‘I am deeply sorry.’ The enveloping bear hug stopped him reading his uncle’s face, but over his shoulder he saw Ralph’s expression – shock and, strangely, suspicion.
‘A son?’ his uncle asked.
Of course, the critical question. His answer would tell them whether there was another life between them and the title. The wealth. The power. ‘A daughter, Isobel. A demanding young lady, despite being only five years old.’ His uncle’s face showed sympathy, interest, nothing else.
Ralph, on the other hand, was still in the grip of some other emotion. ‘You will be looking for a new bride, a mother for your child,’ he said tightly.
What the hell is the matter with him? ‘Yes, although I must be seeking a wife in any case,’ he said easily. ‘Heirs, after all, are part of my duty.’
‘You made a good start last night, in that case.’
For a long moment Cal was baffled, then light dawned. Miss Wilmott who was on first name terms with Ralph. Miss Wilmott, beautiful, eligible, intelligent. Desirable. He frowned in pretended confusion. ‘What do you mean? Ah, my delightful blonde partner? What a very excellent suggestion, Ralph, thank you.’ And if looks could kill the succession would be decided there and then. He reached out his hand, shook theirs, kept smiling. ‘It is good to be back and to see you again. Will you both come to dinner tomorrow night? Yes? Excellent. Come early and meet your great-niece, Uncle.’
As he sauntered down the front steps, pulling on his gloves, he wondered whether he learned anything. No. Had he made a potential enemy of his cousin, if he wasn’t one already? Almost certainly. That might be useful, because a man in a temper and under stress was far more likely to make revealing mistakes. Miss Wilmott was worth cultivating, and not only for those blue eyes and her shockingly entertaining approach to courtship.
‘More flowers for Miss Wilmott, my lady.’ Parrott their butler gestured a footman into the room, his arms full of fern fronds and the blue flowers of Love In a Mist.
‘An unusual choice.’ Her mother put down her tea cup and surveyed the bouquet. ‘And rather late in the day. Who are they from, dear?’
‘Is there a card, Parrott? Thank you.’ All her dance partners from last night had duly sent roses that morning, except Toby who had despatched a bunch of sweet-scented pinks which he knew she loved, bless him.
She pulled the gilt-edged rectangle from its envelope. The card bore only an embossed coronet. She lifted it close to study and made out the eight stylised strawberry leaves. A duke. Ridiculously, her pulse stuttered.
Forgive my tardiness. The black writing, constrained to the small space, had an elegant masculine force. But finding a match for your eyes challenged me. C.
‘The Duke of Calderbrook, I believe, Mama.’
‘Only right and proper, considering that he could have put you severely to the blush if you were not such a poised young lady.’ Her stepfather lowered his newspaper. ‘I was in half a mind to have a word with him last night. That sort of behaviour leads to raised expectations.’
‘Not by me, Step Papa.’ Good lord, a duke? Calderbrook might match every one of her requirements for a husband, but she would most certainly not match his for a bride. A duke would expect a virgin.
‘I do not see why not.’ Mama studied the charming bouquet indulgently. ‘You have the breeding, the manners, the character and the looks to make a most suitable duchess.’ The dreamy smile of a loving mother who has just realised that London’s most eligible possible prospect for her daughter was taking an interest transformed her expression and sent a chill down Sophie’s spine.
‘I promised to take Jane Arbuthnot for a drive in Green Park after luncheon, Mama. I did mention it yesterday, if you recall.’ Her stepfather had presented her with a phaeton for her birthday and ever since then her friends had been begging rides in the park. It was much more dashing to be seen behind Miss Wilmott’s pretty dappled mare than to drive sedately with one’s mama and sisters in a barouche.
‘Take a footman,’ her mother cautioned as Parrott came in to announce luncheon. ‘Make certain he stays with you at all times.’
‘Yes, Mama.’ It was Jane who would not be staying, not if her beau, a dashing cavalry officer, was at their rendezvous, but there was no need to tell Mama that and she had no intention of dispensing with a groom. She, of all people, had no intention of indulging in the slightest indiscretion.
‘There he is! Captain Maxwell!’
‘Don’t be so eager,’ Sophie murmured. ‘Keep him in suspense.’ But Jane was taking no notice.
The officer saluted as he came to help Jane down, then stood making polite conversation for a few moments. She had no qualms about helping the lovers, for Captain Maxwell was perfectly eligible and had patently honourable intentions. If she was Jane he would match every one of the WWIGG criteria.
It was only Jane’s over-romantic sensibility that convinced her that theirs was a Doomed Love and that her father, who had simply murmured a few understandable concerns about serving officers in time of war, would refuse the captain’s offer when it was made. Another example, Sophie thought crossly, of how this love nonsense clouded young women’s minds.
A high-perch phaeton and pair bowled past, doubtless on its way to the more fashionable Hyde Park, and Sophie regarded it enviously. Papa had vetoed such a dangerous sporting vehicle for her, insisting on the safe, low-slung version with one well-mannered mare to draw it.
Still, she consoled herself, sending Moonstone into a brisk trot, it was a very stylish vehicle and her dapple-grey mare was a beauty. Probably this was quite fast enough, even though Thomas, perched up behind, was not making the sucking sound through his teeth that was the first indication that he thought she was speeding.
The track split and she took the branch away from the Queen’s Walk towards the centre of the park, up over
the slight rise, round the corner and –
‘Miss!’
‘I see her.’ A toddler intent on an escaping ball scampered out from behind a bush, right into Moonstone’s path. The mare shied violently, the child turned, then, disastrously, teetered back into the road. From the side someone screamed piercingly and Moonstone reared up. Sophie hauled on the reins as a figure ran out, scooped up the infant and rolled with her in his arms away from the slashing hooves to the side of the track. A tall hat spun away under the wheels and there was an unpleasant crunch as the phaeton rolled back over it.