Daring To Love The Duke's Heir

That hollow, aching feeling invaded her again and she rubbed absently at her upper chest.

But she was still afraid to admit her change of heart out loud...afraid to fully acknowledge that she dreamed of finding someone to love who would love her in return...afraid that no man could ever take Bernard’s place. It was safer to keep that daydream locked inside. That way she would not have to face anyone’s pity if she failed to meet such a man. That way, she could keep her pride.

‘Still hiding behind the sainted Bernard, Sis? Isn’t it time you looked to the future instead of forever harking back to the past?’

That careless drawl shot Liberty to her feet. ‘Gideon!’ She rushed to him and grabbed his upper arms, scanning him quickly: his drawn, pale features; the dark shadows beneath his eyes; the dishevelled evening clothes. The lingering smell of alcohol and...she wrinkled her nose...cheap perfume and—there was no other word for it—bodies. Activities she did not wish to think of. She released her brother and stepped back.

‘You have been out all night.’

He quirked a brow and a faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. ‘I have indeed.’

‘You need a bath.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘So I do. And I have sent word for water to be heated. Not that it is polite for you to mention such a matter.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing, Liberty. You are not my keeper.’ He moved past her. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Mount. Hope. Verity. I trust you are all well?’

All three returned his smile and his greeting but, before he left, Hope—after a sympathetic smile at Liberty—said, ‘We do miss you when you stay out so very much, Gideon. Will you dine with us tonight? We have no invitations.’

In truth, invitations for the Lovejoy ladies to attend evening events were still a rarity. Mrs Mount had reassured the girls that the Season had barely begun and that once Easter was over many more families would come to town and the invitations would, hopefully, start to arrive. Currently only one invitation adorned their mantelpiece—to a rout at the home of Sir Gerald and Lady Trent, Sir Gerald being a cousin of Mrs Mount.

‘Can’t. Sorry.’ Gideon turned to the door. ‘A bath and a couple of hours’ shut-eye, then I’m off to the theatre.’

‘We could go with you,’ said Liberty. ‘We could hire a box.’

His look of dismay clawed at her, leaving her feeling raw and, somehow, exposed. ‘I’m not going to the theatre with my sisters. Good God! Where’s the fun in sitting in a box when I could be down in the pit where all the fun is? Tell you what, Sis—if you’re that keen on seeing Mary the Maid of the Inn, I’ll reserve a box for you another night. Just tell me when you want to go. You’ve got Mrs M. to chaperon you and you’ll soon have beaux flocking around you if it’s male company you’re pining for.’

With that, Gideon marched out of the room, leaving the three sisters—and Mrs Mount—looking at one another in despair.

‘I still say it’s just the novelty of it all that has turned his head,’ said Mrs Mount in a faint voice as the sound reached them of him bounding up the stairs. ‘Surely he will come to his senses?’

Liberty did not reply. She returned to her chair and stared at the fire, her mind awash with ideas as plans spiralled to the surface and then sank again as her common sense scuppered them. Finally, realising she was getting nowhere, she went to consult Mrs Taylor about dinner that evening. It went against the grain but, somehow, she must control her penchant for taking action and trust that Lord Avon would be true to his word and do something to curb his own brother’s wild ways.

Chapter Four (#ue00a6802-b54f-532e-ac43-8bf3af7f1132)

The next day was dry but cold after the thunderstorm and Dominic, following a sparring session with Gentleman John Jackson in his saloon on Bond Street, strolled to White’s for a glass of wine and a bite to eat. On arrival, he picked up The Times and appropriated a quiet table in the corner of the morning room, hoping the open newspaper would discourage anyone from joining him. He had important matters to attend to this Season, like selecting a wife—a well-bred young lady with the poise and the correct upbringing suitable for a marchioness, a society hostess and, one day, a duchess. His purpose in coming up to town in advance of the rest of the family was to make a decision about his bride-to-be and here was as good a place to plan his strategy as any.

After being served, he drank a little wine, took one bite of the cold beef and horseradish sandwich and then settled back into the chair, holding the paper but not actually reading. He’d written a list of names last night. Seven in all. He wasn’t interested in a bride straight out of the schoolroom—his Marchioness would already have some town polish with, preferably, at least two Seasons behind her. The highest families were in no hurry to marry off their daughters—they took their time and selected the very best husbands, usually with a view to allying with a powerful family. A huge dowry wasn’t a prerequisite for his perfect bride; he was more concerned with their breeding and background as well as their conduct. These were essential qualities for a lady who would, at some time in the future, occupy the role of Duchess of Cheriton and give birth to the Eighth Duke.

Seven names were too many...he must cut his list to three or four ladies, then he could concentrate on making his final choice, but discreetly; it would not do to raise expectations in the ladies themselves or in society in general. He was under no illusion, imagining himself so perfect that any female would swoon at his feet. It was not conceit, but realism...any one of the ladies on his list would jump at the chance of marrying into the Beauchamps, one of the most powerful families in the land.

He lay down the paper, hooked one hand around the back of his neck and rubbed, sighing. He would be happy when it was all over and he could get on with his life. In his mind’s eye he saw his future stretching ahead of him, and he felt...nothing. No excitement. No anticipation.

Unbidden, Liberty Lovejoy crept into his thoughts and he dismissed her with a silent oath. Wasn’t it bad enough she had invaded his dreams last night...erotic, enchanting dreams that had him waking bathed in sweat and in a state of solid arousal? A woman such as Liberty Lovejoy had no place in his future—to marry well was his duty and his destiny, as it had been Father’s. Dominic was fortunate that he had not been obliged to wed at eighteen as Father had done, when his own father was in failing health and worrying over the future of the Dukedom. Father had put aside any personal inclination by doing his duty and marrying Dominic’s mother, the daughter of a marquess and the granddaughter of a duke. The current Duchess—his stepmother, Rosalind—might be the daughter of a soldier and the granddaughter of a silversmith, but that did not affect the aristocratic lineage of the Dukes of Cheriton.

At least Dominic was six and twenty and had some experience of life, but sometimes—although he would never admit as much, not to anyone—the responsibility lay heavy on his shoulders. Almost without conscious thought, he withdrew the list of names from his pocket, unfolded it and read the names. If he could cross off three names, that would make—

‘Mind if I join you, old chap?’

Hurriedly, Dominic folded the list and shoved it back into his pocket. He looked up into the bright blue inquisitive gaze of Lord Redbridge and inwardly cursed. Of all men, it had to be Redbridge. One of Alex’s friends, he was an inveterate gossip and Dominic could only hope he hadn’t deciphered any of the names on his list. He smiled and gestured to the chair next to his, then reached for his sandwich and bit into it. His leisurely luncheon was about to change into a hurried repast.

Redbridge had no qualms in admitting he had recognised at least two of the names on that sheet of paper and proceeded to not only tease Dominic about its existence, but also badger him about the other names.

‘There must have been half a dozen on there at least, Avon.’ His eyes were alive with curiosity. ‘You can tell me, you know. Soul of discretion and all that. It’d do you good to talk about it. Alex is always sayin’ you’re too buttoned up for your own good.’

Dominic knocked back what remained of his wine and stood up. ‘Your imagination is running amok, as usual, Redbridge. Now, if you will excuse me...?’

Redbridge didn’t take the hint. He stood, too, and exited the coffee room by Dominic’s side. ‘Are you thinking of getting leg-shackled then? Oh, my life—the ladies will be in a flutter! There’ll be neither time nor attention for the rest of us poor sods once the word gets out...it’ll all be about Lord Avon and his list!’

He nudged Dominic with a sharp elbow and grinned hugely. Dominic stifled the urge to grab his neckcloth and slowly choke the wretch. Instead, he halted and turned to face his companion. They were close to the front door of the club by now and Dominic was damned if he’d put up with the man’s inane chatter all the way to his front door.

‘I’ll bid you good afternoon here, Redbridge. And I will repeat what I have already said—your conjecture over that list is entirely wrong. My sister arrives in town today and she asked me to list any ladies I can think of who came out in the past two Seasons, as she will not have made their acquaintance. The truth is as mundane as that. And if—’ he thrust his face close to Redbridge’s ‘—I happen to hear any rumours to the contrary, I shall know precisely whose door to knock upon. Are we clear?’

Redbridge’s mouth drooped. ‘Perfectly.’

Dominic pivoted on his heel and strode for the door, anger driving him to reach home in record time. He barged through the front door of his leased town house, his temper frayed and his nerves on edge. He knew better than to believe Redbridge would keep such a juicy morsel to himself. Half the ton thrived on gossip and this, he knew, would be avidly passed from mouth to mouth. He would have to tread very carefully indeed not to reveal any preference for any of the many eligible ladies in town, but at least there were now two names he could cross off his list—the two Redbridge had read. Dominic would avoid those two as he would avoid a rabid dog and concentrate his efforts on the remaining five.

‘Brailsford?’

‘My lord?’

His man, who fulfilled the roles of valet, butler and footman in his bachelor household, appeared like magic from the kitchen stairs.

‘Send word to the mews for my curricle to be ready for three-thirty. I intend to drive in the Park.’

‘Will you require Ted to accompany you, sir?’

‘Yes.’ He would need a groom up behind if any of the five ladies were in the Park: to hold the horses if he got out to walk or to add propriety if he took one into his curricle to drive her around the Park. He felt heavy...his heart a leaden weight in his chest. But this was his duty; his destiny. And he would not allow himself to shirk it.

* * *

At three-forty, Dominic steered his matched bays into the Park and sent them along the carriageway at a smart trot. Ted perched behind him on the back of the curricle, ready to take charge of Beau and Buck if needs be. As Dominic drove, he scanned the walkers they passed and the small knots of people who had gathered to exchange the latest on-dits. The Season was not fully underway and wouldn’t be until after Easter, but many families were already in town to attend to essential dress fittings and other preparations. He eased his horses back to a walk as he spied Lady Caroline Warnock in a stationery barouche, next to her mother, the Marchioness of Druffield. A couple they had been talking to had just walked away as Dominic drew his curricle alongside and raised his hat.

‘Good afternoon, ladies.’

‘Good afternoon, sir.’

Lady Druffield honoured him with a regal smile as her daughter bowed her head, her own smile gentle and gracious.

‘Good afternoon, Lord Avon,’ Caroline said. ‘A pleasant afternoon for a drive, is it not?’

‘Very pleasant, following yesterday’s thunderstorm.’

A delicate shudder passed through Caroline. ‘I do not care for the loud bangs or the lightning.’

Lady Druffield patted Caroline’s hand. ‘Such things are bound to play havoc with your sensibilities, my dear. As they would with any lady.’