When the Marquess Met His Match (21 page)

“Burroughs gave her a sufficient pension, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, sir. She’s in one of the cottages now and has plenty to be comfortable. And I’m sure Your Lordship will find the cooking of her replacement, Mrs. Fraser, quite excellent.”

“I’m sure I shall.” He returned his attention to the housekeeper. “The tenants found the place satisfactory during their stay?”

“Oh, yes, sir. They wanted to come back in the autumn when they return from Scotland.”

There was a question in those words, and Nicholas answered it. “They shall be disappointed, I fear,” he told her, and was rewarded with a pleased smile in return before he moved on.

It had been eight years since he’d dealt with a houseful of servants, but as he greeted housemaids and footmen, he was surprised at how easily it came back to him. Rather like slipping into an old smoking jacket and being surprised at how well it still fit.

Later, as he walked through the fields and toured the cottages with Mr. Burroughs, he was aware the land agent might be uncomfortable at finding himself demoted, and he took care to express appreciation for the fine way the other man had taken care of things. He also solicited Burroughs’s opinions, especially during those first few days home, but as June rolled into July, he found that resuming the role he’d rejected eight years ago became easier with each passing day.

He’d thought he might feel pain at coming back, for the last time he’d come here, he’d expected Kathleen to be waiting for him, only to find Mr. Freebody there in her place, informing him in that dry, precise, legal voice that Kathleen wouldn’t be coming at all.

But to his relief, there was no pain at coming back. He had warm, agreeable memories of young love, a pleasant enough feeling, with no angst, and, strangely, no regrets. Belinda had a great deal to do with that.

He wrote to her every day. She was not quite so assiduous, but that only made the pleasure of each letter all the greater. It was also bittersweet, however, for not once did she mention coming down to Kent.

Those stolen moments in the brewery tormented him more, rather than less, with each day that passed. He couldn’t seem to stop remembering how quickly she’d climaxed at his touch, but he knew it wasn’t his skill and finesse at lovemaking that had brought her there. Things had happened too fast for that. It was clear she’d been without a man far longer than any woman ought to be, and he was determined that if he had another chance, he’d be sure she fell asleep in his arms, exhausted and fully satisfied. He wanted that more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but as tempting as it was to ask her plans, he didn’t.

She’d requested time to think things over, and he wanted her to have it. For him, though, no thinking on that score was necessary. He knew his own heart and his own mind, and with each passing day, he only became more certain of what he wanted and more hopeful it was in his grasp. For the first time in years, he dared to believe he truly could control his own destiny.

Fate, however, seemed bent on putting the same obstacle in his path over and over. On a sultry day in mid-July, only a few days before he planned to return to London, his father came to see him. Forbisher let him in, a display of quite poor judgment to Nicholas’s way of thinking, but that was hardly Forbisher’s fault. Landsdowne was a duke, after all, and even the most faithful butler was bound to cave when a duke came to call.

Nicholas gave a sigh and set the book he’d been reading to one side of his desk. It was bound to happen sooner or later, he supposed. Best to have it over with. “Show him in here, Forbisher.”

His butler eyed the disordered chaos of his private study with a hint of alarm. “Here, my lord? But I’ve put him in the drawing room.”

“The drawing room won’t do, Forbisher. I’ll not stand on ceremony for Landsdowne. Bring him in here.”

“As you wish, my lord.” The butler bowed and departed, reappearing in the doorway a few moments later. “The Duke of Landsdowne,” he announced, rolling it off his tongue with full relish, something Nicholas found rather amusing. Butlers were such snobs.

“Father,” he greeted, as Landsdowne came in. “This is unexpected. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Don’t be coy.” The duke came across the room, leaning heavily on his gold-tipped walking stick as he did so. “You know quite well what has brought me here.”

“As much as I would dearly love to see inside that Machiavellian mind of yours and read what’s there, I can’t. I’m afraid you’ll have to spell it out. I didn’t realize you even remembered the way to Honeywood, much less had any inclination to visit.”

“This isn’t a social call.” Landsdowne eased down in the chair across the desk from him without waiting for it to be offered. “I’ve come on a matter of business.”

“Even more astonishing,” Nicholas murmured, and resumed his seat. “I don’t think you and I have ever discussed a business matter. Other than the matrimonial sort, that is.”

“Do you intend to hold Lady Elizabeth and that Irish chit against me forever?”

He ignored the slight to Kathleen. Given that she’d allowed herself to be bribed, the description seemed appropriate, and even though it came from Landsdowne, it just wasn’t worth fighting about. “No,” he answered. “To be honest, Father, I just don’t care anymore.”

The duke didn’t seem to believe him, but he didn’t care about that much either. Belinda had been right about that; doing the opposite of what Landsdowne wanted was every bit as enslaving as doing his bidding. He was coming to find genuine indifference to Landsdowne’s wishes far less aggravating.

“An alarming report came to me a few days ago from Mr. Burroughs,” the duke said, tapping his walking stick against the carpet beneath his feet for added emphasis. “The moment I read it, I knew a serious mistake had been made, one that had to be dealt with by me.”

“How terrible that my land agent has caused you such inconvenience.”

“On the contrary, he thought he was performing a courtesy. He has informed me that you are refusing to provide any of the autumn grain harvest to Jenkins so that he may brew the beer for the estates. I’m told you are sending the crops straight to market for sale.”

“You’ve been misinformed.”

“Ah.”

He waited until the duke had eased back in the chair and relaxed a bit before he finished. “The crops have already been sold,” he added, and couldn’t help smiling at the way his father jerked back to ramrod straightness.

“I see.” Landsdowne’s eyes narrowed as he gave Nicholas that icy ducal stare that had intimidated him as a boy and enraged him as a young man. “And where did you get the notion that selling all Honeywood’s crops to someone outside the family is an acceptable practice?”

“Well, they are my crops,” Nicholas pointed out, still smiling.

“Half the yield of which is always sold to me. That’s been a tradition at Honeywood for many years.”

Nicholas gave the other man a look of mock apology. “I’m afraid I don’t set much store by the family traditions, Father. You should know that by now. And any decisions regarding Honeywood nowadays are mine to make. They are not Mr. Burroughs’s, and they are certainly not yours.”

“As if you’ve ever cared about any of the decisions made at Honeywood! You’ve always been quite content to allow Burroughs to deal with managing things here, and he’s done an excellent job.”

“Yes, so he has. But things have changed.” He spread his hands in the best deprecating manner he could manage. “I am resolved to have greater control of my own estate. In light of that, one of the decisions I made was to sell my crop to whoever would provide me the greatest measure of profit. That, dear Father, is not you.”

“This is ridiculous. I am entitled to have the grain at a lower price than market. Honeywood is in the family.”

“I realize the number of things to which you think you are entitled knows no bounds, Father, but, as I’m sure you’re aware, Honeywood is entailed to me through Mama, and separate from any Landsdowne holdings.”

“You are splitting hairs.”

“Regardless, it’s still mine. It is also separate from my trust. Therefore, as I explained to Mr. Burroughs when I arrived and took charge, you have nothing to do with what is done here, including to whom I sell my hops, barley, and wheat.”

“Landsdowne and Honeywood have an arrangement that goes back centuries. Why, part of the reason your mother and I married was to strengthen the relationship between the two estates.”

“How unfortunate for you that her father didn’t see it quite that way. He had the good sense to entail it through her in the marriage settlement, not through you. What a bitter pill that must have been to swallow, to know her father didn’t trust you enough to let you have it as part of the dowry.”

“It wasn’t about trust!” the duke snapped, the first sign Nicholas was getting under his skin.

A couple months ago, he might have enjoyed that. Now, he didn’t have time for it. “Perhaps not,” he said, and gave a shrug. “But the fact remains that I have already sold the crop, so I’m afraid none of it will be available to make beer for you. You’ll have to buy grain elsewhere. Was that all you wanted to discuss?”

The duke regained control of his temper, but Nicholas could see that it took the old boy some effort. “I know what this is really about. It’s revenge.”

“No,” he corrected at once, “it’s business. I know you think the sun rises and sets around you, but in this case, you’d be wrong. My decision has nothing whatsoever to do with you.”

“I don’t believe it. You’re paying me out because I’ve forced you to see sense about matrimony and made you stop prevaricating.”

“A use of force on your part that has proved singularly unsuccessful.”

The old man folded his hands atop the head of his cane in a nauseatingly complacent manner. “That won’t last. You can’t afford not to marry. I’ve seen to that. The only question is who the mother of my grandchildren is going to be. Speaking of which, how is the bride search progressing? Lady Featherstone doesn’t seem to be doing too well at finding you a wife. I confess I’m surprised. I’d have thought some vulgar American nobody would jump at the chance to become a marchioness and someday get her ambitious little hands on a duchess’s coronet. What’s wrong, Trubridge? Can’t sell yourself for a high enough price to pay for your manner of living?”

Nicholas pressed his tongue against his teeth, striving to keep back the cheeky barb that hovered on his lips. There was no point to it. He wouldn’t even enjoy it. “I haven’t had much time to think about marriage lately,” he said after a moment. “As you can see . . .”

He let his voice trail off and gestured to the piles of magazines, newspapers, books, and letters on his desk. “I’m rather preoccupied these days.”

“Hmm.” Landsdowne leaned forward and pulled one of the books off the desk. “
Scientific Principles of Brewing
,” he read and looked up with a frown. “Why on earth are you studying the subject of beer making? Jenkins knows more about it than any book.”

“Yes, Jenkins and I have discussed it quite a bit.” He didn’t elaborate, reminding himself from long experience that the wisest course with Landsdowne was to say as little as possible on any subject. He shrugged as if beer making was a matter of little consequence. “I’m interested in the subject. Beer making is Honeywood’s main purpose, after all.”

“You’ve never taken a shred of interest in the subject before, or Honeywood, for that matter.”

“That’s not true. I did as a boy. But as I grew up, I came to believe there was no point, since you always seemed to find a way to counter anything I did or tried to do.”

“Blaming me for your failures, are you?”

“No. At least,” he amended, “not anymore. The truth is . . .” He paused, considering. The duke would find out before long what he was doing. Hell, he might know already and be toying with him at this moment for some reason of his own. Landsdowne was like that. “The truth is,” he said after a moment, “that I’m buying the grain myself.”

“Buying your own grain? To what purpose?”

He grinned. Leaning forward, he lifted the book from the desk and held it up. Landsdowne stared at him, looking every bit as appalled as he’d expected, and despite all his newfound resolutions, he rather enjoyed that. Old habits died hard. “I’m going to make beer, Father.”

“For . . . for commercial purposes? A Landsdowne engage in trade? In . . . in . . . in commerce? It’s unthinkable.” The duke was spluttering, and his rather gray complexion was turning a purplish hue. “You can’t possibly.”

“Can’t I?” Nicholas’s eyes narrowed, though his mouth still smiled. “Watch me.”

“The future Duke of Landsdowne a
brewer
? It’s out of the question. Absolutely out of the question.”

“Really, Landsdowne, it’s quite futile to tell me I cannot embark on an enterprise in which I’m already engaged. But though you have always believed yourself to be God Almighty, there are some things you can’t control. One of those things happens to be me.”

“Always this need to rebel,” Landsdowne muttered. “Bah! You’ll never change.”

Nicholas was gripping the pencil so hard, he was surprised it didn’t snap in his hand. He forced himself to relax his grip. “Best if you give up trying, then,” he advised affably.

They stared at each other for a full ten seconds before the duke smiled, indicating a change in tactics was afoot. “My dear boy,” he murmured, easing back in the chair, “none of this is necessary. You want to play the local squire and manage Honeywood yourself? Well, all right. Nothing wrong with that. It’s yours. Perfectly understandable you’d take an interest. It’s a right and gentlemanly thing to do.”

“Why, thank you, Father. It means so much to me to know you approve.”

The sarcasm beneath the meek words was ignored.

“And if crop prices and land rents are too low to allow you all that a duke’s son should have,” Landsdowne went on, “then that’s all right, too. I can make it right.” He paused, and Nicholas waited.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“Marry Harriet,” Landsdowne said, “or some other acceptable young lady, and all you could ask for is yours. It’s that simple. It’s always been that simple.”