even I know Wentworth is the family name associated with the Walden dukedom. Your brother is the recipient of that title?”

  Did nobody feed this man? “He is, and with the help of a devoted duchess and three darling daughters, he’s bearing up manfully.”

  “No heir?”

  “My brother Stephen, as yet unmarried.” Jane was growing impatient with Stephen, and Althea wished Her Grace the joy of finding a bride who could tolerate Stephen’s many peculiarities.

  “Titles devolve to unlikely heirs all the time. What about those circumstances renders you unfit for polite society?”

  Rothhaven’s plate was empty again. Althea tugged the bell pull, and when Strensall stepped into the room, she gestured to the tray.

  “Real sandwiches this time, Strensall, not the decorative kind, and have a wheel of the Danish dill sent over to Rothhaven Hall, please. A few bottles of the Pinot as well, and some of the pear torte from last night.”

  Rothhaven peered at his tea. “Generous of you.”

  “Consider it an apology for my wayward sows.” Also a lure. Monsieur Henri’s pear torte was food for the gods and goddesses.

  Rothhaven waited for Strensall to depart before resuming the conversation. “Now that you have dodged my question twice, my lady, perhaps you’d favor me with an honest answer: Why are you so unfit for the station that’s befallen you?”

  Althea rose, though a lady never paced. “My branch of the Wentworth family wasn’t merely humble, we were destitute. Many decent families fall on hard times, but my father fell upon the gin cask and never let go. He expended more energy avoiding work than many a hod carrier has spent plying his trade, and he was nasty.”

  Such a tame little word for the evil that had been Jack Wentworth.

  “You’ve described half the peerage, though port figures more prominently among their vices than gin.”

  Althea went to the window. Sunshine fortified her, as did fresh air and quiet. In the cramped, twisted warrens of the slums, those commodities were nonexistent.

  “If my father was no worse than any earl of your acquaintance, then why am I made the butt of one insult after another? Never let it be said that Lady Althea carries the smell of the shop with her, when the stench of the alley is so much more distinctive.”

  Rothhaven helped himself to more tea and this time he added milk and sugar. “Somebody said that?”

  “And four other somebodies found it uproariously clever.”

  “Did you offer them the cut direct?”

  “I pretended not to hear them.”

  Strensall returned carrying yet another tray, this one laden with food. Monsieur had included a few slices of pear torte, and Althea battled the impulse to prevent Rothhaven from gobbling them all.

  Old habits died hard, when they’d been the difference between survival and starvation.

  “One learns,” Rothhaven said, inspecting the offerings, “to never ignore an insult. Will you sulk over by the window or attend your guest? Considering the measures necessary to lure me into your parlor, the least you could do is preside over the tray.”

  Althea returned to her seat. “I thought a lady never took unnecessary offense? If I gave the cut direct to everybody wh
o whispered about me behind a potted palm, I’d cease speaking to half of Mayfair. Besides, I don’t know how to deliver the cut direct. Jane says it’s a look in the eyes, a public dismissal, but I haven’t seen it done, and I’m not Jane. I lack a proper aristocratic nose for the cut direct.”

  Althea piled two sandwiches on one plate, and a fat slice of pear torte on another with a square of vanilla tablet to the side.

  “Who is Jane?”

  “Her Grace of Walden, my sister-in-law. She has majestic height, a splendid nose for looking down, and this…this presence that inspires equal parts respect and liking. She manages my brother, a singularly contrary man, and he likes it. She is also a preacher’s daughter and genuinely kind. Jane has no sense of how to wage a war of petty slights and mean innuendo, and the last thing I want is for her to become tainted by my problems.”

  “The cut direct isn’t complicated.” Rothhaven set down his plate, inhaled through his nose—another splendid fixture—and slowly turned his head to regard Althea with a disdain so glacial she nearly squirmed in her chair. He held her gaze for an excruciating eternity, then pointedly looked away.

  “You see?” he said, picking up his plate. “Not complicated. You notice, you hold in a contempt too vast for words, you dismiss. Try it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. One doesn’t rehearse such a thing.”

  Those green eyes that had chilled Althea to the heart a moment ago crinkled at the corners. “Coward.”

  “No wheel of cheese for you. A gentleman doesn’t insult a lady.”

  “You all but declared war on my privacy, but you won’t practice giving me a dirty look? I thought you were made of sterner stuff.”

  Had Althea been at table with her siblings, she would have pitched her napkin at him. “I don’t want to look silly.”

  His Grace munched the first sandwich into oblivion. “I will kidnap your cook on the next stormy, moonless night. This is quite good. As for looking silly, when you ignore an obvious slight, that is when you look silly. And don’t tell yourself that some slights are too small to notice. When you deliver a setdown to even the pettiest malefactor, the real bullies leave you alone. Come, my lady. Pretend I’m the last bounder to speak ill of you. Put me in my place.”

  Althea mentally chose a bounder among bounders, the Honorable Pettibone Framley. “He said, ‘I feel sorry for it.’ He smirked at me as if I were a beast in the menagerie, too stupid to comprehend the taunt.”

  “A truly vile excuse for a man. Summon his memory and deliver him the cut direct. Chin up, gaze bold. Acknowledge, disdain, dismiss. Don’t sneer. Let your eyes speak for you.”

  Glaring at Rothhaven was difficult, and dismissing him was impossible, but Althea gave it her best effort.

  “That was quite good,” he said, popping a square of tablet into his mouth. “When you are truly offended, the effect will be magnificent. Be offended easily and often, and the fools will soon learn not to trifle with you. What is this?”

  “A Scottish sweet. Monsieur Henri adds a dash of vanilla, and the effect is quite rich.”

  Althea had ingested a sweet of a sort too, the delicious treat of learning how to respond to an insult. Turning the head slowly was an important part of the impact, both before and after that bit with the eyes. Acknowledge, disdain, dismiss.

  “I must have the recipe,” Rothhaven said. “And I must be going. Is there a reason you do not commend the idiots and gossips to your brother and sister-in-law’s devices? A duke of indifferent origins doubtless has vast experience putting the gossips in their places.”

  “Several reasons, my pride first among them. I must learn to make my own way. If I can wedge past all the whispers and jests, I might find a local gentleman whom I can esteem. I cannot rely on Quinn and Jane to search out such a fellow for me when they have little familiarity with Yorkshire society, and their efforts on my behalf in London were disastrously unavailing. Then too, Quinn won’t merely issue a setdown, he’ll ruin anybody who insults his family.”

  “I might like this Quinn person. I adore this sweet.”

  Althea didn’t always like her older brother, but she respected him immensely. “His Grace of Walden won’t merely start talk in the clubs, he will destroy, unto the nineteenth generation, any who offend him. He’s obnoxiously wealthy, he cuts a wide swath in the Lords, and he all but owns two banks. He can make his competitors tremble before he pours his morning tea.”

  Rothhaven dusted his hands over an empty plate. “Some people need ruining, but I take your point. If you are already seen as having the mannerisms of the back alleys, then returning annihilation for a slight only confirms the impression.”

  A duke expressed himself in those succinct, sophisticated terms. Althea could only nod. “I must find my own way to manage polite society, particularly here at Lynley Vale. Jane was raised in and around London. She has no connections this far north, and no idea how things are done in the country, while I haven’t anywhere else to go. In this neighborhood, no one’s standing exceeds your own. Will you help me?”

  He already had. Althea would practice the cut direct before her cheval mirror, and to perdition with dignity.

  Rothhaven rose, looking much less severe than when he’d stalked into the parlor. “Alas, my lady, I cannot. Spring planting is around the corner, and my estate would fall to pieces if I took my hand from the reins for even a figurative instant. My thanks for a pleasant hour, but please promise me that you and your staff will put it about that I am thoroughly disagreeable—if you must mention that my path has crossed yours at all.”

  His eyes were crinkled at the corners again. Why did he have to have such lovely eyes?

  “You cannot plough and plant every hour of the day, Your Grace.”

  He took her hand and bowed. “You would be surprised. Please do retrieve your errant swine, and I’ll look forward to that wheel of cheese.”

  Dismissed, though without the disdain. Althea did not care for the experience even so. She walked with him to the front door and passed him his hat and spurs.

  “I will revile your execrable manners in the churchyard if you like, and assure all and sundry that your breath is sulfurous. Mightn’t you pay a call or two on me when planting is finished?”

  He opened the front door, letting in a gust of fresh, peaty air. “Could you intimate that I was fearsome rather than malodorous?”

  “Very well.” Althea accompanied him down the steps to the mounting block. “I will inform any who care to listen that the measure of your step is ominous and that a lift of your eyebrow inspired me to paroxysms of terror.”

  “I’d settle for a frisson of dread. One doesn’t want to shade into melodrama.”

  One didn’t want to part from Rothhaven never to see him until autumn, when he’d gallop past Althea’s park at dusk on Tuesday evenings.

  “I would appreciate even a proper morning call,” she said. “A mere quarter hour of your time.”

  A groom walked the duke’s gelding along the path that led from the stables, and Althea felt a sense of having come desperately close to attaining a goal, only to have it slip through her fingers.

  That would not do. Not at all. Rothhaven was clearly the right resource for the challenge she faced, he simply needed more motivation to assist her.

  “Never beg,” Rothhaven said, buckling on his spurs. “Never give quarter, never beg. With time and determination, I’m sure your situation will improve. My thanks for your hospitality.”

  Don’t leave me. Please, don’t leave me. That heart-cry belonged to a young girl watching her mother’s still form being carried from the cramped, dank quarters that had qualified as home. The same girl had thought those words when Quinn had left York to take a job in service at a country manor. As a woman, Althea had again bit back that plea when Quinn had been led off to Newgate.

  Rothhaven was barely an acquaintance, but Althea had pinned her hopes on his cooperation—how much trouble would it be for him to pay a few morning calls?—and now he was leaving too.

  He checked the snugness of the horse’s girth, let down his stirrups, and swung into the saddle. The great black beast began capering around on the drive, clearly ready for another dash across the countryside.

  “I play chess,” Althea said, “and backgammon and cribbage. You could come here on Tuesday nights, and nobody in the village would know. Nobody would know anywhere.”