Page 2 of Yours Truly, the Duke
“You best think twice about romance,” Hurst encouraged in his usual patient tone. “No doubt you’ll need to consider it one day if you plan on having an heir to carry on the title.”
An heir. That would mean being a father.
And that scared the hell out of him too.
Wyatt settled deeper into the back of his soft leather chair. This entire process was a damned nuisance. He didn’t want to think about having a son. That was like marriage. Something he always thought he’d prepare for much later.
His father hadn’t married until he was near forty and had managed to produce a healthy heir. Wyatt was living proof of that, so why had his grandmother taken it upon herself to rush him to the altar by leaving the codicil in her will?
Damnation, he was only twenty-eight. He’d want a son—an heir—one day. Maybe even three or four of them for good measure. And a daughter or two, as well.
Wyatt scoffed and pressed the bridge of his nosebetween his thumb and middle finger, trying to ward off the throbbing ache that was beginning to pound at the back of his head. He knew better than to drink too much brandy and seldom did anymore, but it had been a difficult day.
His solicitor, who had been his father’s solicitor, had blindsided him with news the codicil had to be read today. Twenty years after his grandmother’s death. When Wyatt questioned why he wasn’t notified earlier, Epworth replied that he’d been duty bound to do everything per the instructions of her last will and testament. She’d made these peculiar changes shortly before her death. In the addendum, she’d stipulated that if Wyatt wasn’t married by that date, he’d have to marry within seven days or lose his inheritance from her.
Which was considerable. But it wouldn’t matter, if only it were going to a worthy cause.
It wasn’t the possibility of losing the property that had spurred his need to marry—it was the fact that his forfeiture would mean the four square blocks of land and buildings in London’s fashionable downtown would go to The London Society of Poetry.
Poetry!
The most useless of skills he’d ever been taught. He would rather rot in Newgate than see the valuable assets fall into the hands of those stuffy old snoots. And worse, watch it be mismanaged and gutted by men who had eagerly accepted into their elite society and lavished praise on Wyatt’s old professor from Eton, Mr. Percival Buslingthorpe. The man who’d given him his only failing marks in all his studies.
That wasn’t the main reason Wyatt detested the man. He’d force shy, nervous boys to stand up and recite a selected amount of lyrics day after day. If he didn’t like theway they performed he’d ridicule them without mercy in front of everyone. Should one dare make a stutter, he’d cruelly rap the boy’s knuckles until they bled as he muttered,“Discipline, son, discipline.”
Writing verse had never come easy to Wyatt—nor did it for most lads. But being a duke’s son gave Wyatt privileges others didn’t receive. Buslingthorpe would never have dared lay his thick stick to the son of a duke. But he’d certainly put the strength of his beefy arm onto the hands of many students, causing them to whimper from pain for days, and sometimes longer.
Wyatt stared into the glow of lamplight on the edge of his desk as memories swirled before him. He would never forget the sound of the crack of wood on bone or the sniffle of agony in the cold dark of night when boys thought no one would hear. Discipline should never make anyone cry in pain.
Brushing the haunting memories aside, Wyatt murmured lowly, “This whole idea of forcing a man into marriage is archaic.” Wyatt sent a sidelong glance to both men. “Especially when it comes from the grave.”
“Your grandmother isn’t forcing you to do anything—from the grave or otherwise,” Hurst assured him. “It’s your choice to remain a bachelor for as long as you want—even unto death.”
“Just forfeit your grandmother’s fortune, and the high-nose poetry gents get to spend its rich rewards any way they choose,” Rick added under his breath before sipping his drink.
Hurst grunted and seemed to study on that before saying, “It would be easier than trying to find a bride in a few days.”
“Good point,” Rick admitted candidly as he rose and leaned a hip against the desk.
Wyatt would marry the devil himself before he’d allowpoetsto gain control of his grandmother’s fortune.
“No,” he said emphatically, once more giving in to the inevitability of what had to be done. “You both know how I feel about poetry. I’d rather take a wife.” The words rang hollow in his roaring ears as he grabbed hold of the brass caps at the ends of his chair. “And there’s little time to do it. I must dispatch a messenger to Miss Hale with an offer by morning.”
“Why Miss Hale?” Hurst asked, extending his long legs out and making himself comfortable by crossing his booted feet at the ankles. “Why not ask Miss Delamere? Her voice is so soft she makes everything sound heavenly. Or Lady Betina? There’s a wildness about her that might keep you interested in her long after nuptials are said. Both are lovely and in London now. I daresay either of them would marry you before sunup.”
“With a host of others waiting by the garden wall should either one be stricken with a fit of the vapors and not be able to say,‘I do,’” Rick offered with a laugh as he picked up the decanter and added another splash to Wyatt’s glass.
“Both ladies are enticing to be sure,” Wyatt answered with all honesty. “As are most suitable misses, but they would be expecting a long wedding journey after the ceremony which would cause me to miss our upcoming Brass Deck tournaments. Upon return, they’d want to stay in London with me and be escorted to parties, Vauxhall, parks, and the like during the week and no doubt church on Sunday morning.”
Rick nodded in agreement as he added brandy to Hurst’s glass and then his own. “I’m told wives do expect a lot from husbands.”
The thought of a lady depending on him for acommitment that would last longer than an afternoon ride in the park or an evening enjoying the theatre or opera made his head pound all the harder. His father had drilled that into him about his mother often enough, declaring he could never do enough to please her. She always wanted more from him than he was capable of giving. More of his time. More appreciation for her feelings. More of his love.
She insisted her happiness depended on her husband. Wyatt couldn’t refute anything his father had said. His mother died in her sleep before he took his first step. All Wyatt knew was that he didn’t want to shoulder that kind of responsibility for another person.
“I need a duchess who will be little, if any, bother to me,” he explained further. “Epworth swears Miss Hale is not only suitable but ideal in every aspect that would be of importance. Her family lineage is good. She’s lovely in countenance, intelligence, and disposition.”
Rick cleared his throat rather loudly and left a long pause before saying, “So, you think she’ll be manageable, grateful, and dutiful because you chose her?”
