A DUKE AND DUCHESS ON THE VERGE
Meanwhile, in the ballroom at Ariley Place
William, Earl of Waverley and heir to the Ariley dukedom, winced when an off-note sounded from thepiano-fortéhis mother was playing in the corner. His sister, Rose, stood in front of him, one hand on his shoulder while her left hand rested on his right hand.
“I do apologize,” Helen Harrington Burroughs, Duchess of Ariley, called out. “I haven’t played in an age.”
“It’s all right, Mother,” Rose replied, attempting to keep her head up and her back straight all while most of her attention was on making her leg work properly. When the music resumed, she felt the slight nudge of her brother’s hand at her waist, and she stutter-stepped into the waltz.
From near the ornate entrance to the large salon, James, Duke of Ariley, leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. At almost seventy-three, the duke was still tall and handsome, his salt-and-pepper hair white at the temples. Despite the age difference between him and his heir—there were forty-five years between them—it was apparent William was his son. The two shared the same dark blue eyes, dark slashes for eyebrows, aquiline noses and thin lips that could frown their displeasure just as easily as they displayed wide smiles when they were amused.
Of late, the duke hadn’t smiled much. At twenty-eight, his son still hadn’t taken a wife much less courted anyone, and his daughter, only a year younger, hadn’t had a suitor in two years. Given the cur had been a fortune hunter, James had been glad when Rose refused the bounder’s offer.
I’m not an idiot, Father,she had said when she paid witness to his obvious relief at hearing the news she hadn’t accepted his proposal.
I never thought you were, he had replied. Despite his response, he was never sure if Rose believed him.
His two older daughters, both illegitimate, had been of the same mind as Rose. Neither Diana nor Daisy claimed a wish to marry when they were younger, and yet they were both wed to aristocrats and had children of their own.
Although he had wished to wed their mother—he had been much younger and not as well versed in the expectations of a duke back then—Lily Albright had refused his offer with the explanation that he needed to marry the daughter of a duke, a marquess, or an earl.
By the time he finally married Helen Harrington, one of the three surviving daughters of the fifth Earl of Mayfield, the betting book at White’s was filled with wagers having to do with if or when his duchess would give him an heir.
Helen had done her duty a few years after their wedding, bless her heart, and he was a thousand pounds richer from the wagers he had placed. Eighteen months after William’s arrival, Rose was born.
James could hardly believe twenty-seven years had passed since he held this third daughter in his hands. She had been so tiny, she hadn’t been expected to live. Yet her lungs had defied the naysayers, her nightly wails loud enough to be heard all the way from the nursery down to his master suite on the second floor.
Chuckling at the reminder of how he and Helen would occasionally race up to the nursery to be sure the nurse was seeing to her charge, James discovered his vision had blurred. He blinked several times in an effort to clear away the tears that had formed, stunned to discover a particular memory still had the means to affect him so.
Rose had survived her infancy, grown up to become a beautiful, accomplished and entirely too spoiled young lady, only to have her life upended—literally—by a carriage accident.
Sniffling, he watched as his progeny whirled about the salon in a fairly error-free waltz. Surely this would be the year William and Rose married. If not, he would have to threaten to evict them from Ariley Place. Threaten to cut off their allowances. The thought had him grinning in delight. He would never actually do such a thing, of course, but the expressions they might display upon hearing the threats would be rather entertaining.
When the last strains of the music finished, Helen glanced up from the sheet music and gave him a beseeching look.
Not sure what to do, James applauded. “Bravo. Brava!” he called out as Rose dipped a curtsy and William bowed.
“Well, I didn’t step on your toes,” William stated proudly.
“I didn’t fall down,” Rose replied, relief sounding in her voice.
“Any decent partner would not let you,” her brother stated. “So… don’t allow just anyone to sign up for your two waltzes,” he warned.
“Whom should I trust to catch me?” she asked as they joined their father by the door.
“Father, for one,” William replied, one of his dark brows arching.
Rose gave him a quelling glance and turned her attention to the duke. “Who will keep me from falling to the floor during the waltz if my leg decides to go out from beneath me?” she asked.
James winced, momentarily reminded that his oldest daughter, Daisy, also limped on occasion. But her leg injury had been due to a bullet wound she suffered whilst employed as a spy of the Foreign Office. She had been in Belgium at the time, during England’s wars with France.
“Well, I’m not sure if you can trust him, but I learned earlier today that the heir to the Ottoman Empire has come to London for the Season,” James said, as if he was sharing a secret. “He’s the Dowager Duchess of Chichester’s stepson, and he’s being hosted by the Bennett-Joneses over at Bostwick House. It seems he wishes to attend all the entertainments.”
William furrowed his brows and was about to respond, but his sister beat him to it.
“To what end?” Rose asked at the same moment her mother joined them at the door.
“I’ve not yet learned the answer to that question,” James stated.
