The Trouble With Being a Duke (15 page)

Chapter 16

“Y
ou look fairly miserable.”

Looking up from the tiny figure that was standing before him on his desk, Anthony met his brother’s gaze as Winston entered the study and moved toward one of two empty chairs that stood on the opposite side of the table.

Anthony shrugged as his brother lowered himself onto one of the seats. “Just busying myself with my latest project,” he said. He’d no desire to talk about the conversation he’d had with Mr. and Mrs. Chilcott earlier in the day, for the experience had left him not only drained but also with a sense of hopelessness that he was finding hard to shake. They were all against him, including Miss Chilcott. Reaching out, he picked up the figure he’d made of her using an old teaspoon, some wire and a bit of horse hair. He’d fashioned a gown from the piece of torn fabric he’d found and painted her face to the best of his ability on the spoon. Twirling her gently between his fingers, he met his brother’s gaze. “I should probably just give up.”

Winston raised a brow. “Is it that hopeless?”

Anthony sighed. Reluctant though he was, he knew that he might as well tell his brother everything, so he did, as accurately as he could manage but without any mention of the intimate moment he’d shared with Miss Chilcott on the way to her aunt’s house. Some things deserved to be kept private. When he was done, he couldn’t help but note the look of disbelief on his brother’s face.

“Mrs. Chilcott said that to you?” Winston asked, gaping. He frowned as he shook his head, as if trying to make sense of it. Anthony understood him—he’d been trying to comprehend the woman’s boorishness since the moment he’d left her house. “She clearly has no respect for your title, Anthony.”

“That goes without saying,” Anthony said dryly. He paused for a moment before adding, “Her daughter claims she hates the nobility and all it stands for. I just hadn’t expected her to be quite so . . . difficult to deal with.”

“One cannot help but understand her reasoning though.”

“Whose side are you on?” Anthony growled as he set the figure of Miss Chilcott down and glared across at his brother.

Winston rolled his eyes. “Yours, of course, you idiot, though you have to admit that your talk of having found some profound connection with Miss Chilcott that you believe will lead to true love—all in the space of one evening—does sound just a little bit unbelievable.”

“You think I’m being fanciful,” Anthony blistered. He’d had a headache since leaving the Chilcott’s, which had abated during the course of the evening, but he could feel it threatening to return now in full force.

“I would prefer to think of you as hopeful. However, all I am saying is that it would be odd if Mr. and Mrs. Chilcott would welcome you with open arms on the basis of such a claim, agreeing to end their daughter’s acquaintance with a suitor who, while he may not be the ideal match for her and might be a cold fish with some rather peculiar notions, is firmly grounded in reality—the Chilcotts know what to expect of him.”

“Are you saying that I am not realistic?” Anthony asked. He spoke slowly in an attempt to keep his rising temper at bay.

Winston regarded him for a moment. “I’ve always thought you were,” he eventually said. “Being a rake and all that . . . Well, you know how it is—rakes don’t usually believe in love, or at the very least, they don’t plan to find themselves immersed in it. But you’ve changed over the last few years, and now, with this whole business regarding Miss Chilcott, I daresay you’ve taken on quite the romantic streak, and we all know that romantics are
not
grounded in reality, Anthony.”

Anthony frowned. “That’s not true.”

“Of course it is,” Winston countered. “Romantics are dreamers, and dreams rarely have anything to do with reality.”

“What the devil are you talking about? You married Sarah, didn’t you? And Lord knows you dreamed of her for an eternity before anything came of it.”

“True, but I never would have presumed that she’d accept my proposal or that her father would give us his blessing unless they’d been certain that my intentions were honorable and that I wanted her for
her
and not for something more . . . devious . . . though of course I did.” Winston grinned broadly at that, which could only suggest that there was real passion between him and his wife.

“Would you please speak plainly?” Anthony said, crossing to the sideboard to pour two glasses of brandy.

“What I’m trying to say is that you might have more success at convincing them by avoiding whatever feelings you have for their daughter until you can speak of them without sounding as though you merely wish to toss her on your bed.”

“I alluded to no such thing!” Anthony turned abruptly in response to his brother’s words and the brandy sloshed over the side of one of the glasses, wetting his hand. He handed the other glass to Winston and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket so he could wipe away the liquid.

“Of course you did,” Winston protested. “How else do you suppose they might interpret your talk of being inexplicably drawn to their daughter? You need only look to Mrs. Chilcott’s response—inappropriate though it may be—to find your answer.”

Silence filled the room while the two brothers stared back at each other. Anthony eventually raised his glass to his lips and took a deep sip before sitting back down on his chair. “I’ve made a mess of this, haven’t I?”

Winston sighed. “Honestly, I can’t say. It’s possible that they would have turned you away regardless, but I do believe you might have stood a better chance if you’d done it differently. You should probably have romanced the mother to get to the daughter—flowers, chocolates and such.”

“Hmmph . . . I doubt that would have made a difference. I’m a duke, Winston, most parents would be thrilled at the prospect of their daughter marrying so well. Not the Chilcotts though. From what I gather they’d be more accepting of me if I were a laborer, which of course is absurd. In any case, using my title for leverage is having no effect at all—quite the opposite. I believe I’ll have to find another way.”

Winston nodded. “Well, I wish you the best of luck.” There was no need for him to say that Anthony would need it. The implication was abundantly clear, the only problem being that luck was something Anthony was beginning to feel he had in short supply. What he really needed, was a miracle.

“L
ady Crooning and her daughter are here to see you, Your Grace,” Phelps announced the following morning as Anthony and his secretary were going over some of the duke’s investments. He wanted to finish quickly so he could spend some time with his houseguests, who’d been entertained entirely by Winston, Louise and his mother for the last few days while he had been traipsing after Miss Chilcott. It really wouldn’t do. So, he’d arranged for a picnic down by the lake, hoping that this would serve to prove that he hadn’t neglected his visitors, as well as allow him the afternoon free to seek out Miss Chilcott’s company again. He had to spend more time with her if they were to further their acquaintance, and, by doing so, he hoped to weaken whatever objections she had toward him until she had no choice but to accept the obvious—that they were meant to be together.

Reluctant to waste precious time on a countess whose company he wasn’t particularly fond of, not to mention her daughter, whom he liked even less, Anthony requested that Phelps ask his mother to do the honors. “She is better acquainted with Lady Crooning anyway,” he added.

Phelps remained stubbornly in the doorway however. “The duchess is already with them, Your Grace. It was she who requested that I ask you to join them.”

Damn!

It was with great reluctance that Anthony rose to his feet, muttering a few words to his secretary before following Phelps from his study. Pausing just outside the parlor, he pasted a bright smile on his face before nodding for Phelps to open the door. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said upon seeing Lady Crooning and her daughter Lady Harriett perfectly poised upon the sofa, each gracefully holding a teacup. Anthony bowed toward the ladies, then turned to his mother, leaned down to place a kiss upon her cheek and whispered, “I should have your head for this.”

The duchess responded, as he had expected, with a deep chuckle as she waved her hand with delight. “Do join us, Your Grace—we’ve been so looking forward to your company.”

“Is that so?” Anthony asked as he planted himself in one of the other armchairs and regarded his mother in the hopes of eliciting an explanation from her.

“We wished to thank you for your hospitality the other evening. The ball was a grand success,” Lady Crooning said as she placed her teacup delicately upon its matching saucer.

If one ignores the attendance of two uninvited guests, one of whom was shot, then yes it was,
Anthony thought dryly. “Thank you,” he said instead, “but you didn’t have to trouble yourselves by coming all the way out here and offering your appreciation in person—a simple note would have sufficed.”

“Yes, well . . .” Lady Crooning’s face took on a strained expression. “We thought we might take the opportunity to invite you to visit us for dinner one evening and,” she added, smiling a bit too serenely for it to be genuine, “to take a look at Harriett’s watercolors. She’s quite the artist, you know.”

“I’m sure she is,” Anthony muttered, removing his gaze from Lady Crooning and looking straight at Lady Harriett, who immediately blushed. He should have known that the countess was trying to unload her daughter on him, for she’d never been a close friend of his mother’s and could have had no other reason for visiting. He only wondered why in God’s name his mother hadn’t told the blasted woman that he wasn’t available to receive her. “As much as I appreciate your offer, I must regrettably decline. You see, I still have houseguests to entertain. It would be rude of me to abandon their company for an evening. Surely you understand.”

“Yes, yes of course,” Lady Crooning said, looking not the least bit pleased about his rejection. She quickly brightened again however, which put Anthony immediately on edge. “Not to worry though. The Season will begin soon enough, isn’t that so? And with the Darwich Ball to kick it off no less—our invitation arrived yesterday. Now, we all know how boisterous these things can be and what a trial it is to seek your dance partners upon arrival. It would be so much simpler if one had already secured at least one dance in advance.”

Oh, no.

“Which is why,” Lady Crooning continued blithely, “we’ve had the splendid foresight of bringing Harriett’s dance card with us. I’m sure you won’t mind adding your name to it, Your Grace, considering how fond you are of dancing.”

Anthony could have kicked himself for having danced all those dances the other evening. It wasn’t that he had a particular aversion to the activity, especially not when he considered the waltzes he’d enjoyed with Miss Chilcott, but it had armed the countess with the ammunition she required to corner him into agreeing to dance with her daughter. He had no choice—not unless he wished to be frightfully rude. So he smiled and said, “It would be an honor.”

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Lady Crooning and Lady Harriett exchanged the smuggest smiles he’d ever seen. They clearly viewed him as prey to be caught and devoured. Accepting the dance card that Lady Harriett had removed from her reticule and thrust in his direction while her eyes shone with victory, Anthony quickly scribbled his name, hoping he would have secured Miss Chilcott’s hand in marriage by the time the Darwich Ball came to pass. A monumental task, it seemed, given the resistance he’d met with so far. However, he wasn’t about to give up just yet—especially not with Lady Harriett looking at him as if she’d been a cat who’d just found a mouse on which to pounce.

Annoyed by their audacity, Anthony picked up his teacup and leaned back in his seat. “I wonder,” he then drawled in a pensive tone, “if you are familiar with the Chilcotts?” Out of the corner of his eye he saw his mother gape, but he chose to ignore her.

Lady Crooning frowned. “I don’t believe I know them, Your Grace. Do they live in Moxley?”

“Yes—at the end of Brook Street, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh,” Lady Crooning remarked, scrunching her nose a little. “No, we never venture over to
that
part of town.”

“Really?” Anthony asked, feigning innocence as he lured the countess further into the trap he was weaving. “And why is that?”

The countess shifted in her seat, while her mouth worked from side to side as if she wasn’t quite sure of how best to explain herself. It was her daughter who eventually raised her hand to the side of her mouth, leaned forward and whispered, “That’s where the poor people live. We prefer to stay away so as not to be affected by their inferiority.”

Anthony raised his eyebrows a notch and turned to his mother with a pointed look. “Did you hear that, Mama?”

His mother nodded unblinkingly and Anthony returned his gaze to Lady Crooning and Lady Harriett, offering them both his most benign expression. “What a pity that you would think so.” They looked immediately wary, as well they should have, for no matter his smile, Anthony was now quite furious with both of them. “You see, I intend to make Miss Chilcott my wife, but since you think her beneath you . . .”