His Duchess Page 3

  Taviston cinched his banyan tightly around his waist and heaved a sigh.

  Halston rounded the corner at that moment. As calmly as a monk, he asked, “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Exhausted and resigned, Taviston checked the impulse to rage at his butler. He did, however, fix a glare on Halston. “I am returning to bed. I do not want to be disturbed for another three hours and I most certainly do not want to awaken to a large grey cat sitting on my chest. Do I make myself clear?”

  Halston’s upper lip twitched for a brief moment, after which he replied with his usual efficiency, “Certainly, Your Grace. Rest well.”

  THREE HOURS LATER, at a much more civilized hour, Taviston ignored the food piled high on his plate and stared out the breakfast room window. The sun shone gaily upon the back garden, but he hardly noticed. The image of one petite and extremely trying female clouded his vision.

  She had been wearing a sprigged muslin morning gown with a light blue pelisse over it. The color had drawn his attention to her eyes, which were almost the exact same shade of blue, like an early morning sky. Her braided sandy locks had been wound around her head, revealing those charmingly small ears to advantage.

  After a while the lack of background noise in the room sunk into his brain. The clink of silver on dishes, the movement of the footmen, the chatter of the others; it had all stopped. He pulled his gaze from the window and found the sapphire blue eyes of both his mother and his younger brother James staring at him.

  “What? Have I egg on my face?”

  Taviston hurriedly brought his napkin to his face while a small smile washed over his mother’s face. She glanced at James, seated across from her, and then resumed eating.

  Tall and lanky, with black hair the same shade as his, James was a younger version of himself. Only the color of their eyes differed. All of twenty years old, he had returned from Oxford the previous year. He was a scholar, an intellectual who never strayed far from his books.

  James used his fork to spear a slice of ham. “Am I mistaken or was there a loud commotion early this morning?”

  Taviston turned his attention to his plate and muttered, “Commotion? I haven’t a clue.” He began eating as if starved.

  “Are you certain you don’t know, Taviston?” He looked up to find himself pinned by his mother’s gaze. “I heard two of the maids whispering about a cat and ‘His Grace’ and I am certain I heard you yelling.”

  “I am sure you are mistaken, Mother. They were probably talking about a rat and his face.”

  “We have a problem with rats, do we?” she asked in sarcastic disbelief.

  “Possibly,” he muttered. “I have work to do.”

  He tossed his napkin down and rose.

  “Charles William Maximilian Danforth!”

  One would think being a grown man of eight and twenty years and a duke of the realm for the past nine years would be reason enough for a man to never hear his full given name spoken in such a commanding manner. One would be wrong, however, given the fact the grown man’s mother, Catherine, the Duchess of Taviston, still resided on this earth. And he, like his brothers and sister, knew not to ignore her. Ever.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “Join me in my sitting room, won’t you? I need a few minutes of your time.”

  “I would love to. James, good day.” He nodded toward his brother and followed his darling mother upstairs.

  She preceded him into the room and settled into a comfortable blue winged chair close to the fire. Though just three and fifty, her hair had already gone completely silver. It contrasted nicely with her vivid blue eyes and lent her an extra air of dignity she certainly didn’t need. She was the epitome of what a duchess should be: regal, intelligent, self-confident, and gracious.

  Taviston sank into the matching chair opposite her.

  “How lovely of you to join me,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  Taviston couldn’t help but grin, although he found it difficult to relax completely in this room. It was his mother’s domain and she had decorated it in a cheery pattern of light blue and yellow, with flowers and lace much in evidence. He had long ago decided she had intentionally given the room an overly feminine décor, so as to unsettle her sons a wee bit whenever she managed to lure them into her lair. The fact that she had not decorated any other room, even her own bedchamber, in such a cloying way only bolstered his theory.

  “You must have rested well, Mother. You look fresh as a daisy.”

  “Imitating your sweet-talking brother will get you nowhere, my dear.” She smiled tenderly but then her lips straightened into a more serious line. “You have been avoiding me, and this discussion, for days. I know how much you hate this, but what kind of a mother would I be if I did not remind you of your family duty to marry and beget an heir?”

  “You would be a much-appreciated mother.” Her efforts to nudge him toward marriage had only intensified after his sister Harriet had accepted Viscount Dunstan’s proposal six years ago. Too bad Taviston didn’t have any other sisters to occupy his mother’s matrimonial ambitions.

  She chuckled. “I thought you might need a little push. The Season is quite under way now.”

  “Indeed. That is why I have decided to find a bride,” Taviston said casually, keeping his expression passive.

  “If I am not mistaken, you have yet to attend a ball.” The duchess continued lecturing as if she hadn’t heard him.

  In his defense Taviston ticked off four fingers. “I have attended two dinner parties and an opera, not to mention the Wallingfords’ rout last night.”

  She bit back a smile at his bitterness, but then a look of alarm overtook her face and Taviston knew she had finally remarked his earlier words. “What did you say?”

  “You have the right of it, Mother. I am ready to choose a bride.”

  Unfortunately, he couldn’t bring himself to smile. He wasn’t truly ready, but then he probably never would be. He couldn’t imagine living daily with any of the young women out in society, especially knowing that such a woman would undoubtedly only marry him for his wealth and title. However—Taviston suppressed a shudder—he couldn’t leave the fate of the dukedom in the irresponsible hands of his next brother, Peyton. The sooner he had an heir, the longer he would have to teach and guide the boy in regards to his future obligations.

  His mother must have noticed his reticence for she didn’t display any outward satisfaction, but merely replied calmly, “You’ve made an excellent beginning then. How many marriageable young ladies have you garnered introductions to?”

  “None.”

  She clicked her tongue. “If you will not even condescend to speak with eligible ladies, however are you going to find one to marry?”

  Taviston shifted in his seat. He wasn’t one for small talk and the inanities of Society conversation, though he muddled through. Any deeper thoughts and personal opinions he shared only with a few people, among them his mother, his siblings, and a few close friends. All of them he had known for years and he was entirely comfortable with them.

  As for the rest of the ton, with them he adopted a dignified and distinctly restrained demeanor. Oh, he was polite, but he owed society nothing more than that. As long as they considered him an upstanding gentleman with not a hint of scandal attached to his name, he didn’t consider anything else their due.

  However, in order to obtain a wife who suited him, he would have to speak to countless young women on more than a superficial level. This he was loath to do.

  Suddenly a brilliant idea struck him. He rose and began to pace around the room.

  The satisfaction of having a plan energized his voice as he explained to his mother, “I don’t need to meet numerous silly young ladies in order to choose one. I shall inquire ‘round and find one, or possibly two, who meet my criteria. Then, and only then, will I become better acquainted with her, or them, to ascertain whether or not they possess the qualities I seek.”

  “Hmmm,” his mother mumbled vague
ly and then suspicion danced into her eyes. “Criteria? What criteria?”

  “Simply this, Mother. She should be dignified, circumspect, intelligent, confident, sociable, and organized. She should come from an excellent family, preferably the daughter of a peer. Physically, she should be taller than average with blonde hair and blue eyes and cut a nice figure.” Taviston, who had come to a standstill as he imparted the image of his ideal duchess, now sank back into his chair and gazed into the fire.

  “She sounds like a paragon. I cannot believe you have not found her yet.” Sarcasm dropped from his mother’s every word and drew Taviston’s gaze quickly back to her face. Disbelief clouded her blue eyes.

  He shrugged. “You asked a question and I answered it. I would think you would be pleased I have even thought about the subject long enough to formulate such a list of qualities. My future wife is to be the Duchess of Taviston. She will need all those qualities to succeed in the position and to ensure our family’s name and reputation are upheld.”

  “I should imagine being tall and blonde will help her immensely as she sees to her daily tasks as duchess!”

  “Oh please, Mother. Obviously, I am looking for such requirements so as to enhance the physical characteristics of any future Danforth children.”

  “It is not that obvious to me!”

  “I know what I want,” Taviston responded without yielding. He didn’t doubt for a minute his mother wanted to bring up love and the wonder it had wrought on her marriage to his father. But he would have none of it.

  The silence lengthened until her eyes grew guarded. “You certainly have a vision of your bride. I think I had best leave you to find her. I am sure you will bring this lovely person to meet me when you do.”

  “Of course. You will have more grandchildren yet.” He smiled, attempting to lighten the suddenly oppressive mood.

  “Excellent. Will you begin this quest at the Northfields’ ball tomorrow night?”

  “Mother,” he said with some irritation. He was quite capable of managing his own social affairs.

  “Well, there is no need to dawdle. You will not find this quintessential bride of yours wandering the streets.”

  Certainly not, if Miss Victoria Forster were anything to go by. Aloud he said, “Of course I’ll be supporting Northfield by attending. If nothing else, Edmund is always amusing.”

  His closest friend had married just over a year ago, and he and his marchioness were throwing their first ball. Taviston didn’t hold out much hope of finding his future bride straight away, but perhaps Lady Northfield could help him with his search.

  As he rose, his mother grasped his hand. “Do remember the finer feelings, Taviston. They play an important role in any marriage, be it a duke’s or a haberdasher’s.”

  With the restraint of years of practice, he refrained from rolling his eyes. He did not, however, relent. “Feelings will only complicate the matter. I’ll stick to my list.”

  As he closed the door behind him, he heard a heartfelt sigh escape from her lips.

  Chapter Five

  Victoria settled deeper into the park bench and tipped her face up toward the sun. The April rays weren’t particularly strong, but the bright light brought her memories of last night—not this morning—into focus.

  After an unladylike sprint home, she had scolded Arthur to within an inch of his life. Much as she loved him, he just might be the ruination of her. Then she’d spent an inordinate amount of time replaying that final minute in the duke’s entry hall.

  When he’d displayed his full ducal glory.

  He had black hair. Black hair atop his head, black hair scattered over his chest, and black hair angling down to his stomach and beyond. She hadn’t, of course, noted the color of his eyes. Other parts of him had been too prominently in her line of vision.

  And when she could not stop contemplating that salacious image, she’d gathered up her supplies and headed here, to Hyde Park. The fresh air and sunshine had finally cleared her head.

  Victoria balanced her sketchbook on her lap and put pencil to paper. With quick strokes she recreated scenes from the rout the night before. With much of her time spent observing at events like that, she often returned home and began drawing people she’d watched dancing or conversing. Sketching soothed her mind and gave her something to do—if Louisa hadn’t overwhelmed her with chores. Because she’d been up and about early in order to retrieve Arthur, she’d avoided the still slumbering Louisa today.

  She put the finishing touches on one couple and tucked the drawing into the back of the book, along with dozens of others. The sketches served no purpose other than that she loved to draw people. They were meant for her and her alone. Not that Louisa or Mr. Browne or anyone else was clamoring to see them. He wasn’t interested in anything Victoria did and Louisa only cared about bullying Victoria.

  She withdrew a fresh piece of paper and stared at the blank whiteness, trying to decide which of the frozen tableaus in her memory she should bring to life next. As her pencil began to move, she was dismayed to see the duke’s face begin to emerge. But once begun, she couldn’t seem to stop. The strong cords of his neck appeared and led to the formation of his banyan-covered shoulders. His bare chest, with that sprinkle of dark hair and well-formed muscles, came next, her strokes fast and furious. She added his arms, at an angle to his body as his hands rested on his hips. She faltered then, embarrassed to even think about drawing the rest of him.

  Victoria wrenched her gaze away from the paper and surveyed the park. The leaves on the trees were tiny specks of green, barely ruffled by the gentle breeze. At this hour of the morning there weren’t many people out and about. A few governesses with small charges, men of the merchant class hurrying through on important business, a couple of servants, perhaps meeting clandestinely. Any other time, she might be tempted to draw one of them. Instead, the half-finished portrait of His Grace beckoned.

  With a furtive glance around to make certain no one was near and a thick swallow, Victoria lowered her pencil. The illicit half of the duke flowed from the lead even as her cheeks heated. However, she didn’t stop working until every last toe on his bare feet was accounted for.

  With a sharp breath in, she stared at her creation. She’d never know how accurate it was and truthfully, there was some vague shadowing in his... nether regions. But still, it was the most explicit sketch she had ever drawn. A spark of warmth blossomed in her lower stomach and her breasts tingled.

  She had to destroy this. What had she been thinking?

  Victoria raised her head, suddenly ashamed that she’d taken such liberties with a man she didn’t know. A duke, no less. He’d probably see her transported for it. If he ever found out. Which he wouldn’t.

  She snatched the paper up just as a sudden gust of wind tore down the path. She pinched her fingers as tightly as possible and clutched the portrait to her chest. The sketchbook teetered off her lap and a number of the other loose-leaf sketches were lifted by the breeze and skittered down the path.

  Drat it all. Fortunately, the duke was safely plastered against her bosom and there he would remain, no matter what. Victoria jumped up to retrieve as many pictures as she could with one hand.

  “Here, miss, let me help.” A man hurried over and began picking up the sketches with all due speed.

  “Oh...” She couldn’t think of any words. The only thought in her brain was to keep the imprudent picture hidden.

  With a lithe nimbleness, the stranger scooped up every last one, even the runaway that had landed smack against a tree twenty feet away. As the man walked back, his gaze dropped to the pile of sketches he carried. He stopped and stared. For one unimaginable moment, Victoria feared she’d somehow let the duke go and the man now ogled His Grace’s nudity.

  But no. The duke was still clutched to her breast, which really didn’t bear too much thought. So, what was the man looking at so intently?

  “I say,” he broached as he resumed his approach, “is this Lady Maplethorp
e and Mr. Thomas Pemberton?” He flipped the paper around so Victoria could see it.

  She knew without looking at it that it was. Well, it was nice to know her talent allowed such a quick identification of the principals. She nodded, still unsure her mouth could form words.

  He stopped a respectable distance away and shuffled through the rest of her sketches. She should tell him to stop. He had no right to paw through her private drawings. Not that any of them, save the dear duke, were in any way lewd.

  He looked up at her again. “These are quite well done.”

  “Th-thank you.” There. The power of speech was returning.

  “Your rendering of these individuals is remarkably accurate. Were you witness to these events or do you make them up?”

  “I...” Victoria inhaled slowly, gathering herself together. “I do not know what you mean, sir.”

  He plucked out one sheet, the original one of Lady Maplethorpe and Mr. Pemberton. “I mean, did you see these two people together?”

  Alarm ripped through Victoria. Who was this man? Why did he want to know?

  “I’m afraid I should be going. If you would kindly return my sketches?”

  “Oh, please don’t go.” He shook his head. “Where are my manners?” He bowed from the waist, which seemed extreme, and continued, “I am Anthony Ripley, proprietor of Ripley and Sons Printers.”

  Victoria vaguely knew the name. Perhaps she had read one of the books he printed? She cast her eye more closely over him. He was of above average height with a thin build. He was probably ten to fifteen years older than her. His brown eyes were quick and lively, his dark skin spoke of African forebears. Curly hair rested beneath his beaver hat, which was worn but of fine quality. The rest of his clothing—brown wool pantaloons, brown coat, dark red waistcoat—was clean and neat but clearly several years old. He could be a publisher. Or he could be a charlatan. Who was she to say? She seemed to be making a habit of running into strange men.

  “I really—”