At Last Comes Love hq-3 Read online

  Both Norman's father and his grandfather were dead. He was the next heir after Duncan. He also had a shrewd head on his shoulders. He had married Caroline Turner six weeks after Duncan abandoned her on their wedding day, and he had apparently got three children off her, two of them sons.

  He had taken all the right steps to ingratiate himself with his great-uncle.

  Duncan frowned down at the empty square beyond the window. Though it was not quite empty. A maid was down on her hands and knees scrubbing the steps of a house on the opposite side.

  Did Norman /know/ that Woodbine was to all intents and purposes to be his in sixteen days' time? "If I had written down that promise I made on your seventieth birthday, sir," Duncan said, "and if you had kept it, I believe you would discover now that my promise really was to marry by your eightieth birthday rather than my thirtieth, though they both fall in the same year, of course." His grandfather snorted again – a sound that conveyed utter contempt. "And what do you plan to do when you leave here in a few minutes' time, Sheringford?" he asked. "Grab the first female you meet on the street and drag her off in pursuit of a special license?" /Something like that/. When one had been brought up to be a well-to-do gentleman, to administer land, to expect to inherit an illustrious title and fabulous wealth one day, one was not educated or trained to any other form of gainful employment. Not any that would give him sufficient income to support dependents, including a child, as well as keep his own body and soul together, anyway. "Not at all." Duncan turned to look steadily at his grandfather. "I have a bride picked out, sir. We are already unofficially betrothed, in fact, even though there has been no public announcement yet." "Indeed?" There was a world of scorn in the one word. His grandfather raised his eyebrows and looked incredulous – as well he might. "And who /is/ this lady, pray?" "She has sworn me to secrecy," Duncan said, "until she is ready for the announcement to be made." "Ha! Convenient indeed!" his grandfather exclaimed, his brows snapping together again. "It is a barefaced lie, Sheringford, just like everything else in your miserable life. There is no such person, no such betrothal, no such impending marriage. Take yourself out of my sight." "But if there /is/?" Duncan asked him, standing his ground though he had the feeling he might as well be standing on quicksand. "What if there /is/ such a lady, sir, and she has agreed to marry me on the assumption that I have security to offer her, that we will live at Woodbine Park and finance our marriage and our family on its rents and income?" His grandfather glared at him with no diminution of either anger or scorn. "If there /is/ such a lady," he said, almost spitting out the words, "and /if/ she is undisputedly an eligible bride for the Earl of Sheringford and future Marquess of Claverbrook, and /if/ you present her to me here the day before the papers announce your betrothal, and /if/ you marry her no later than one day before my birthday, then Woodbine Park will be yours again on that day. That is a formidable number of /ifs/, Sheringford. If you fail in any one of them, as I have no doubt you will, then Woodbine Park will be your cousin's on my birthday." Duncan inclined his head. "I believe," his grandfather said, "Norman and his lady may safely continue packing up their belongings ready for the move." /Continue/? Norman /did/ know, then? "They would be well advised not to, sir," Duncan said. "I will not invite you to stay for refreshments," his grandfather said, his eyes raking over his grandson with contempt. "You are going to need every hour of the next fifteen days in which to find a bride – a /respectable/ bride – and persuade her to marry you." Duncan made him another bow. "I shall explain the necessity for haste to my betrothed without further delay, then," he said, and heard his grandfather snort one more time as he let himself out of the room and proceeded down the stairs to retrieve his hat and cane.

  This was one devil of a nasty coil.

  How the deuce was he to find a bride and marry her all within fifteen days? And a respectable lady of good /ton/ to boot – his grandfather, he knew, would accept no less. No respectable lady would touch him with a twenty-foot oar – not once she knew his infamous story, anyway. And soon enough the fact that he was back would spread all over London – even if it had not already done so.

  Besides all of which, he had no wish /whatsoever/ to marry. He had only recently been freed from a lengthy connection that he had found tiresome, to say the least – though poor Laura had /not/ gone unmourned.

  He wanted to enjoy his newfound freedom alone, at least for a few years.

  Besides, and far more important, there was a purely practical reason why a wife would be a severe encumbrance. No respectable lady would tolerate the presence of an illegitimate child in her home – or even a strong attachment between her husband and his gardener's presumably legitimate grandson. And how would he ever be able to mask that attachment?

  It was unthinkable.

  Besides, Toby, however well he had been coached, would not remember all the time to call him /sir/ or /my lord/ instead of /Papa/.

  Damn it all!

  But marry he must. He needed Woodbine. He needed his home and his roots.

  It was true, of course, that eventually he would inherit all his grandfather's properties and vast fortune, /including/ Woodbine Park, which was entailed and could not be given as an outright gift to Norman or anyone else. His grandfather could do nothing to prevent any of that happening beyond outliving him. But the trouble was, Duncan could not afford to wait for his grandfather's demise, which might be many years in the future. Besides, he could not under any circumstances wish for the old man's death. Far from it.

  He needed Woodbine /now/.

  He had a sudden image of Norman as lord of the manor there – with Caroline as its lady. And their children roaring through the house and romping in the park instead of Toby. It was a painful image. Woodbine was /his home/.

  Marriage really was the only option open to him, then. But there was no time in which to choose a bride with any care to make sure he had picked someone who would not drive him to distraction within a fortnight – or, to be fair, someone /he/ would not drive to distraction. There was only time to grab whomever he could find. /If/ there was time even for that.

  He could hardly walk up to the first lady he saw at the first ball he attended and ask her to marry him. Could he? And even /if/ he did, and /if/ for some strangely peculiar reason she said yes, he would still have her family to persuade.

  It simply could not be done.

  Except that failure was not an option.

  She would have to be someone very young and biddable. Someone whose parents would be only too glad to bag a future marquess for their daughter, scandalous reputation be damned. Some cit's daughter, perhaps – no, she would not be acceptable to his grandfather. Some impoverished gentleman's daughter, then. Someone plain of face and figure.

  Duncan felt himself break out in a cold sweat as he stepped out onto the square.

  Or someone… But of course, it /was/ spring, was it not? The time of the Season in London? The time of the great marriage mart, when ladies came to town with the express purpose of finding themselves a husband? And notoriety aside, he was the Earl of Sheringford, even if it /was/ just a courtesy title and essentially meaningless in itself. He was also the heir to a marquess's very real title and properties and fortune – and the incumbent was eighty years old, or would be in sixteen days' time.

  His case was not hopeless at all. It was a little desperate, it was true – he had only fifteen days. But that ought to be sufficient time. It was getting close to the end of the Season. There must be a number of girls – and their parents – who were growing uneasy, even a little desperate, at the absence of a suitor.

  As he strode out of the square, Duncan found himself feeling grimly optimistic. He would hold his grandfather to his promise and get Woodbine Park back. He /had/ to. He would somehow have to fit marriage in with his other plans.

  The thought brought out the cold sweat again.

  There must be entertainments galore to choose among. His mother would get him invitations to any he wished to attend – /
if/ he needed an invitation. As he remembered it, most ladies were only too eager to entice enough guests to their homes that they could boast the next day of having hosted a squeeze. They were not going to turn away a titled gentleman, even if he /had/ run off with a married lady five years ago – on his wedding day to someone else.

  A ball would be his best choice. He would attend the very next one – this evening, if there happened to be one.

  He had fifteen days in which to meet, court, betroth himself to, and marry a lady of /ton/. It was certainly not impossible. It was an interesting challenge, in fact.

  He strode off in the direction of Curzon Street. With any luck his mother would still be at home. She would know what entertainments there were to choose among during the next few days.

  2

  MARGARET Huxtable was thirty years old. It was not a comfortable age to be, especially since she was not married and never had been. She had been betrothed once upon a time – or, to be more accurate, she had had a secret understanding with a man who would have married her immediately, if she had not taken on the responsibility of holding together her family of two sisters and a brother after their father's death until they were all grown up and could take care of themselves. Crispin Dew, eldest son of Sir Humphrey Dew, had set his heart upon purchasing a military commission and taking Margaret with him to follow the drum. She would not give up her duty, though, and he would not give up his dream, so he had gone off to war without her, promising to return for her when she was free.

  They had been very deeply in love.

  Before that time came, though, he had married a Spanish lady while he was fighting in Spain with his regiment in the Peninsular Wars against the forces of Napoleon Bonaparte. Margaret had fought quietly for several years afterward to put back the pieces of her heart and find some new meaning in life. Her family was not enough, she had found, much as she loved them. Besides, they did not need her any longer.

  Vanessa – Nessie – was now married to the Duke of Moreland, Katherine – Kate – to Baron Montford, and both were love matches. Stephen, the youngest, was now twenty-two years old and was very much in command of his life. At the age of seventeen he had unexpectedly inherited the title of Earl of Merton, and in the intervening years he had grown comfortably into his new role as an aristocrat in possession of several properties and a large fortune. He was handsome and good-natured. He was popular with other gentleman and a great favorite with the ladies.

  Within the next few years he would almost certainly turn his thoughts to matrimony.

  When that time came, when he married, Margaret would be displaced as lady of the manor at Warren Hall, Stephen's principal country seat. His wife would take her place. She would become simply a dependent spinster sister. It was a prospect that filled her with dread – and it was one of the things that had led her to the decision she had made over the winter.

  She was going to marry.

  There /were/ other reasons. The arrival of her thirtieth birthday had been a dreaded milestone in her life. No one could even pretend now that she was not a spinster. Her chances of marrying would grow slimmer with every passing year. So would her chances of being a mother.

  She wanted to marry. And she wanted to have children. She had always wanted both, but all her youth had been devoted to the upbringing of her brother and sisters, and all her youthful ardor had been expended upon Crispin Dew. He had been her first, and only, love.

  He was back in England – as a widower. He was at Rundle Park in Shropshire with his parents. So was his young daughter. And Lady Dew, who had never known of the secret understanding between Margaret and her son, had written to Margaret with the news, and gone on to say that Crispin had asked about her and about her marital status. Lady Dew had reminded Margaret of how exceedingly fond of each other they had been as children. Perhaps, she had suggested in her letter, Margaret would consider coming to stay at Rundle Park for a while. Perhaps the two former childhood friends would discover deeper feelings for each other now that they were both grown up and free of other obligations. Crispin, she added, very much hoped Margaret would accept the invitation.

  The letter had upset Margaret. She was very fond of Lady Dew, their former neighbor, who was unfailingly good-natured. But the lady did have a tendency to embellish the stories she told. Had Crispin /really/ asked about her – /and her marital status/? Had he /really/ expressed a hope that she would come to Rundle Park? Did he /really/ expect to rekindle the feelings they had shared in the past? Because his wife was now dead?

  Because he had a daughter to raise and needed a mother for the girl?

  She /hoped/ the story was embellished. Crispin had hurt and disappointed her enough when he had betrayed her and married someone else. She would think even worse of him if she discovered now that he believed he could come back home and crook a finger her way and she would run right back into his arms.

  She would marry, she decided – but not Crispin Dew, even if he was prepared to court her again. She would show him that she had not been pining for him and waiting around all these years in the hope that he would come back to her.

  The very idea!

  She knew whom she /would/ marry.

  The Marquess of Allingham had proposed marriage to her three times over the past five years. She had refused each time, but the connection between them had never been broken, since it was based upon friendship.

  Margaret liked him and knew that he liked her. They were comfortable together. Neither of them ever had to search for a topic of conversation. Sometimes they could even be silent together without feeling discomfort. The marquess, a distinguished-looking gentleman, was perhaps eight or nine years older than she and had been married before.

  Only one thing had held her back from accepting him. She was not in love with him. She had never felt for him that surge of exhilaration and magic she had once felt for Crispin, and he did not fulfill any of the secret dreams of romance and passion she had clung to over the years.

  But she was being very foolish, she had decided over the winter.

  Romantic love had brought her nothing but heartache. It would be far more sensible to marry a friend.

  She had said no each time the marquess had asked. However, on the third occasion – at the end of the Season last year – she had hesitated first and he had seen it. He had taken her hand in his, raised it to his lips, and told her he would not press the issue this year and cause her any distress. They would meet again next year, he had promised, and they would still be friends, he hoped.

  He had all but promised to ask her again. By her hesitation, she had all but promised to say yes next time.

  And she /would/ say yes.

  She was going to be married before she turned thirty-one. She felt comfortable, even happy, with her decision. She no longer loved Crispin Dew and had not for a number of years. But being married to the Marquess of Allingham would finally close the book on any lingering attachment to that youthful fancy. She was only sorry she had not accepted him before now. But perhaps it was as well she had not. She had needed to feel quite ready, and now she did.

  So Margaret went to London at the end of May, rather later in the Season than she had intended, as certain local commitments had kept her busy at Warren Hall. Stephen was already in town. So were Vanessa and Elliott and their two children, and Katherine and Jasper and their one. Just the thought of seeing all her family again, including the children, buoyed her spirits. But beneath it all, she felt a glow of happy anticipation in knowing that at last she would begin her own independent life by marrying and starting a family.

  She could scarcely wait to see the marquess again.

  She spent the first few days after her arrival visiting her family and going shopping and walking with her sisters. The first entertainment she planned to attend was Lady Tindell's ball, always a well-attended event.

  She felt rather like a girl anticipating her very first ball. Every hour she changed her mind about what she would wear a
nd how she would have her maid dress her hair.

  She wanted to look her very best.

  The day before the ball she went walking in Hyde Park with her sisters.

  It was the fashionable hour of the afternoon, and it was a fine day after three days of almost steady drizzle. The carriage paths were packed almost axle to axle with fashionable carriages of various descriptions. Riders on horseback wove their way among them whenever they could find passage. Pedestrians ambled in a dense, slow-moving crowd along the footpaths. No one was in a hurry. This was not the route one would take if one wished to get anywhere fast. One came into the park during the afternoon in order to observe the beau monde and exchange greetings and gossip with friends and acquaintances. One came to see and be seen. "After all," Vanessa said gaily as they strolled among the throng, "I did not spend half of Elliott's fortune on this bonnet in order to hurry along a deserted back street." "And very fetching it is too," Katherine said. "Meg and I must be content to bask in your reflected glory, Nessie." They all laughed.

  And then Margaret felt her own smile drain away, and with it half the blood in her head. One horseman, a military officer who was riding with a group of others, all looking very dashing in their scarlet regimentals, had stopped a few yards ahead of them and was looking intently at them, first in astonishment and then in open delight. A smile lit his face as he swept off his shako and made them a bow.

  Crispin Dew! "Meg!" he exclaimed. "And Nessie. And /little Kate/? Is it possible?" Margaret curled her gloved fingers very tightly into her palms at her sides and concentrated hard upon not fainting, while her sisters exclaimed at the sight of him. He swung down from the saddle and came striding toward them, parting the crowd, one of his hands holding the bridle of his horse.