The Duke of Norwood knew his duty. He would make the offer. But he did not like being forced. Between his mother and Thorne, he was feeling very pressured.
He disengaged himself from Lady Emily’s escort and inquired of Lord Geoffrey about the prospects for partridge.
Part of his mind carried on the discussion of shooting, but most of it insisted on comparing his very correct courtship of Lady Emily to his far more emotional encounters with Annabelle. He had not had trouble smiling in those days. In fact, he rarely did anything else.
After all the years of adhering to his father’s restrictions, he had finally been on his own in London for the first time, having just come down from Oxford. Life was exciting for any young man newly on the town, but his position as Norwood’s heir meant he could do anything he pleased with impunity. Gaming hells, men’s clubs, cock fights, greenrooms, sparring, shooting, fencing.... He had done it all. Prinny’s friends took him under their wings, introducing him to all manner of pastimes, some of which made him shudder in memory.
His father had tried to direct him onto a more sober path, but despite Nicholas’s sudden wildness, the man had understood. Strange to remember that now. What had the ninth duke been like as a young man? It was difficult to imagine him celebrating his arrival in the adult world in a similar manner.
To keep the peace with his family, Nicholas had also attended many social gatherings. It was at one of these that he met Miss Annabelle Crompton. She was merely the daughter of a viscount, but what attracted him was her sparkling presence. Blonde, vivacious, and beautiful, she brightened any company, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. Within a week, he was hopelessly in love with her. And she returned his regard, flirting shamelessly with him, affording him the maximum attention allowed by custom.
They had laughed so often – at the silly affectations of others, at their disapproving parents, at the ridiculous rules society decreed and the equally ridiculous attention they all paid to fashion. He drove her in Hyde Park, danced her through balls, attended opera and theater, and discussed her wish that her mother had not died so young. They agreed on everything. Never had he known anyone whose mind meshed so well with his own.
Enough!
he ordered his head as Lord Geoffrey switched from shooting prospects to the upcoming races. Annabelle was dead these ten years. He would never fall in love again. Deep, abiding love came along but once in a lifetime, if that. He had used his quota on Annabelle. Lady Emily was the wife he wanted now. He needed an heir and a hostess. She would do well. One eye watched as she moved about the room, setting people at their ease and drawing everyone into conversation. She had doubtless absorbed good taste during her growing years. Lady Thorne’s touch was exquisite.
The drawing room was formally decorated in an unusual mixture of green, blue, and gold. Despite all logic, it worked. And despite an elaborate ceiling whose design was repeated in the carpet, it did not appear cluttered. The furnishings were quietly elegant, providing ample seating without crowding the space. The gilded silk-clad walls served as the ideal backdrop for judiciously selected paintings, statues, vases, and bowls. Adam had obviously had a hand in the styling.
Lady Emily was engaged in a lively exchange with Mr. Stevens, flirting mildly with the man, though never passing beyond acceptable boundaries. Norwood paid little attention to their conversation until Emily’s voice changed to displeasure.
“But what can one expect of her?” she demanded sharply. “After all, she’s hardly top drawer. Her only claim to respectability is her grandmother, who was the youngest daughter of a viscount. Her father is only two generations away from trade.”
“You are cruel, Lady Emily,” Stevens chided softly. “Miss Emerson is an unexceptionable young lady with a delightful sense of humor. I am surprised at your intolerance. Surely someone in your exalted position can afford a little magnanimity.”
She sniffed. “If those in high positions lowered their standards to that extent, what would be the purpose of proper breeding?”
“It is better to enjoy life than endure the loneliness of hauteur,” pronounced Stevens, moving on to join another conversation.
Norwood pondered the boy’s cryptic statement as he continued his discussion with Lord Geoffrey. Optimistic youth. Stevens would soon learn the lessons he himself had already mastered. He had enjoyed life as a young man, harboring all of that optimism and more. It had prompted him to disregard vast differences in station, to ignore the duty he owed his title, and to repudiate his father’s wisdom. And where had it led him? Straight to hell. At least embracing propriety protected him from making the same mistakes again.
Chapter Five
Norwood’s mood was sour. Despite the pretense that the gathering was a shooting party, they were finding precious little game. Thorne’s coverts were practically barren of partridge.
“He needs a new gamekeeper,” grumbled Lord Geoffrey, tramping along at Norwood’s side. In two hours the two had managed but four birds between them. The other gentlemen fared no better.
“I’d have a full bag by now in Scot—” Norwood abruptly halted as one of the dogs froze. The beaters flushed a dozen partridges into the air. Seven guns fired simultaneously.
“Got one,” said Norwood in satisfaction, pausing to reload.
“Damnation,” swore Lord Geoffrey. “I only winged mine.”
The talk turned to horses as they circled a craggy outcrop. Despite dangling after the same lady during the previous Season, the men were friends, Geoffrey’s estate running with Norwood Castle. His lordship was several years younger than his grace and possessed two brothers and four nephews to protect him from any titles, so he was under no pressure. He had not yet seriously considered marrying, content to wait until he found a lady he truly cared about.
Frustration mounted, finally prompting the party to split up. Thorne, Craven, and Bradford worked their way through a stand of trees while the others veered around the flank of the hill. The heavy overcast that had produced overnight showers was dissipating, allowing sunbeams to fleetingly spotlight a hilltop or stream or jutting rock.
The accident occurred so suddenly that Norwood had no time to think. The dogs had flushed another covey of partridge, along with a pheasant. Choosing the elusive partridge as being more worthy of his skill, he allowed Geoffrey to bring down the larger bird. But he was so intent on tracking his game that he paid little heed to the terrain. As he fired, the recoil drove his weight against his back foot which promptly collapsed when the ground gave way beneath it. Tumbling down a steep hill, he fetched up against a rock at the bottom.
“Are you all right?” gasped Geoffrey after an undignified race down an easier slope.
“I think so..” Norwood shook his head to clear the dizziness and stood up. His right knee collapsed, depositing him back on the ground.
“You don’t look it,” observed his friend.
Norwood took a moment to glance around. No one but Geoffrey seemed aware of his fall. They had lagged behind the Stevenses, who doubtless believed they had now stopped to reload. He was lucky. His only injuries were a gash on the thigh and a wrenched knee.
“It is nothing,” he disclaimed, removing his cravat to wrap the thigh. “But I had best return to the house and change..” His breeches were torn and the rest of his clothing muddy.
“I will collect our horses,” his friend offered.
“Get mine, if you will, but you must stay with the others. I would rather not make anything of this. If anyone asks, I grew weary of the paucity of game.”
Geoffrey stared for several seconds before nodding in agreement.
* * * *
Norwood berated himself as he rode slowly back toward the Court. How had he allowed his attention to wander so badly? He was always cautious, especially when shooting over unfamiliar ground. But today he had paid no attention to his surroundings. Despite maintaining the usual conversation, his mind had been uselessly pondering his upcoming betrothal.
Why? Five months of thought had examined every benefit and pitfall many times over. The decision was made. His courtship was too advanced to set aside. And why would he want to? Lady Emily’s expectations were identical to his own. She wanted only the social cachet she would have as the Duchess of Norwood. Neither enjoyed emotional scenes. Both looked for a marriage of convenience. It was perfect.
He must speak to Thorne and get the formalities out of the way. There was no reason to feel nervous about it. He had been through the process before. And this time he was worldly enough to make no mistakes. He shuddered as another picture leaked out of his memory.
An imposing butler had ushered him into Crompton’s library where Annabelle’s father greeted him warmly and pressed an excellent French brandy on him.
“I wish to pay my addresses to Miss Crompton, my lord,” he had blurted out once the necessary comments on health and weather were out of the way, nerves making his voice crack as it had not done in years.
Crompton had beamed and refilled his glass. “You will suit admirably,” he agreed. “Annabelle is worthy of the highest in the land, but of course, you already know that. I trust you will care for her as she deserves..” And without giving the then Marquess of Medford time to respond, Crompton had immediately launched a discussion of settlements and plans that ended an hour later with signatures affixed to the marriage contract. Nicholas had been wildly in love with Annabelle, willing to offer anything that would make her happy.
The duke’s head shook in despair over that callow youth. It had never occurred to him that he should speak with Annabelle before settling with her father. Nor had he questioned whether Crompton truly understood Annabelle’s needs. He had not even thought to include his solicitor in the discussion. In one bemused hour, he had placed his life and fortune in the hands of another.
He shuddered, as he always did when he remembered that day. He had been intoxicated – with love for the most beautiful, vibrant girl in the world; with exhilaration over winning her hand; with impatience at the month’s delay before he could possess her; and with pride at stepping into the adult world and charting his own destiny. And so he had negotiated the settlements, set the wedding date, and sent the announcement to the papers before informing his family of his decision.
That blunder had been his first lesson in the dark side of his position. He had long been accustomed to people fawning over him. After all, he was both wealthy and the heir to a dukedom. But his parents had protected him from the maliciously greedy. That was not a mistake he would ever make with his own heir. There had been others since then who thought to use him. He had become adept at spotting such pariahs. In fact, he had grown quite cynical in the ten years since Annabelle’s death. And he congratulated himself on it. A healthy dose of cynicism was necessary if he was to protect himself. One was never too young to learn that lesson. There was a good reason for limiting his contacts to people near his own station.
He turned his horse aside to skirt a tract of oak and pollarded hornbeam, his leg protesting the movement. It throbbed painfully, blood seeping through his makeshift bandage. He wanted nothing more than to lie down for an hour or two, but he could not increase his pace. Posting to a trot was the last thing he needed.
There would be no settlements signed on this visit. Once Lady Emily accepted his suit, he would set his solicitor to the task of negotiating an agreement. Thorne was a hard bargainer, by all accounts. It might take six months or more before they were in accord. The wedding would likely be scheduled for the end of the following Season. And that was fine with him. There was plenty—
Lost in his reverie, Norwood had not heeded the sound of distant barking. A stag suddenly broke from the forest, startling his horse. Under normal circumstances, he would have controlled the beast with ease, but his injured thigh was unable to grip tightly enough to avert disaster. Time seemed suspended as he sailed slowly through the air – very like his fall from the Blue Boar into the ravine. If only he could twist his feet under him.... Pain exploded through his shoulder and everything went black.
* * * *
Amanda drove her gig along a narrow country lane, skirting the boundaries of Thornridge Court. Life had settled into a pleasant routine. Her cottage was comfortable. Several area families had hired her to teach their daughters. She was also much in demand as a healer, though she seldom accepted payment for that work. Between her allowance and her earnings, she needed no additional income.
The area residents knew her well. She had often helped them in her youth, both as Granny’s assistant and as a lady of the manor looking out for her tenants. Her first action on returning from London had been to seek out Granny’s secret grave to mourn over it. When word of that swept round the area, people welcomed her back with open arms.
But even beyond her earlier assistance, they knew Thorne and had watched for years as the man mistreated his eldest daughter. Few approved of that situation. When Amanda quietly returned as Mrs. Morrison and made no attempt to visit the Court or discuss its residents, the people knew that nothing had changed. They rallied behind her both in support and to repudiate Thorne, who was highly unpopular. And not just by turning to her for lessons and healing. To prevent any embarrassment, they closed ranks to protect her, refusing to discuss her background with anyone. She was Granny’s pupil. That was enough. As a result, those who were new to the area knew her only as a war widow who supported herself by teaching and who was knowledgeable about herbs.
Her closest friends fell into this last category. She knew Major and Mrs. Humphries from the Peninsula. The major had retired at the end of that campaign, buying a modest manor in Middleford though he had no previous ties to the area. Their pleasure at meeting Mrs. Morrison again was a balm after Thorne’s cold antagonism.
Another friend was Mrs. Edwards. She was also a war widow, her husband having grown up in Middleford. She had lived with his mother while he served on the Peninsula, remaining there after her mother-in-law’s death in 1811 and her husband’s death at Vittoria.