It mattered not to Nicholas. “Bring her at the end of the week, and she will become my duchess. I trust she is of childbearing age?”
“She’s twenty-five,” the reverend replied hesitantly, belatedly wondering if Grace’s age might bring this miraculous turn of events to ruin at the last moment. Wincing slightly, he hurried on “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth, your grace, but most assuredly right at the peak of her childbearing years. And to top it all, she’s a good, dutiful girl and will make you an admirable wife. Of that I am sure.”
“Fine,” Nicholas sighed. He did not want a simpering miss straight out of the school room. “Huntley will see you out. Iwill procure the special licence and send you word of the day and hour I wish you to conduct the ceremony.”
“I will await your instructions eagerly, your grace. And may I say how truly honoured I am that we are aboutto become family.”
The Duke eyed him coldly, and Reverend Shackleford hurriedly took his leave, only just resisting the urge to skip out of the room.
∞∞∞
After the Reverend left the study, Nicholas’s valet ambled in, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat. “So, this is where yer spending yer days now.”
Nicholas leaned against the chair, feeling weary. “A valet does not come seeking his master.”
The Scot quirked a grin as he settled into the chair the vicar had just vacated. “Good thing I’m not a normal valet then, laddie.”
Despite his need to make his unorthodox valet understand the correct airs and graces of English society, Nicholas returned Malcolm’s grin with one of his own. The Scot had been his steward for a good number of years. As Nicholas had risen in the ranks and been appointed from ship to ship, Malcolm had accompanied him and probably knew more about him than any other living person.
During their last campaign, which culminated at the victorious Battle of Trafalgar, Malcolm had saved Nicholas’ life, but in doing so had taken a vicious bayonet wound to the leg. It was while they were both convalescing in Gibraltar that word finally reached them of the Duke of Blackmore’s death, catapulting Nicholas into a role he was neither prepared for, nor had ever really wanted.
In some ways, the news had been fortuitous, although Nicholas would have died rather than admit it. Having been so grievously wounded in the battle, he’d been forced to give up his commission and simply had nowhere else to go.
Malcolm, ever his loyal steward, elected to return to Englandwith his erstwhile captain, earning him Nicholas’s undying gratitude. The Scot might not know the difference between a barrel knot and a waterfall cravat tie, but he understood what his captain had gone through since reaching manhood, and because of that, Nicholas would never see him homeless.
“That’s yer brother?”
Nicholas followed Malcolm’s gaze to the large portrait above the fireplace. Two solemn boys stared down at them, their father’s hunting hounds flanking them. “That’s him.”
“Ye really did look alike.”
Nicholas’s lips rose in a small smile as he thought about the times he and Peter had tricked others regarding their identities. It had proven very resourceful with their tutors, and though they often saw the end of their father’s belt for it, they continued to do so, even throughout their youth.
There were times, after he’d left England, especially when he was at sea, that Nicholas could have sworn he saw his brother or felt his presence on a stormy night.
After all, it had been on a stormy night he’d lost Peter, and for the life of him, he still could not understand why they’d thought it would be a good idea to race their horses in the rain. Nicholas would never forget his brother’s cry as the horse had slipped on the wet road, how he’d snapped his neck on impact, forever silenced.
The Duke had blamed Nicholas for pulling his brother into the foolhardy escapade that had ended his life. Peter had always been the Duke’s favourite and the true heir of Blackmore. As the second son, albeit by minutes, he was merely an interloper.
“Leave me be,” Nicholas growled, turning back to his papers, determinedly pushing the hurt back down into the locked box he kept it in. “I have work to do.”
“Looks like it,” Malcolm remarked, unruffled by hismaster’s bad mood.
Nicholas waited until his old friend had left the room before wiping a hand over his face. The past had no place here. He had no choice but to press forward, to look toward a future which no longer included the rolling of a deck beneath his feet.
Starting with the wife he would have by the end of the week.
Chapter Four
By the time Reverend Shackleford reached the vicarage, some of his early euphoria had evaporated, replaced by apprehension at the thought of the conversation he would have to conduct with Grace. Especially the question of whether or not his eldest daughter’s virtue remained intact.
The more he thought about it, the more Augustus Shackleford was afraid that what ailed Grace was simply a fall from that state.
If some rake had thought to ruin his daughter, the Reverend feared he would not be accountable for his actions. No matter how fortuitous the Duke of Blackmore’s offer had been, he nevertheless dared not risk trying to pass used goods onto him.
Should Grace prove to have been less than virtuous, he would be forced to choose another of his daughters to take her place in the Duke’s bed. And if Grace had a reputation for unruliness, it was nothing compared to her younger siblings.
The Reverend sighed, hovering at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether to simply question Grace himself or to involve Mrs. Shackleford whose diplomacy skills were actually worse than his own. Not to mention her complete lack of discretion.
