Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (24 page)

Chapter 25

M
inerva walked through the massive front door of Mandeville House and saw two horses awaiting her. One, led by a groom, bore a sidesaddle; the other carried the duke.

“I heard you were riding to Wallop Hall,” he said once the groom had helped her mount. “You should have let me know. I'm sorry about yesterday afternoon. I should have thought you'd want to visit your family.”

“I'm glad you've made time to accompany me,” she said coldly. “My parents would be concerned if we didn't come together on this occasion. Not to mention the whole neighborhood.”

She questioned whether Blake understood what a seven-day wonder their marriage must have been in Shropshire. That Miss Minerva Montrose, the younger daughter of an ancient but decayed family, had caught the Duke of Hampton, the blazing sun around whom much of the county revolved, would have been a cause for marvel.

“I imagine there has been some talk about us,” he said with a faint smile. “Naturally they must be concerned about you. But they received me very graciously when I called on them last week.”

“You never mentioned that.”

“We've hardly had the chance to exchange news. Of course I called,” he added with a touch of impatience. “I hadn't seen them since I married their daughter.”

“Thank you,” she said. “It was good of you to do that. Everyone will hear about it.” There was no need to add that the new Duke of Hampton's condescension would silence any questions about the propriety of his duchess. “How was the visit?”

“At first they were polite but wary. It got better.”

Minerva could imagine. Her parents weren't overly impressed by dukes, certainly not by ducal heirs who compromised their daughters. Never in favor of Diana wedding Blake, they'd been delighted when she married Sebastian instead.

The three-mile ride passed in silence, but not a hostile one. While they waited for the park gate to be opened, Minerva had occasion to observe her husband in full daylight. His color was better than it had been in London but his face still seemed drawn, cheekbones etched higher than ever, the faint crow's feet more pronounced. On horseback he appeared completely at home, without the caged-lion look he sometimes wore indoors. Sensing her examination, his dark blue eyes met hers with a grave intensity that made her blush, without having any idea what he was thinking. The clank of the iron gate intervened and they cantered along the lane and down the oak-lined drive to her childhood home. Wallop Hall, an ancient ivy-covered manor, though small and shabby compared to the glories of her new habitations, looked very familiar and dear.

Mr. and Mrs. Montrose came out to meet them, accompanied by the usual complement of overenthusiastic dogs. With a bounding heart she flung herself down from her horse into her father's arms.

“My dear, dear child,” he said with a hairy buss on each cheek, then held her by the shoulders at arm's length and examined her face intently. “How are you?” This was most unlike her dear Papa, who tended to live in his own world. He was worried about her.

She summoned a happy smile. “I am very well and so glad to be home.” She looked sideways at her husband, who was patting one of the ebullient foxhounds. “Blake and I had a wonderful time in France.”

Over lemonade in the untidy drawing room, Minerva caught up on family news and talked about Paris. Blake offered an occasional observation. As soon as he mentioned the visit to Chantilly Mrs. Montrose lit up and dragged him off to her own stables to inspect a horse with a bruised knee, leaving Minerva alone with her father, who regarded her with a look of crafty sheepishness only he could manage.

“Will you come out to the hall to be weighed?”

“That's not fair, Papa! You promised me and Diana that married women didn't have to.”

Several years before Mr. Montrose had acquired a scale and a hobby of recording the weights of his family and visitors, all under the guise of slightly dubious scientific research.

“Please, my dear. I have a particular reason.”

She never could resist him; he had a childlike capacity for happiness when his eccentricities were indulged. So she climbed into the swinging seat and let him adjust the weights on the bar.

“Are you well, my dear child?” he asked. “I haven't heard you speak about any aspect of public affairs since you arrived. Don't tell me my little Min is turning into a domestic creature.”

“With half the opposition party arriving at Mandeville soon, it's rather a relief to talk about dogs and the weather and your latest invention.”

He wrote the weight in his record book. “Two pounds less than last time.” He sounded disappointed. “Are you eating enough?”

“I think so. I've been busy.”

“Down you get, take off your shoes, and stand on that board over there.”

“Papa! Why?” What new madness was this? “I'm a duchess now. I don't have to take part in your experiments.”

Naturally her father was unimpressed by her new rank. “I'm going to measure your feet.”

That didn't sound too bad. “Why?”

“I want to see if the feet get larger as people get heavier.”

“But I just got lighter.”

“That may change very soon. Is Blakeney—Hampton, I mean—looking after you?”

Realizing what he meant made her blush, which he observed with satisfaction. “Are you perhaps, you know, in a delicate condition?”

“Papa! It's much too soon.” Her courses had occurred since the last time she and Blake shared a bed. Unless they made up their present quarrel she wasn't going to be a useful subject for her father's researches. She bent to unbutton her half boots while he fussed with his measuring tools.

“You know, my dear. I'm pleased with your husband, far more so than I expected. Your mother and I were concerned about your marriage but now I have hopes. Blakeney seems to have grown up in the last two years.”

Blake had displayed a generosity of spirit in accompanying her today after yesterday's bitter exchanges. She didn't believe the careless, selfish man who'd wooed Diana would have behaved so well.

“I think you're right, Papa. But I fear our concerns in life will never match.”

He regarded her quizzically. “Because he loves hunting? Like your mother?”

“You don't care much for horses or dogs, do you?”

“Not much, but since they make your mother happy, they make me happy too. She feels the same way about my inventions.”

Could it be as easy as that? Minerva didn't think so. Whether he wished it or not, Blake had been born to a great position. He couldn't in all conscience shrug it off. He owed duty to a greater good than his own desires.

M
r. and Mrs. Montrose had always seemed a bit of a joke. He was dedicated to the invention of mechanical devices, most of them unsuccessful, useless, or both. Mrs. Montrose was a noted breeder of foxhounds and Master of the Mandeville Hunt. Even men who were neither outraged nor derisive at the aberration of a female master could rarely refrain from a jest or two at her expense.

Neither seemed bothered by the world's opinion of them, and they showed no hint of awe at his elevated status. He wondered if they would have greeted his father the same way. With more formality, he guessed, but little more reverence. These people didn't give a damn that he was a duke and the richest man in Shropshire. All they cared for was the happiness of their daughter. It would be nice to have a family who offered such unwavering support.

On his earlier call they'd received him with reserve, but apparently he'd managed to allay some of their doubts about him as a husband. It hadn't been hard to convince them that he, at least, was entirely reconciled to his marriage. That was before bloody Huntley raised his head again, leading to yesterday's unrapturous reunion with his wife. Minerva had put up a good front but he wondered, as he examined the gelding's injury, what she was saying to her father.

Mrs. Montrose gave him a quick tour of the neat stables, which he noted with amusement were better cared for than the manor. On the way back to the house he enjoyed an excellent discussion with her about horse feeds. Entering the hall they found his father-in-law on his knees and his wife shoeless and holding up her skirts to calf height. She really had the prettiest ankles.

“All done,” said Mr. Montrose, rising to his feet. “There you are, my dear. Is the horse all right? Fetlock was it? I've been measuring Min.”

He beamed at his wife and she smiled back. They seemed a mismatched couple: he stout and bewhiskered, she tall, slim, and fair, an older version of Minerva with a weather-beaten complexion. At that moment he observed the depth of their affection, despite disparate interests that they pursued with great enthusiasm. Neither could he doubt the deep pride and love they shared for each of their six children.

With instinctive accord they looked at their younger daughter, just so damned happy to have her in the house with them. He stood aside from the contented little group and felt envious.

Blake had always refused to feel sorry for himself. Aside from the frustration and shame of his struggle with the written word, he had nothing to complain of. He was handsome, rich, and heir to a dukedom. Women pursued him and men envied his prowess as a sportsman. What right did he have to be unhappy? He'd always shied away from the fact that, with the exception of Amanda, he had no true intimates. Friends by the dozen, yes, and acquaintances by the hundred, ever ready to share a lark. But no one who knew him, no one with whom he shared his secrets. For his secrets had prevented him from forming close friendships.

And this fact was, perhaps, as much of an obstacle to good relations with his wife as their divergent tastes and interests.

Chapter 26

T
hat afternoon Hetherington kept bothering him about the forthcoming descent of ravening hordes of politicians. “Ask Her Grace,” he said as often as possible. His secretary was usually happy to do so. He had developed quite a tendre for Minerva as well as respect for her perspicuity.

“We're getting perilously close to full up,” Hetherington told him. “Some of the single gentlemen will have to share rooms. We'd better make sure we know which groups they belong to.”

“Ask Her Grace. She'll know,” Blake said. Then added, with a touch of malice, “Put them in rooms with people they disagree with. Either they'll come to an agreement or they'll kill each other. Either way we're better off.”

Sharing of rooms was a sore point since he was not sharing one with his wife.

“Tell me, Hetherington,” he said. “What did my father think of this reform business? He can't have wanted to give up the control of so many parliamentary seats.”

“His Grace took some time to come around, sir. But in the end he saw the future of the country was more important than his own interests. Even the interests of the Vanderlin family.”

“Fancy that.”

“And if I may observe without disrespect . . .”

“Be my guest.”

“His Grace, being no fool, saw which way things were going. Knowing that change was unavoidable in the long run, he preferred to influence its course.”

“An astute observation on my father's character, Hetherington, and not one he'd object to.”

Blake could imagine his father's response to the game Huntley was playing. He'd tell the scoundrel to go to the devil and then use his influence to crush him into the ground.

What a weak fool he'd been, to let Huntley play him. By giving in without a fight he'd shown himself unworthy of his father's respect, and of Minerva's too. It was time to take control of his own destiny.

“Hetherington,” he said before he could talk himself out of it. “I'd like to dictate a letter. To Mr. Geoffrey Huntley.”

Half an hour later he entered the duchess's sitting room and found her seated at her desk, writing. She looked an ideal of feminine serenity, her golden hair swept back from her face, her posture straight as she covered a sheet of paper with her neat, effortless script. The contrast between her fair beauty and her clever, unpredictable, sometimes cantankerous character never failed to intrigue him.

“You win, Minerva. I've written to Huntley to tell him he can't have the seat.”

“Why?” she asked, without looking up. She didn't even put down her pen. Cantankerous.

“First you want to know why he should have it, and now you want to know why not. Can't you just accept that you are getting your way?”

“Are you doing it only to please me?”

“What would be wrong with that?”

Minerva stopped writing and stood up. “This is a serious decision that should be made from conviction, not to get into your wife's bed. You said you don't want me to lie with you out of duty. Well, I don't want you to agree with me out of lust.”

He strode over, took her shoulders, gave her a quick hard kiss, then let her go. “You know what, Minnie?” he said. “Sometimes you give me a pain in my belly. You just got your way. For once could you say ‘thank you, dear husband' instead of arguing with me some more?”

He took a step back for her eyes were stormy, then turned to sky blue summer. She nodded.

“You were right about Huntley. He shouldn't be in Parliament.”

“Thank you, dear husband,” she said. “And I'm sorry for my own behavior. I had no right to be such a Tartar.”

Like a man making an apology she held out her hand, but he caught both of hers and they stood for a minute regarding each other in rare harmony. Blake felt a surge of optimism for the future of the challenge he'd set himself that morning: to prove to his duchess that he was capable of fulfilling his inherited duties with honor, and to win her admiration. When Huntley began to talk and the truth came out, perhaps she wouldn't despise him too much.

“Come and sit with me,” he said, drawing her over to a sofa. “I want you to help me understand the politics of reform.”

“Really?” Her eyes gleamed as though he'd given her a wonderful present.

“I'm going to have to listen to dozens of people talking about nothing else over the next week, so I may as well know what they're saying. I gather no one can quite agree on what a reform bill should contain. Let's start with you. What would you like to see?”

“Oh, I'll never get my way. My sympathies lie with the Radicals. Nothing less than universal franchise for all adults.”

“No property qualification at all? You'd allow even the poorest men to vote?”

“Not just the poorest men. Women too.”

Blake let out a shout laughter. “And why not? Look at us! You're far better able to make an informed decision than I.”

She was smiling at him now and he felt like a genius. “Perhaps it's as well, Your Grace, that you don't have a vote.”

“Merely a seat in the House of Lords. Dear me, how will England survive?”

“Because you are a good man and good men are always needed.” He felt like a god. “And,” she added with a naughty little grin, “because you have me to advise you.”

He lifted her hand, turned it over, and pressed a lingering kiss into her palm. “Nonsense, my dear. You'll destroy the very fabric of society if you get your way, and plunge us into a French Revolution. I'll end up hanging from a lamppost and you will go to the guillotine.”

“I have no worries. I'll be knitting while heads roll.”

“Do you know how to knit?”

“No, actually.”

“I knew there had to be an end to your accomplishments. No knitting, no mercy. And all because, through no fault of your own, you ended up a duchess.”

She didn't appear too sorry about it. She looked at him with a naughty little smile. “Shall we share a tumbril, do you suppose?”

“What exactly is a tumbril? I've never been quite sure.”

“I believe it's some kind of cart.”

“Pity. I was hoping it was some kind of bed.”

“I could be wrong.” Her voice emerged in a bare whisper, which he took to be a very good sign.

“You know, Minnie. There's a tumbril in my quarters. A very large one. Would you like to see it?”

“That would be very educational. Never let it be said I cannot admit when there's something I don't know.”

Under the circumstances he was more than happy to let her have the last word.