Page 3 of An Unfamiliar Duke
Donning his hat and gloves, Sebastian offered his friend a farewell nod, then he turned his back on the sketches and exited the workshop.
It was raining, a steady drizzle that deepened the greens of the trees and darkened the grays of the buildings lining the road leading out of the Scottish coastal town. Sebastian’s coach stood waiting a few yards away. A quick glance assured him that his trunks had already been transferred from the rooms he’d rented for the last few weeks to the rear of the conveyance.
“Are we ready, Perkins?”
His driver was standing under the eaves of the nearest house, making the most of the limited shelter until he was forced to face the inclement weather from his bench atop the carriage. At the sound of Sebastian’s voice, he stepped forward to open the vehicle’s door. “Yes, Your Grace.”
“Very well.” Sebastian climbed inside. “We have a long drive ahead. Rain notwithstanding, I should like to make it as far as Newcastle before sunset.”
Perkins grinned. This late summer rain was nothing to the frigid downpours and snowy blizzards he navigated in winter. “Very good, Your Grace.”
* * *
Numbers had always fascinated Rosalind Ainsworth. She loved counting steps in dances and stitches on her tapestries, estimating the number of people attending events and the percentage of ladies wearing the same-colored gown. She maintained her own financial ledgers to keep track of her pin money and marked off weeks on the calendar with the precision of a governess with an abacus. It was no wonder, therefore, that at any given time, she knew exactly how many days there were until her twenty-first birthday. Today that essential number was thirteen.
Thirteen more mornings before her life was no longer her own. Her stomach churned, and she set down her piece of toast, watching as their butler, Rutherford, crossed the dining room with the silver salver containing this morning’s post. She met her mother’s eyes. For the last month, her mother had been anticipating a wedding—had commissioned a special gown to be made for Rosalind, even—but at present, neither of them had heard from the prospective groom. Rosalind still clung to the hope that somehow the duke, with the help of his solicitors, had found a loophole in the marriage contract their respective fathers had drawn up, but there had been no word on that either.
Were Rutherford’s footsteps even more slow and deliberate than usual? Rosalind smoothed her hands over her pale-blue skirts and took a deep breath. Many more mornings like this and she would be undone. As much as she dreaded hearing that her wedding was to proceed as it had been planned twenty years ago, she would be relieved to have the agony of not knowing behind her. She could barely remember what it was to look forward to the arrival of the post.
“Thank you, Rutherford,” her mother said as the butler placed the salver on the table beside her breakfast plate.
“My lady.” He bowed politely before exiting the room as quietly as he had entered.
Rosalind picked up her piece of toast and took a bite. No matter that she’d put extra marmalade on the bread, it was tasteless. Forcing herself to chew and swallow, she watched as her mother sifted through the envelopes. It appeared that even though the London Season had officially wound to a close, most of their friends had not yet returned to their country homes. They were still sending out invitations.
“The Marlboroughs are holding a ball on Saturday,” her mother said, setting aside a cream-colored card. “I daresay it will be the last one this year.”
Rosalind managed a faint smile. “I believe you said that about the Osbournes’ ball two weeks ago.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Her mother laughed softly. “The weather this past fortnight has been unseasonably pleasant. Perhaps that is why so many people have stayed in Town.”
Rosalind nodded. She wished the same could be said for them. Oh that she could spend the next three weeks without a care in the world, going for rides in Hyde Park or taking tea with Elinor Spencer and Margaret Fotheringham. As it was, she and her mother remained in London for one reason: to await word from the Duke of Kelbrook.
Her mother picked up the last envelope on the salver and studied the handwriting before looking up to meet Rosalind’s eyes.
Rosalind’s heart stuttered. “Is it from him?”
Without a word, her mother broke the seal and withdrew a single sheet of paper. She glanced at the signature at the bottom of the page. “Yes,” she said simply. “Shall I read it out loud?”
Rosalind clenched her fingers beneath the table. “If you would.”
“‘Dear Lady Langton,’” her mother began. “‘Please forgive this belated response to your letter dated July 29th—’”
“Wait,” Rosalind interrupted. “You wrote to him?”
“I did.” She was unapologetic. “I thought he might need a gentle reminder that it was his duty to inform you of his intentions.”
Rosalind stared. Her mother was correct, of course. Not knowing what lay ahead had been almost as torturous as imagining the worst. But few ladies were courageous enough to confront a duke with a charge of negligence. “Thank you, Mother.”
The look in her mother’s eyes reminded Rosalind of the Langton Manor barn cat’s fierce protectiveness when Rosalind had attempted to pick up its newborn kitten.
“You are my daughter, and I will not see you suffer needlessly. It was time to do something.”
Rosalind swallowed the lump in her throat. More often than not, women’s hands were tied, particularly with regard to legal matters. She knew full well that her mother could not undo the contract her father had drawn up with the late Duke of Kelbrook, but that she was watching out for her meant more than Rosalind could express.
“What else does he say?”
Her mother went back to the letter. “‘Please forgive this belated response to your letter dated July 29. I quit London the very day the parliamentary session ended and was already in Scotland when your letter arrived at Hartford House. As you can imagine, the postal service between London and East Lothian is frustratingly inefficient, and I received your missive only today.’”
