Grace, who’d never to his knowledge ever ailed in her life, had continued to float around the vicarage, seemingly unable to settle, ever since her episode the day before. Normally preferring the sanctuary of her room, the Reverend had seen more of her in one day than he had in the last ten years, and for the whole time, she appeared to be watching him fearfully.
While Reverend Shackleford was not lauded for his patience, neither was he unkind or particularly bad-tempered. Indeed, his most important consideration was to ensure his life continued as peacefully and uneventfully as possible. To his knowledge, none of his daughters held any great fear of him, and Grace’s constant staring was seriously beginning to unnerve him, especially as she continuously appeared on the verge of speaking.
He did not know how, but it was becoming clear that Grace somehow knew of his plans. His first thought was that perhaps Percy had been loose tongued, but when he’d casually thrown the curate’s name into the conversation, there had been no reaction. And she certainly hadn’t shown any interest in Percy during dinner. He fervently hoped that was the issue. There were, of course, other causes which would be far worse. He shuddered, wondering how much it would likely cost him should he be forced to persuade some gentleman to make an honest woman of her.
“A wife!” The reverend heard the words through a fog and looked up at the Duke in horror, wondering if he’d somehow spoken his concerns aloud.
“I beg your pardon, your grace,” he stammered hurriedly. “I must beg your indulgence, but I didn’t quite catch what you weresaying.”
Nicholas frowned. Clearly, the cleric hadn’t heard a word. Was the man addled? The Duke opened his mouth to deliver a blistering set down, but at that moment, Huntley appeared with a tray of refreshments. After carefully setting the tray down on the desk, he handed a crystal goblet to the Reverend who took it gratefully. Nicholas shook his head when offered a glass, enduring the interruption with ill-concealed impatience.
Reverend Shackleford used the opportunity to gather his wits. Perhaps the Duke would be an ally in finding a suitable match for Grace. A quiet word from someone so influential would go a long way to silence the gossipmongers. By the time the door closed on the elderly butler, he was able to direct his attention to the Duke in the pious and restrained manner expected of a man of the cloth.
“You were saying, your grace?” he offered, sipping at his drink.
The Duke of Blackmore set his jaw, causing the Reverend to shift in his seat a trifle nervously.
“I am in need of a wife,” Nicholas grated out finally, the words clearly struggling to make it past his tongue.
Reverend Shackleford blinked. He wasn’t sure how the Duke expected him to help in his grace’s matrimonial ambitions. As a vicar, he certainly didn’t mix in the kind of circles favoured by the higher echelons of the aristocracy. And he had enough matrimonial problems of his own to deal with. “Err, I’m not sure how I can help you, your grace. Is it spiritual guidance for a young lady perhaps? Or is it more of a chaperone you’re in need of? I’m happy to be of service if I can.”
The Duke ground his teeth in frustration. Infernal man. “I need one ofyour daughters.”
∞∞∞
After some discreet correspondence, Nicholas had learned that Reverend Shackleford had eight daughters in his household, a few of them of marriageable age. He had no intention of going through the business of wooing a wife or taking off to London in search of a titled one.
He needed a respectful, meek and dutiful woman who would quietly provide him with an heir without any fuss and bother. Surely, as a man of God, the Reverend could be relied upon to have raised his daughters to be such?
Nicholas became aware that the older man was staring at him open-mouthed.
“Is something amiss?” he asked as the silence lengthened.
The Reverend coughed finally. “Let me get this straight your grace. You wish to wed one of my daughters and make her a duchess?”
Nicholas sighed inwardly. “Yes, that’s precisely my wish. I will leave the choosing to you.”
“Choosing?” Was the bloody man being deliberately obtuse, or was he usually this dull-witted? It certainly didn’t bode well for the intelligence of any offspring that might issue from his stock. But then, intelligence had never been considered a prize in theton.
“As to which one it is to be.” Nicholas flipped over the paper he had been working on and pushed it across the desk. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for a pious, biddable wife.” One that was likely to do her duty and not ask for anything more from him.
Reverend Shackleford let out a strangled sound as he eyed the contract the Duke had prepared, and all of a sudden Nicholas was more concerned the man might be having an apoplexy. Just as he was about to rise and ring for help, the Reverend finally coughed and spoke.
“Certainly, your grace. I would be happy, and of course honoured, to give one of my daughters into your keeping for thishappy union.”
“Good,” Nicholas stated, pressing his pen against the contract. “Sign and we will then discuss the particulars.”
The Reverend wrote his signature on the contract with a trembling hand before pushing it back to Nicholas. “When would you like to post the banns?”
“No banns,” Nicholas said as he scrawled his name under the Reverend’s. “No wedding day. I wish to be wed by the end of the week.”
“The week?”
Nicholas arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”
The man was wiping his forehead again. “No, of course not, your grace. It will be as you wish. I will preside over the ceremony myself.”
Reverend Shackleford paused to savour this prodigious moment. “My eldest. You will have my eldest.”
