And so he had forced himself to London for the Season, back to the scene of his shame. Hiding his discomfort behind an acceptable mask of controlled
ennui,
he had danced, driven in the park, pretended interest in wailing singers and hesitant pianists at boring musicales, and allowed himself to be ogled at the theater. He had visited clubs he had not seen in ten years and looked in on Parliament, finally assuming the seat he had inherited eight years before. And through it all, he had conducted a cynical analysis of every chit he met.
He had found the perfect wife, he decided, dispassionately reviewing her credentials. Lady Emily Sterne. Even her name was suitable. The daughter of a marquess, she had the breeding he required for his duchess. Barely seventeen years old, she promised to be a conformable bride. She had been well trained in the responsibilities inherent in her new position, possessing a devotion to duty that mirrored his own. Thorne was a proper fellow who was wealthy and frugal, with no vices that might affect his daughter’s marriage.
His mother approved his choice, having known Lady Emily’s mother since the latter staged her come-out. The duchess often recounted Lady Thorne’s cool propriety and adherence to strict decorum. Her eldest daughter would make a perfect duchess. Surprisingly, Norwood’s grandmother also approved, citing her own long friendship with the dowager Marchioness of Thorne. The lady’s eldest granddaughter was the best possible choice for dear Nicholas’s wife. It was the first time Norwood could recall his mother and grandmother agreeing on anything.
So why did he entertain doubts about offering for the chit? She was not in love with him, and that was good. He wanted no complications in his life. She would provide an heir and oversee his household, but not demand constant attention. His son would be properly raised by the usual sequence of nurse, tutor, and public school, needing personal attention only when he reached the age at which Norwood must sponsor him into the clubs. Everything would work for him exactly as it had for his own father. A perfect marriage of convenience.
He wandered over to his bedroom window. The park laid out by Capability Brown stretched into the distance, every tree and shrub placed for maximum effect. It was time to take charge of his life. He had drifted long enough. Taking his seat in Parliament was the first step. He had survived the Season intact, putting the past irrevocably behind him, so living in town no longer bothered him. Marriage was another step. The arrangement was strictly business, but having a wife would place demands on his time. He was prepared for that, though he had no intention of being thrust into a giddy social whirl. That was something he must make clear before making his offer.
The duke added it to the list of topics he must discuss with Lady Emily. Not that he expected any problems, but this time he was making no assumptions. Unpleasant surprises had no place in his well-ordered life. He had already accepted an invitation to attend a shooting party at Thornridge Court. It was all very much like his departure from London two months earlier, except for the nagging questions about embarking on a new marriage. Why? The girl conformed perfectly to the characteristics he demanded in his wife. There was no reason for the lurking suspicion that the fire had saved him from making a ghastly mistake. It had merely postponed his journey.
The fire. Now there had been an unpleasant surprise. If only he could put the experience behind him. But it refused to fade, causing nightmares that still awakened him several times a week. The images were always the same – utter helplessness at facing a flame-filled hall; abject terror as he jumped from the window; shock and humiliation surrounding Fitch’s surgery. Every detail was magnified in his dreams – fiercer flames, a higher window, louder screams, denser smoke, more blood.... Even his emotions intensified until they rose up to choke him. Then he would awaken, screaming and gasping for air. But he could not believe that the fire itself was responsible. It was his own dishonorable behavior.
He shuddered every time he recalled his arrogant demand for immediate attention. Never had he expected to react that way, so his behavior shocked him as much as the events of that night. A duke should conduct himself in a more seemly fashion. That widow who had been treating the injured had certainly not been impressed.
And why would he wish to impress so lowly a creature? he asked himself disparagingly as a pair of swans glided effortlessly across the distant lake. He did not demand adoration from everyone he met.
Obviously, you do not know who I am ... I am the Duke of Norwood.
In retrospect, his words sounded like a command to toadeat him. He shivered. Granted, his position required deference, but he could have achieved it in a more gracious manner. The widow had not hesitated an instant before knocking him down a peg.
He turned back to his bedroom with its blue velvet hangings and heavy gilding. That must be why her image haunted his dreams. He knew next to nothing about her, but he could not seem to forget her. Perhaps it was because she had refused to bow to his authority. Never before had anyone treated him like a servant. Of course, it might be nought but the novelty of the situation or the calm efficiency with which she faced a crisis, but he could not make himself believe it. He had wanted to thank her for her care and commend her on her efforts, even apologize for his behavior. But the opportunity never arose. Before the last few wounded were treated, she had boarded a stage and was gone.
He’d decided to ask Matthews for information. The doctor had known her before and might know where the duke could send his thanks. But Matthews had been inside the inn, where someone was trapped under another section of collapsed roof. The only way to extricate the fellow was to amputate the crushed leg on the spot.
Norwood’s stomach twisted with the memory, for again his behavior shamed him – he had hidden in the stable when the doctor sought assistants. His splinted arm had been too cumbersome to be of any use – or so he’d told himself at the time. In truth, he was a coward, unwilling to make an ass of himself by vomiting in front of yet more people. His ducal dignity would suffer too much. And so he had been safe when a wall came down, killing the victim, the doctor, and his two helpers.
It was that dishonor that he could not forget. It contrasted badly with the image he held of himself. Nor could he impute his behavior to shock. Succumbing to shock was also unacceptable. And so he had been left to ponder his character. What lack led him to disgrace himself? First to Annabelle. Then when he faced a genuine crisis. Unless he could answer the question, there was no guarantee that the future would differ.
There had been nothing to do but seek out another doctor and arrange to transfer Fitch to a nearby inn. Given the plethora of wounded and the paucity of nurses, he found himself caring for Fitch himself, a situation the valet loudly decried in his few moments of lucidity between lengthy bouts of delirium. He had even tried to tend Norwood’s own injuries.
A surgeon arrived from the next town the afternoon of the fire. Dr. Martin was a florid man who reeked of wine. He prescribed leeching to remove noxious humors and opined that the other leg must come off. Norwood balked. The experienced Matthews had stated that it would be impossible to tell for a couple of days. The duke dismissed Martin and sent for a learned physician from London, but in the end it made no difference. The burns had festered and Fitch had died of fever.
Norwood had returned to his estate. The Season was over. With his arm broken, there was little he could do in town anyway. Dr. Harris found no reason to fear for his own recovery, but blue devils dogged him every mile of that journey. He might have been suffering a touch of fever himself, he thought now. Whatever the cause, memories of the fire loomed large. Every time he dozed off, he again faced the horror, usually awakening when the beam crashed onto his arm. How had he heaved it off? He could remember nothing between then and his arrogant outburst in the stable yard.
A dozen people had perished in the blaze, and two heroic figures emerged as tales spread from those who had escaped. The first was Fitch. He had been asleep when someone pounded on his door, shouting warnings. He immediately fled to the floor where his employer slept. It was he who had awakened Norwood from his slumbers and allowed him to escape. Fitch had not been so lucky. He’d helped an elderly dowager and her unconscious companion downstairs, then returned to make sure Norwood got out. But by then, the hall was engulfed in flames. The roof collapse caught him as he raced back to the stairs.
But the greatest heroine of the night was that widow. She had roused everyone in the other wing as well as those on Fitch’s floor before setting herself to treat the injured. Without her efforts, the death toll would have been much higher. Against those actions, he could only place his insistence that his title demanded special treatment. He shuddered.
Had he really grown so arrogant?
It was hardly surprising, he admitted. His mother was as coldly contemptuous as any dowager in the
ton
. Her life and teachings revolved around propriety and duty. She employed two facial expressions – haughty disdain toward anyone whose position fell below her own, and a patently false smile when with her social equals. He had discovered a shining example of her priorities the day he arrived back at Norwood Castle.
The duchess had happened across the scene of an accident. Several days of rain had swollen streams and turned roads into quagmires. A carriage had slipped as it approached the bridge a quarter mile from the Castle gates, plunging into the racing torrent. Though the coach was wedged firmly between rocks, the passengers were too injured to escape by themselves and were in danger of drowning. Lady Norwood ordered her coachman to press on, stopping only to send the gatekeeper and his son to help. By the time they arrived, one of the victims had drowned.
The question had teased Norwood since he first heard the tale: If she had asked her coachman and groom to rescue the passengers, would both have survived? There was no answer, but the conundrum prompted him to evaluate both his position as duke and his responsibilities to others. Always in the past, he had adhered to his training, setting over his properties good stewards, who hired competent employees so that everything ran smoothly. He did nothing himself. His mother had done the same that day – ordering the nearest available servants to assist. But her coachman and groom were unavailable. Her welfare demanded that they see her safely and comfortably home. She was more important than a pair of unfortunate strangers.
Two months ago he would have agreed without thought. Now he was not so sure. What was wrong with him?
Pushing memory aside, he turned his attention to the future. He was too old to change his ways. After issuing the necessary instructions for an early departure, he spent the remainder of the evening disposing of estate business.
* * * *
The duke glanced idly through the window as his carriage rumbled up the drive at Thornridge Court. The house was large, expanded and gifted with a Palladian facade a century earlier. Formal gardens extended beyond the structure, though he could see only the barest slice from his vantage point. But the hand of a perfectionist was clearly discernible. Not a blade of grass was out of place.
His baggage coach drew up as he descended from his carriage. A butler was already hurrying down the steps. Through the open front door he could see the marquess, a smile engulfing the man’s face.
“Welcome to the Court, your grace,” said Thorne, almost fawning with unaccustomed good humor. “I trust you are fully recovered.”
A thread of uncertainty underlay these last words, leaving Norwood with the distinct impression that Thorne had not believed the hasty note he had dispatched from the Blue Boar.
“Quite,” he replied without explanation.
“You will wish to refresh yourself,” continued Thorne. “Frank will show you to your rooms.”
“Thank you.”
“The other guests will be gathering in the drawing room in about an hour. We dine at six.”
“I will see them then.”
It required several more meaningless exchanges before he was finally able to escape upstairs. He was housed in the royal suite, with a bedroom done up in crimson silk and a sitting room in gold. Servants were already delivering hot water. In just over an hour he was clean, relaxed, and dressed in impeccable evening clothes – a wine-colored jacket trimmed in black, dove gray pantaloons, and snowy white linen. Half past five. He stowed his watch, grimaced at his mirrored image, and dismissed Winter.
The drawing room was already buzzing with voices. It did not take him long to understand that everyone expected an imminent offer for Lady Emily. The gathering might be termed a shooting party in deference to the season, but he could not avoid a declaration. Not that he minded; he needed an heir. But it was annoying to realize that every move he made would be watched.
Lady Emily met him at the door. Her smile lent her face an impish look, belying her normally serious character, but her brown eyes remained bored, and he relaxed in relief. The smile was the same false social expression his mother used.
“Your grace,” she said, allowing him to take her hand for a brief moment before she reclaimed it to lay on his arm.
“Lady Emily, you are looking as beautiful as ever,” he replied, making no attempt to smile. His face refused to do so. The gallantry would have to stand or fall on its own.
“I presume you know everyone, but allow me to refresh your memory,” she offered, ignoring his words.
He did indeed know the other guests. The Earl of Craven and his wife were cousins of Lord Thorne. The Earl of Bradford was also connected, his wife being the late Lady Thorne’s sister. They were accompanied by their daughters, Lady Sarah and Lady Anne. Lady Havershoal accompanied her daughter Miss Victoria, who was Lady Emily’s closest friend. The rest were gentlemen invited to make up the numbers, but also intended to force Norwood up to scratch. Two were members of Lady Emily’s court, Lord Geoffrey Babcock and Mr. Oliver Stevens. The other was young Stevens’s father, Sir Harold. Englewood had been delayed, but was expected by the end of the week.