Twin Peril by Susannah Carleton
Chapter One
Fairfax Castle, Kent, 01 November 1813
"Fairfax, it is time and past for you to do your
duty as duke."
Irritation stiffened the spine--and frosted the
voice--of Michael Winslow, the Twenty-fourth Duke of Fairfax. "I have been
doing my duty to the dukedom since I was four years old." A fact his grandmother
knew very well, since it was she who had instructed him in his role and
its obligations.
The diminutive dowager duchess, garbed in purple
satin, her posture regally erect, waved one thin, beringed hand dismissively.
"I do not refer to your responsibilities to your estates and dependents
or to your country, but to your duty to the dukedom itself. If, God forbid,
you should die in a carriage accident like your father did, what would happen
to the title, then?"
It, along with all the entailed properties, would
pass to a distant--very distant--cousin. Michael refused to state the obvious,
since his grandmother undoubtedly knew the exact degree of the relationship,
down to the number of removes, but the validity of her argument could not
be denied.
Conceding her point, he nodded. "Siring my successor
is the one obligation I have not yet fulfilled. When I go up to Town for
the next session of Parliamentary, I will look over the young ladies on the
Marriage Mart. But London is generally thin of company this time of year,
so I may not find a suitable bride until spring, during the Season." His
word given, he hoped his grandmother would not pursue the subject.
The dowager duchess was not quite five feet tall
and had nearly seventy years in her dish, but she was as tenacious as a
terrier. She pulled several crested sheets of ivory vellum from her reticule.
"I have been considering the matter for some time now, and have drawn up
a list of potential brides."
Michael managed, barely, to stifle a groan. To
gird himself for the coming confrontation--and there was no doubt in his mind
that he and his grandmother would clash over the definition of a "suitable"
bride--he glanced around the room. The Winter Parlor, despite its blood
red velvet hangings and upholstery, was not a battleground. Elegantly furnished
but comfortable, it was the smallest of the castle's three drawing rooms,
and it was one of his favorite rooms in the castle.
"What do you think of Greenwich's daughter?"
The Duke of Greenwich had only one daughter. A
hoyden as a child, Lady Christina Fairchild had made her come-out last spring,
and she was still given to mad starts. "Lady Tina is only seventeen. A bit
young, don't you think, Grandmère?"
"Nonsense! If you marry a young girl, you can
mold her into the kind of bride you want."
Michael had no wish to add the responsibility
of molding his bride's character to his already lengthy list of duties.
Nor could he imagine taking to wife a girl a dozen years younger than he.
He wanted a partner and helpmeet, not another obligation. "I don't believe
Lady Tina and I would suit."
"It would be a good alliance, Fairfax."
An alliance was all it would be. Good for the
dukedom certainly, but not for the duke. And since all of his predecessors--twenty-three
dukes and nineteen earls before that--had made dynastic alliances that increased
the dukedom's holdings and filled its coffers--more than seven hundred years
of noble sacrifices for the title by the men who held it--Michael thought
it was time for a Duke of Fairfax to marry for love.
It would not be easy to find a woman who loved
him more than, or even as much as, she loved his title and fortune, but Michael
was determined to try.
He knew that the matchmaking mamas of the ton
considered him a matrimonial prize of the highest order. Their daughters,
however, did not. Not unless they had their eyes on his coronet instead
of on him.
His assets were plentiful, but his looks were
not one of them. He was not handsome and dashing, like his friend, Viscount
Dunnley. Nor did he possess his friend's height or famed address. Neither
handsome nor ugly, Michael was an ordinary man of average height with medium
brown hair and unremarkable blue-green eyes. The only extraordinary thing
about him was his title.
He dressed well--neither his valet nor Weston
would countenance aught else--but he wasn't a fop or a dandy. He rode and
drove well, and he was an excellent fencer, but he was not a Corinthian.
Michael did not dislike sporting activities, he simply preferred more intellectual
pursuits.
"Surely you must agree, Fairfax!"
The slightly strident note in his grandmother's
voice refocused Michael's wandering attention. What had she been talking
about? Oh yes, Lady Tina as a prospective bride. "I cannot deny that
allying Fairfax with Greenwich would be advantageous for the dukedom. Particularly
if the patent for Greenwich's title allows it to pass through a daughter
to her first-born son. But an alliance between Lady Tina and I is quite another
matter. Instead of being beneficial to either of us, it would likely be
disastrous for both."
"But--"
"Grandmère, do you wish to see a flibbertigibbet
in your place?" Given his grandmother's penchant for formality and her many
strictures on manners, Michael knew it was a compelling argument. He devoutly
hoped it would be a silencing one.
"No chit of a girl will ever take my place."
"Of course not." His tone soothing, he tried to
smooth her ruffled feathers. "You will always and forever be revered as
the twenty-second duchess. What I meant was, do you wish to see a hoyden
as your successor? Lady Tina is the most impetuous, outspoken girl to make
her come-out in the past decade."
His statement took her aback, but only for a moment.
The dowager's retort was predictable--and predictably crusty. "I am shocked
that Greenwich and his duchess did not raise their daughter more strictly."
"Perhaps it is difficult to be strict when one
has only one child on whom to lavish one's affection."
"You are my only grandchild, and I didn't indulge
you excessively."
"You did, you know." Michael smiled fondly at
his irascible grandmother. "You doted on me shamelessly, and taught me everything
I needed to know to become the man I am today."
Flustered by the apparent compliment, although
there was blame as well as praise attached to it, the dowager harrumphed and
glanced down at her hands, folded atop the sheaf of papers on her lap. Ignoring
his last statement, she picked them up, rattling them to ensure that she
had his attention. "Perhaps Greenwich's girl is not the best choice, but
I am sure we can find you a suitable duchess."
Well aware that his grandmother's ideas of suitability
were far different than his own, Michael knew it was time to take a stand.
"There is no 'we' about it, Grandmère. I told you that I would look
for a bride. I did not say that you could choose one for me."
"But I, having held the position, know what qualities
and abilities your duchess must possess."
"Undoubtedly so, but I--and I alone--will choose
my bride." Softening his tone, he added, "I am perfectly capable of doing
so, thanks to your instruction." It was both a sop and a reminder, and Michael
hoped that it would mollify the dowager.
She thrust the sheaf of papers at him, clearly
annoyed by his intransigence. "Here, then, is a selection of young ladies
with which to start your search."
With a polite but perfunctory "thank you," he
accepted it and flipped through the sheets. Seventeen pages!
Stabbing the finely patterned burgundy and gold
Savonnerie carpet with her cane, the dowager rose and reached for his arm.
Michael stifled a sigh and set the papers on a
Sheraton side table, then escorted his grandmother, still in high dudgeon,
up the stairs. At the door of her suite, he bent and kissed her cheek. "Good
night, Grandmère. Sleep well."
Returning to the Winter Parlor, he poured himself
a brandy. Then, knowing that he had not heard the last from his grandmother
on the subject of his future wife, he sprawled in a wing chair near the
fireplace, his feet stretched toward the blaze, and donned his spectacles.
As he perused the sheets of her list, he shook
his head in amazement. Not only had she listed most of the unwed daughters
of nearly every duke, marquess, and earl in the realm, she also had summarized
each family's connections, described the young ladies, and catalogued their
dowries. How she had obtained the latter information, he could only guess,
but he did not doubt that it was accurate. Or, rather, as exact as the dowagers'
grapevine could determine. And usually the gossip-loving old dears were
demmed accurate about such matters.
It amused him that there was not a single viscount's
or baron's daughter on the list. And, he realized, flipping through the
pages again, quite a few earls' daughters had not merited a mention. Michael
was acquainted with most of the young ladies listed. While all of them undoubtedly
had the necessary training to become a duchess, only two were worthy of
consideration as his wife: Lady Deborah Woodhurst, the elder daughter of
the Marquess of Kesteven, and Lady Sarah Mallory, the Earl of Tregaron's
daughter. Not because of their families' connections, nor because of the
size of their dowries, but because he liked them. And also because he believed
that their hearts, not their heads, would dictate their choice of husband.
Both girls were beautiful, intelligent, and talented
musicians. They were also well-mannered, kind-hearted, and could--and frequently
did--converse about subjects other than the weather, fashions, and the latest
on dits. But Lady Deborah was Michael's first choice.
For some inexplicable reason, he had felt an urge to protect and care for
her since the day he'd met her. Lady Sarah's reserve, coupled with Michael's
own reticence, might prove a formidable obstacle. Not an insurmountable one,
but conversing with her was not as easy as talking to Lady Deborah.
He would please his grandmother--and himself--by
considering Lady Deborah first. Provided the ability to distinguish her
from her identical twin sister, Diana, had not deserted him over the winter.
Lady Diana's tongue and nature were not as sweet as her sister's, and he
had no wish to end up married to the wrong twin if he could no longer tell
them apart.
Finding a duchess would be easy. Finding a suitable
wife was a much more difficult task. To do that, he would have to reveal
the man behind the ducal mask. Michael wondered, rather bleakly, if he remembered
how.
From Twin Peril by Susannah Carleton,
Signet, August 2005, ISBN 0-451-21588-5.
Copyright © 2005 by Susan A. Lantz.
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