Although she was not crying—yet—he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. His voice was firm. “You are not a laughingstock. You are the daughter of a duke.”
She dabbed at her eyes, just in case. “Surely that proves that there must be some truth to what they say. I am the daughter of a duke, and I have thirty thousand pounds. And still, I haven’t managed to catch a husband!”
The duke scowled at the unfamiliar prospect of a problem he could not fix with a snap of his fingers. “To have the good opinion of such simple-minded fools would be the true insult. Your mind is as brilliant as a diamond. Such people are beneath your notice. You will disregard them, Rosalie.”
“I will try.” Rosalie lowered the balled handkerchief to her lap. “But, as I was saying, I do want a family of my own, and children. This is my opportunity to achieve that dream. Lord Valentine is a decent man. I’ve never heard a word said against him. It’s a good match, and I want to accept him.”
Resignation filled her father’s eyes, along with a hint of sadness. “You are determined, then?”
Rosalie clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into the heel of her palms. “I am.”
The duke inclined his head. “Very well. I will give him a conditional acceptance. He may have your hand, but first, he must agree to a set of stipulations that will be laid out in your marriage contract. It will probably take the lawyers a few weeks. I want to make sure it is ironclad. There will be no possibility of Lord Valentine touching your fortune, and if he should refuse to sign it, there will be no wedding.”
Rosalie stood and came around the desk. Bending down, she pressed her lips against her father’s cheek. “Thank you, Papa.”
She felt slightly queasy as she slipped from the room, but she didn’t look back. She would not change her mind.
The Rake Review
By The Brazen Belle
February 1, 1822
Roses are red,
This rake’s heart is black,
And England’s worst scoundrel,
Is on his way back.
Dearest Readers,
It is fitting that our chosen rake for the month of February is none other than the illustrious Viscount V—. I can sense your confusion, because the man who has been known as Lord V— since the death of his grandfather two years ago, Ly— D—, bears little resemblance to the men usually featured in this column. He is neither a Lothario nor a drunkard. He does not lose ruinous sums at the gaming tables, drive his highflyer at reckless speeds, or partake in duels at dawn.
Frankly, he is a bit dull, for all that he fits his title to perfection with his golden curls and rosy cheeks fit for a cherub.
Perhaps you have heard the whispers currently making the rounds that he is on the cusp of entering into a betrothal. Indeed, the real reason a certain duke and duchess are throwing a ball in honor of their daughter this very evening is perhaps the worst-kept secret of theton. Although his chosen viscountess, Lady R— d— L—, has a reputation for being overly forthright, she compensates for this perceived shortcoming with her noble breeding and handsome portion, and it is generally considered to be a respectable match.
Ly— might not have set so much as a toe out of line. But his father, who died ten years ago, was cut from a different cloth. And this is where our story takes a dramatic turn. Although we have all been addressing Ly— as Lord V— since his grandfather’s death, a little bird told me that the House of Lords is yet to issue the writ of summons confirming him in his title. Does it strike anyone else that they are taking an inordinately long time?
After a great deal of digging, your diligent Belle has managed to discover the reason for this delay. It seems that the sins of the father are about to be visited upon the son. It turns out that thirty-four years ago, while cavorting in Devonshire with his caddish friends, Ly—‘s father, F—, developed an infatuation with a local milkmaid. This virtuous young woman prized her Devonshire cream more highly than the handful of coins and paste necklace she was offered in exchange for her virtue. The father was apparently so desperate to have her that he summoned a priest. Vows were exchanged, and three weeks later, the groom departed Devonshire without his erstwhile bride, seeming to believe that no one would ever learn about his little peccadillo. Certainly, he did not mention it to Lady L— P— at their wedding, which took place three years later. Then again, nor did he disclose the unmentionable disease that had been plaguing him for some years, the same one that eventuallykilled him. So that was not the only egregious omission young F— committed on his second wedding day.
It turns out that the seemingly irreproachable Ly— is not without enemies, specifically, Lord J—, who seems to harbor some sort of grudge against Ly— from their days at school. Lord J— is the one who has been holding up the letters patent for these past two years while he scrutinized every facet of Ly—‘s claim. His investigation has finally borne fruit. Your diligent Belle has it on good authority that only yesterday, Lord J— brought the milkmaid to testify before the House of Lords, as well as the vicar who performed the ceremony, who arrived bearing all of the documentation supporting F—’s first marriage.
What all of this means is that Ly— D— was born on the wrong side of the blanket and is therefore not eligible to inherit his grandfather’s title. Who, then, shall become the next Viscount V?—?
Our virtuous milkmaid, who was a thousand times more faithful than her wastrel of a husband, never bore any children. The recently deceased Lord V— had two sons, both of whom predeceased him. Each of these sons, in turn, sired one child, both boys.
At this point, I can all but hear your gasps of shock and delight. “Oh, no!” you are surely crying.
Oh, yes, dear reader—you have recollected your Debrett’s Peerage correctly. We are about to exchange our Cupid for the man widely known as the devil himself. The next Viscount V— is none other than Lu— D—, one of the most notorious rakehells to ever stalk the streets of London. Alas, I have used up all my allotted space describing the sins of his uncle and therefore do not have sufficient room to recount his exploits, but suffice it to say, they are the stuff of legend. He has been away from London for these past two years, philandering his way acrossthe Continent in a spree of debauchery that will not soon be matched. But Lord J— has written to the new heir apparent, summoning him back to London.
I am pleased to announce that my editor has agreed to print a second Rake Review column once Lu— D— returns, detailing the many sins by which he has earned his status as the rake of February. What a treat it would be if he made his return prior to Valentine’s Day, but alas, as Lord J— only wrote to him last week, he will probably not darken England’s shores for several weeks hence.
It will also be interesting to see how Ly—’s rumored betrothed, Lady R— d— L—, deals with this most unwelcome news. It is the worst-kept secret in London that the ball her parents, the Duke and Duchess of S—, are hosting this very evening is intended to be a celebration of their daughter’s impending nuptials. Will there be anything to celebrate? We shall find out tonight.
I remain Brazenly Yours,
