Page 2 of Sincerely, the Duke
“Suffice it to say I’m feeling more melancholy than usual because of Shubert’s gift of a son.”
“You’ve been fretting over me not having an heir since the duke passed away when I was barely three years old.”
“True. I should have ignored all the solicitors and betrothed you to someone then,” she admitted with all confidence, no shame, and only a hint of teasing glimmer in her eyes. “It was a little more acceptable and would have been much easier to accomplish such an agreement back then. My error at the time.” She finished with a dispassionate lift of her chin.
Rick blew out a short laugh and immediately took a deep breath to keep from wincing. He should have gone home and drank a cup of willow bark tea before coming over, but her second note appeared urgent. He’d splashed water in his face and downed another brandy instead. The aftereffects of it were hitting him hard. That, along with a haze of exhaustion settling over him, caused a wave of renewed concern about the return of the fever so quickly.
“You frivolously pass off your obligation now,” she added, “but I daresay one day you will be sorry you haven’t married, and instead have chosen only to amuse yourself with actresses, opera singers and dancers, mistresses, and only God knows who else.”
“They keep me out of trouble, Maman.”
“No, they keep you from marrying,” she corrected without condemnation. “If women were not so easily accessible for your enjoyment whenever you wished, you might decide you could revel in the pleasures of a lady living with you and find a wife from the abundance of lovelies available.”
Rick grimaced at the thought of someone sharing his home night and day. He’d rather continue visitinghis mistresses in their homes. Suddenly having a hard time focusing on the matter at hand because of the continued weakness flowing through his limbs, he rubbed his temples. Shubert’s news had unsettled his mother more than he would have thought. “You don’t care who I marry, do you?”
“Of course not, if the lady is suitable in all ways,” she replied honestly. “Many are. As it happens, I asked my new assistant to make you a list of all the ones making their entrance into Society this Season. You might want to have a glance at it while you are here. Perhaps it has a name or two you’ve heard mentioned at one of your clubs as a young lady who’s arousing all the bachelors’ interest.”
“You say only names of the current belles are on your list? That surprises me.”
“There’s obviously no use in considering the ones who’ve made their debut and haven’t married. If you’d been interested, you would have asked one of them to marry you by now.”
If he’d felt better, he would have chuckled at her accurate deduction. Since there was no emergency, he needed to end this conversation and go home.
“I don’t need your help deciding on a bride,” he assured her, fighting the debilitating consequences of the fever.
“No, you don’t,” the duchess continued in a guileless manner. “I need your help picking my daughter-in-law. Now, be a dear and pour me a sip of brandy, will you, Your Grace? It’s on my desk.”
Gladly, he thought, rising gingerly from the sofa. His pulse was pounding in his ears, and his head was getting heavier. He managed to walk a straight line to her desk. Another shot might dull the smoldering pain long enoughto say his goodbyes and leave without his mother’s eagle eye detecting his true condition.
When he looked down to pull the stopper out of the brandy decanter, he saw the list his mother had referred to conspicuously placed where he was sure to see it. His brow furrowed as he picked it up and tried to concentrate on the page that wouldn’t stay still in his hand, making it near impossible to focus.
His mother rose and walked over to stand near him. Rick dropped the page back onto the desk, picked up the decanter, and added a splash to each glass.
“I don’t recognize any of the names,” he noted, giving her one of the drinks.
“Good.” Her voice sounded especially pleased. “That means their fathers kept them out of Society’s sight so they’d be much sought-after at their debut. It never turns out good for a young lady who’s already been seen by bachelors before her debut, considered, and discarded as if a dried weed on a shelf.”
Rick downed half the brandy in his glass in one swallow. The sting of it caused his face to flush with more heat. A roar throbbed in his ears, and a deeper weakening ran along his limbs. What the hell was wrong with him? Suddenly, he didn’t feel invincible. He felt as if a thousand hot needles were pricking his skin. The fever was the same as he’d had before, but he had weathered it. Now, for the first time he was beginning to worry about his mortality.
He had to leave while he still had enough wits about himself to do so.
The easiest way to do that was to agree with his mother. Nothing made her happier, and he was beginning to think itwastime he married. That the fever had returned and with such ferocity was reason to worry. Itwashis responsibility to have an heir to the title. Not Shubert’s or anyone else’s. For once, his mother’s meddling couldn’t have come at a better time. He needed to make use of it and pick a bride fast.
“Perhaps you are right, Maman,” he said, feeling beyond the point of caring what might happen and only eager to get home to his bed. “It’s time I do my duty, marry, and have a son.”
Without thinking about the repercussions of his actions, he closed his eyes and ran his forefinger down the names until he felt like stopping. Opening his eyes, he wondered what the hell he was doing. There were better ways to pick a bride.
Somehow tonight this seemed the sensible way, even though it was most irrational. He lifted his finger, bent down, and looked closely at the name.
Miss Edwina Fine.
With a surname such as that, how could he go wrong? Rick was a connoisseur of life’s finer things. He enjoyed the taste of fine wine, the feel of fine silk, the warmth of fine wool, and the speed of fine horses. He could think of more fine things if he wasn’t so fuzzy headed. She would be perfect.
Breathing heavily, he slipped a sheet of un-monogrammed parchment from his mother’s stack, pulled the quill from its stand, and dipped it into the inkpot. The devil take it, he thought, and proceeded to write:
Dear Miss Edwina Fine,
Will you marry me?
