“No need to… to decide anything like that,” Jamie said, replacing the spectacles firmly on his nose. “I am only speaking hypothetically, you understand. For the future… possibly… if it should come about.”
“Of course, of course.” The duke beamed at him. “I think it an excellent idea, so off you go and do your wooing, my boy. Now, this contract with Temple…”
***
‘To the Lady Patience Torbuck, Holtwell Abbey, Wiltshire. My dearest Patience, I miss you more than I can say. Are you missing me too? I long for a letter from you, my dear one. I know you are very busy just now, and will no doubt be planning to remove to Pentavon shortly for Christmas, but a few lines would reassure me that you are well.’
Did that sound too pleading? Possibly, but he was increasingly concerned at the lack of response. Three letters he had carefully penned and sent off to Holtwell, and only one very brief response had come back. It was not acceptable. Patience was his future wife, after all, and no matter how busy she mightbe, writing to her betrothed was an important duty. If she could not devote even a few minutes of her time to him now, before they were married, it did not augur well for a happy marriage.
He added half a page describing the previous night’s dinner, to which several local worthies had been invited — the parson, the squire, and the master of hounds, together with wives and children, all dressed in their finery and on their best behaviour for the duke. Lance was tolerant of the lower gentry, having come from similar unpretentious stock himself, but he could not help being amused by them, all the same.
He found himself the target for the squire’s two unmarried daughters, and he was never averse to responding to such overtures. It was a delicate art to engage with such women without raising expectations, but he had been perfecting his technique for years and had no trouble stringing them along now. He was pleased to see that Charlotte viewed the interlopers with what could only be described as a jealous eye, so he bestowed some of his attention on her, and was delighted to find the three of them practically hissing at each other as they competed for his notice during a noisy game of speculation after dinner.
It was not until very late in the evening, when the visitors had finally departed, the duke was settling down to some serious card play, and Lance was enjoying a final brandy and thinking of bed, when he found the duchess standing by his chair. How had she crept up on him so silently? He was normally more aware than that.
“You are mischievous, Mr Chamberlain,” she murmured almost directly into his ear. “Flirting with three young ladies at once, and setting one against another purely for your own amusement — I am not sure I approve.”
“I hope it is for their amusement, too,” he said quietly, for Charlotte was still in the room and he had no wish for her to hear herself talked of in such a way.
“Perhaps. But you should know that what is nothing but a game to you is a matter of the utmost importance to them.”
“Important? How?”
“There is only one ambition held by a woman of gentility, and that is to marry well. Seeing you, and being the recipient of… your wit, shall we say, inspires them to hope for something more.”
“But I am betrothed!” he cried, stung. “I am not free.”
“Then perhaps you should restrain your…wit, Mr Chamberlain, in case it may be misunderstood.”
And so saying, she spun round in a swirl of silk skirts, and walked away, leaving him with the scent of her delicate perfume and a raging sense of injustice, to be so misunderstood.
***
Georgie counted the days. One, two, three… not yet. Four, five… now? But that was Sunday, and there was no opportunity. It was not until the sixth day, therefore, that she made her way to the study, prepared to change her own life and Jamie’s forever. No… that had been accomplished by the brandy. This was merely… the next stage.
Naturally, when she was impatient to talk to Jamie alone, the study was filled with people. Jamie’s father was there, for one, and the duke. Mr Pyott, who usually worked in a corner of the library, when he worked at all, wandered in and out. Mr Monk, the bailiff, was also there, with some crisis to discuss. And with Mr Chamberlain painting away in the library next door, and the ladies of the household milling about him, the place almost had a carnival atmosphere.
Georgie worked quietly, ignoring the bustle round about her. Eventually, Mr Chamberlain laid down his brushes and took the ladies away with him, the duke went off for his afternoon nap, Mr Pyott and Mr Monk disappeared and only Jamie and his father remained.
Another hour passed by, as the two men discussed their plans for Jamie’s trip to Oxford, but eventually even the elder Mr Hammond left and Georgie seized her moment.
“Jamie…”
“Still here?” he said absently, straightening a pile of papers on his desk, and tidying away pens. “It is almost time to dress for dinner. I might go up early myself and—”
“We must talk.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?”
“No.”
He sat down abruptly. “Ah. I am listening.”
She licked her lips, the words unexpectedly hard to find. “I am not sure quite how to put this.”
“The simplest way,” he said gently. “Is it… to do with the night of the brandy?”
She nodded, feeling tears pressing.
