Bachelor Duke. Mary Nichols

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      “Good heavens, a bluestocking!”

      “That, sir, is better than being a milksop, dependent on the generosity or otherwise of a man who can give it or withhold it at his pleasure.”

      James had a sudden vision of what it might be like to be a young lady alone in the world. He was used to the ladies of the ton, or demi-reps who flouted convention. But the woman who faced him now was neither. He wished he had not been so sharp with her, but he did not know how to retrieve the situation.

      MARY NICHOLS

      Born in Singapore, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three, and has spent most of her life in different parts of East Anglia. She has been a radiographer, school secretary, information officer and industrial editor, as well as a writer. She has three grown children and four grandchildren.

      Bachelor Duke

      Mary Nichols

      

www.millsandboon.co.uk

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter One

      April 1814

      The slight breeze that played along the shaded balcony took the heat from the afternoon sun and allowed the scent of bougainvillaea and orange flowers to drift past Sophie and mask the less pleasant aromas from the street below. But she was unaware of odours, either pleasant or unpleasant, as she gazed over the pink tiled roofs to the glittering blue sea of the Bay of Naples. There were more things on her mind than pleasing views and contrasting scents. She was in a dilemma of such magnitude, she did not know how she was going to come about. Her father had died, having ruined his health with wine and spirits, and followed her darling hard-used mother to the grave; now she was alone in a foreign country. Twenty-one years old, unmarried, with no close friends and no relatives who were prepared to acknowledge her, and, to top it all, the rent of this tiny villa was due at the end of the week.

      The knock at the door had to be repeated before she heard it; by that time the lady doing the knocking had opened it and was tripping into the room. ‘Sophie, my dear, such news, such wonderful news!’ The middle-aged Lady Myers was short and plump, dressed in a light muslin gown more fitting to someone of Sophie’s years. Her hair, under an enormous bonnet intended to protect her complexion from the sun, was dyed black as a raven’s wing. But she had kind hazel eyes and a warm smile. Seeing her, Sophie realised she had been wrong about having no friends; she did have one. ‘The war is over. Napoleon Bonaparte has capitulated. The allies are in Paris. We can all go home.’

      ‘Home,’ Sophie repeated. Where was home? In the last ten years, she had lived for a time in France, a strange place of contrasts since the revolution; in Spa in Belgium; in Chamonix in Switzerland, where the sweet mountain air and wonderful landscape had served to raise her mother’s spirits for a short time until they were forced to flee again. Oh, Papa never admitted they were running away, but that is what it was; a vain bid to escape his creditors. Living abroad was cheaper than in England and they might have managed tolerably well but for her father’s vice, which pursued them wherever they went.

      After Switzerland there was Vienna, where she and her mother spent hours exploring and her father filled his time with gambling among other expatriates, convinced he was on the verge of the ‘big win’ and they would once more be in funds and able to look their friends in the eye, not to mention hoteliers, landladies and mantua makers. The coup never came and Papa was the only one surprised at that, but it meant that they could no longer pay their hotel bill and had to make a hurried exit in the middle of the night, which the fifteen-year-old Sophie had found exciting, but which did her mother’s nerves no good at all. They went to Venice, then Milan, Turin, Florence and Rome in turn, always one jump ahead of the dunners, until two years ago they had arrived in Naples. By then her mother was seriously ill, but she had been cheered to discover Lady Myers living close by. ‘She came to live near us when she married Lord Myers and we became friends,’ Mama had told her. ‘Lord Myers was in the diplomatic service and they were always on the move, and later so were we and we lost touch. Now we can renew our acquaintance.’

      Their small entourage of valet, footman and maid had already gone in order to save paying wages. Now they were forced to stay in one place. The coachman had gone too, and the sale of the coach and horses and most of her mother’s jewellery had kept them going for a time, particularly as Papa, overcome by guilt, swore he had turned over a new leaf. But it was too little too late. As far as Mama was concerned, they were stranded in a foreign country in the middle of a war with no hope of returning to England; though Papa continued to maintain he would soon set all to rights, Mama gave up believing it and soon gave up on life.

      Lord Langford’s grief at his wife’s death had been astonishing to behold. He wept for days, wallowing in remorse and self-loathing, asking Sophie for her forgiveness and drinking copious amounts of wine and cognac to deaden his pain. Sophie had been numb with grief herself and had no comfort to offer him. She went about in a daze, knowing it was no good relying on him to provide for them and she would have to do something herself if they were not to starve.

      A month before her twentieth birthday she had become the breadwinner, teaching Italian children English and conducting foreign tourists about the city. Few of them were English because the war had put a stop to sending young men on the Grand Tour, but as Sophie had a keen ear for languages she was able to act as guide in French, German or Italian. Now Papa had died, and violently too, making his drunken way home one night, and Lady Myers talked of going home!

      ‘Yes,’ her ladyship said, concerned by Sophie’s long silence, but then the poor girl had only recently lost her papa so it was not to be wondered at that she was a little distracted. She was sitting there in a dowdy black dress, her dark hair tied roughly back with a ribbon, but in spite of that the chit had a natural grace. Her complexion was a little more tanned than fashion dictated, but she had good bones and her brown eyes were uncommonly lustrous. ‘Home to England.’

      ‘It is good news, of course, but I cannot go.’

      ‘Why ever not? You cannot possibly stay here alone. Surely you have relatives in England who will give you a home? Lord Langford…’

      Sophie gave a bitter laugh and bent to pick up a crumpled ball of paper from the floor where she had flung it a few minutes before. ‘You mean my father’s brother? I wrote out of courtesy to tell him of Papa’s demise, though I have no doubt the lawyers will have told him immediately he had inherited the title.’

      ‘And?’

      She smoothed out the paper. ‘This is his reply. He repudiates me.’

      ‘But that is wicked! You were only a child when you left England and none of your father’s troubles was your fault. Are you sure?’

      ‘Oh, he leaves me in no doubt. He says if my father had not been trapped into a disastrous marriage he would never have been a gambler. My uncle says if I think to throw myself upon his generosity, I may think again, and as for stooping so far as to work among foreigners, it has undoubtedly coarsened me and made me unfit for polite company.’ It was said in a flat tone that did not disguise the bitterness she felt. ‘He requests me not to write to him again.’

      ‘My