An Unsuitable Duchess

Reading the Morning Chronicle should not be so difficult. Katrina had done it every morning since she and her father had arrived in London a few weeks ago. However, today she was finding it impossible to read even one article—and it was all because of that English gentleman she had talked with out on the terrace the previous evening.

The dining room in the house her father had leased in Mayfair was quiet except for the occasional tinkling of a Wedgwood cup hitting a saucer and the crinkling of paper as her father turned a page of the document the American Minister had sent over.

Feeling frustrated by her lack of concentration, Katrina pushed the newspaper aside and reached for a piece of toast from the silver rack in front of her. As she began spreading honey on the bread she couldn’t help but smile recalling their conversation for the hundredth time since last night.

Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? She was not attracted to Englishmen—at least she hadn’t been until last night. Most of those she had met since arriving in London had been proud, patronising and too self-possessed for her taste. But this gentleman had appeared to be none of those things. He hadn’t even made any foolish comments about her being American. On a night that had begun so poorly he had managed to make her laugh and forget about the pain in her foot. And she couldn’t deny that being close to him had made her heart race.

Honey began to drip through her fingers, and Katrina shook her head as she licked away the sticky sweetness. How long would it be until she saw him again? Once he obtained a proper introduction they’d be able to speak openly, and she would finally know his name. He might even ask her to waltz.

While she had no desire to tie herself to an English gentleman, spending time in that man’s company during the various social engagements she was obligated to attend while she was in London would be an excellent diversion.

Smiling to herself, Katrina returned her attention to the newspaper and tried to concentrate on reading it one last time.

* * *

In another part of Mayfair, in a much larger house, Julian walked out of his suite of rooms and rubbed his pounding forehead. He needed more sleep. Several times during the night he had awoken from vivid dreams about the American woman. Now this lack of sleep left him very irritable—and very frustrated. What he needed was a quiet, peaceful morning.

From the sounds drifting out through the doorway of his breakfast room, there was little hope of that happening.

Crossing the threshold, he noted his mother and grandmother were deep in conversation at the elegantly set table. Grasping at his last few moments of peace, Julian passed the livery-clad footmen on his way to the mahogany Sheraton sideboard and filled his plate. The smell of ham made his stomach growl, making him realise how hungry he was. The moment he sat down coffee was poured into a porcelain cup.

Just as he was about to bring the aromatic liquid to his lips, the chatter around him stopped. His mother’s sharp eyes were focused on him, and Julian cursed himself for not taking breakfast in his study.

‘Good morning, Lyonsdale,’ she said, while refolding a note that had been lying open next to her plate. ‘How was the Ambassador’s ball?’

‘It was a crush, as usual, but surprisingly tolerable.’

‘And Lady Wentworth? Did she enjoy the evening?’

Julian had been trying to keep his association with the widow discreet. Obviously he needed to try harder. He blew into his cup and decided to be evasive.

‘She was not there.’

‘Then who held your attention for so long on the terrace?’

Julian’s fingers clenched the handle of his cup before he carefully placed it down on the saucer. He was one and thirty. Was it too much to ask for some privacy? He needed to speak to his secretary about seeing what could be done to hasten the renovations of his mother’s townhouse.

‘Pray tell, how is it possible that you possess such information?’

His grandmother Eleanor, the Dowager Duchess of Lyonsdale, paused in spreading butter on her toast. ‘Your mother has already received a note this morning from Lady Morley. Isn’t that correct, Beatrice?’

‘Your friend has written to you about what I did last night?’ Julian asked indignantly.

‘She has only commented on your actions because she says you left rather abruptly and she had thought you were about to speak with her husband regarding their daughter.’

‘Why would she assume I intended to approach Morley about her?’

His mother trailed her slender finger around the gold rim of her cup and raised her pointed chin. ‘She, and every other member of the ton, is aware that you are in need of an heir. It is obvious that Lady Mary is a suitable choice. Her father is an earl, and she is the niece of a duke. And you have spoken with her. Your conversation confers distinction upon any gel you single out.’

‘I have not spoken with her.’

‘You must have. You’ve danced with her. Surely you had some manner of discussion on that occasion.’

Had he? Julian tried to recall any remnant of conversation, but he could not. Nothing about Lady Mary set her apart. All the chits who had recently entered Society resembled one another, twittering behind their fans and taking measure of him when they thought he wasn’t looking. They were all so young. He must have spoken to her, but he honestly could not recall doing so.

‘I may have also mentioned to Lady Morley that you might consider their daughter.’

Julian had stopped listening to his mother moments before, but that declaration caught his attention. The pounding in his head increased. He would not let her dictate which woman he would marry—not this time.

‘It was not your place to speak for me,’ he bit out.

‘I made no promises, but surely you see you cannot keep wasting your time with Lady Wentworth. That woman is an unacceptable choice. Her family is of no true consequence. It is time you secured this line. If Edward hadn’t been foolish enough to race his horse that day we would at least have had him as your immediate heir. But with his death the line falls to your grandfather’s incompetent nephew, should you perish, and he will destroy our good name.’

A familiar hollow feeling opened in Julian’s chest—which was why he never wanted to think about Edward. The way his mother had so callously mentioned his dear brother’s death fuelled the anger welling up inside him. Was there ever a time that she thought of either of them as more than a necessary part of fulfilling her own duty to bear an heir and a spare?

‘You have avoided marriage long enough,’ she continued. ‘It’s high time you fulfil your duty to marry again and finally bear an heir. Lady Mary will make us a perfect duchess. You should be thanking me for saving you from the trying task of finding you a suitable wife.’

‘Thanking you?’ he sputtered. ‘You chose a wife for me once. It did not end well. You will not dictate my choice to me again.’

His mother appeared hesitant to say more, and the tension eased somewhat in his shoulders. Maybe he would be lucky enough to have her abandon the conversation entirely.

‘At least consider Lady Mary.’

Or maybe she would continue to pester him till he lost his appetite completely!

He swallowed a mouthful of tepid coffee and pushed the cup away in disgust.

Before he could reply, his mother rushed ahead. ‘She is from a prominent family, has been trained from birth to assume such a title, is accomplished, and appears strong for breeding. You could not possibly require anything else.’

But he did. He felt it. Only he wasn’t certain what it could be. He simply knew he could not continue this conversation while he was still suffering from lack of sleep. This decision was too important—and his coffee was cold.

‘You never did say who you were with last night on the Ambassador’s terrace.’

‘No, I did not.’

His mother held out her cup for more tea. A footman immediately appeared at her side. She wasn’t leaving the table any time soon. Julian rose from his chair and dropped his napkin onto the table.

His grandmother glanced at his untouched plate and looked at him with soft, sympathetic eyes. ‘You have not eaten a thing. Surely you must be hungry? Would you like Reynolds to fetch you something else?’

Her genuine concern softened some of his anger. ‘No, thank you.’

‘I could have a tray sent to your study. Surely we can find something to tempt you?’

‘There is no need. I believe I have lost my appetite.’

* * *

Hart’s breakfast room was blissfully quiet. No one was pestering him to make a decision that would affect the rest of his life. Julian knew he needed to marry soon. He couldn’t keep delaying the inevitable. The longer he waited, the younger the girls would be. However, each time he considered marrying again his stomach would do an uncomfortable flip. This time was no different.