Chapter One
Nathanial Hardinge, The Duke of Norfolk, was not usually in the habit of receiving visitors before noon, a fact his butler knew well. Mornings were opportunities for him to rise, breakfast in comparative peace, and read his newspaper before the demands of the world took hold.
He was unprepared, therefore, to receive his mother, Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Norfolk at the tender time of half past ten. She, accompanied by his three older sisters, swept into the room like the proverbial ships, their sails fully extended.
The Duke laid down his newspaper. “Mama,” he said, regarding that lady with a frown. “It is not yet eleven.”
The Duchess, an imposing woman for whom age was an inconvenient and oft-disregarded truth, sat. His three sisters followed suit, and all four bosoms swelled in what he could only presume was indignation. “Well!” his mother said.
“Elinor,” he said to his eldest sister, nodding at her. “Cassandra. Penelope. As you have all three stirred outdoors at suchan early hour, I can only assume it must be a matter of great importance. Tell me, has someone died?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Nathanial!” Elinor said, plucking at her shawl. At thirty-seven, she had not fully lost her beauty, but five children and the iniquities of age had stolen much of her sweetness. “It is hardly early.”
The Duke merely stared at her before turning to Cassandra, who at thirty-three, had all the roundness of an expecting woman. “Hassomeone died, Cass?”
“The mourning period for your father ended a month ago,” his mother said.
“And as you can see.” He gestured at himself. “I am not in mourning.”
“Don’t be so provoking,” Cassandra snapped. “You know we’re here to discuss your forthcoming marriage.”
“How intriguing.” The Duke rose and strode to the fireplace so he could better survey his family. All looked at him with ire in the same grey eyes he had inherited. “I was not aware I had committed to the act. With whom will this event take place?”
His mother didn’t scowl—she never did anything so uncouth—but she allowed her dark brows to descend forbiddingly. “You know as well as I do that there are plenty of eligible young ladies available. Why, the Earl of Canterbury has a daughter out this Season.”
“Lady Rosetta?” The flash of a smile lightened his face. “A pretty child, but I have no interest in schoolroom conversation.”
“Perhaps, then, Lady Regina Bolton?” Penelope suggested. Closest in age to the Duke at thirty, she was—or had been—the sister he was most disposed to confide in. Until, of course, this rather distressing betrayal.
“Lady Regina is older, I grant you, but she has a hooked nose.”
“Nathanial!” Elinor said, caught between amusement and irritation. “Don’t be so crude.”
“Let me understand you,” Nathanial said, resting a hand against the mantlepiece. This was a meeting he had expected for quite some time, but he had not suspected all his sisters would take up arms against him. “You would have me marry any young lady, no matter her appearance, for what purpose?”
“As the Duke of Norfolk, it isessentialyou have an heir,” his mother said irritably. “You have no brothers, and you know Montague is the next in line to inherit.”
Nathanial’s lips tightened. He had no particular desire to talk about his marriage prospects, but he had still less desire to discuss his cousin. “Montague is away on the Continent, Mama, and I think it unlikely he return for quite some time.”
“So you say,” his mother said, “but he has the unfortunate habit of arriving where he is least wanted.”
“And he isnotwanted here,” Penelope added. Her hands fluttered anxiously in her lap. Before she married Lord Peterborough, she had fancied herself in love with Montague Radcliffe. And perhaps with an eye to inheriting, he had encouraged her affections.
To Nathanial, that was not the worst thing Montague had done, but for the rest of his family, it was perhaps his greatest transgression. He released a long breath. “Montague poses no threat to us. I will ensure it.”
“And if,” his mother enquired, “you should die without issue? You are theonlymale in the family, save for Montague, and I can guarantee he is eager to take the title and your father’s wealth.”
“It is my wealth now,” Nathanial said irritably. “And my title. If you all recall, Montague killed a man in a duel and was forced to flee to France, where he has been these past seven years. I have not so much as received a line from him. Society has forgotten his existence, and my title is safe.” Heheld their gazes, one at a time. “Your requirements I find a wife are somewhat precipitous. I am hardly on my deathbed.”
Penelope swallowed. “Neither was Father.”
“He suffered from apoplexy,” Nathanial said, gentling his voice. Their father had been a kindly man, and his death had shook the family. Including, although he would never admit it, Nathanial. He had not thought he would inherit the title, and all the responsibilities it entailed, sosoon. A wife would be yet another shackle.
In time, he would be prepared for that. But Montague, of all people, was not the man to force his hand.
“You are almost thirty and a duke to boot,” Elinor said. “You have responsibilities.”
“I am twenty-eight and have been Duke less than a year,” Nathanial countered. “And, might I add, I have seen no sign of Montague.”
