The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

It’s nearly ten o’clock. I’m bloody hungry!”

      By this time, Lady Bamph had decided to wrest back control of her drawing room, and it was she who answered. “My son has been delayed, Your Grace. He will be with us very soon.”

      “Oh, he’s your son, is he?” Dickon snorted. “Why are you dressed like that? I thought you was the housekeeper.”

      Her ladyship’s smile stretched taut but did not break. “While we wait for Rupert, shall we have tea, Your Grace? Belinda, touch the bell.”

      “And cake?” the duke said eagerly. “I like cake.”

      Almost before Belinda had touched the bell, two footmen entered the room, one to carry the heavy silver service and one to set up the collapsible tiger maple tea table in front of the dowager’s chair. “Do take your place with Belinda on the sofa, Your Grace,” Lady Bamph implored, choosing a delicate French chair for herself.

      While the duke gorged himself on cake, Julian conversed easily with Belinda. Very properly, he remarked on the beauties of the house and grounds, the felicity of losing one’s self in the wilderness of Green Park while remaining within a stone’s throw of Piccadilly, and so forth, but Lady Bamph was not deceived. It was obvious to her that Mr Devize was a devious fortune hunter intent on seducing her child, his object being, of course, Belinda’s well-publicized dowry of fifty thousand pounds.

      “I hate Green Park,” Belinda pouted. “One feels so cut off from everything. I want a proper town house. I want to be in the middle of everything, not hidden away in Green Park. Mama, can we not break our lease?”

      “Lease? His lordship does not own the house, then?” Julian murmured. “Interesting.” Taking a pencil and a small writing tablet from his pocket, he made a quick note. His memory required no such aid; he did it merely to annoy Lady Bamph.

      And annoy her it did. “My son is looking for a suitable purchase,” she snapped. “Where do you live, Mr Devize?” she asked him waspishly.

      “In Lombard Street, ma’am,” he replied, strangely unashamed of his humble address.

      “I’ve never heard of it,” she sniffed. “In which part of London is Lombard Street?”

      “The City, ma’am.”

      “The City! How quaint. I thought only Jews and shopkeepers lived in that part of town.”

      “It’s nothing like the West End,” Julian answered with annoying complacency.

      “Do all City men wear trousers, Mr Devize?” Lady Belinda asked eagerly.

      “Yes, all, my lady,” came the shocking reply. “However gentlemanlike, white silk stockings are not practical for a man who must earn his living in the dirt and coal dust of the City. And, for myself, I dislike the affectation of wearing riding boots in the metropolis. I’ve not been near a horse since I sold out of the army.”

      Belinda sighed happily. “Oh! Were you in the army, Mr Devize? You must have so many wonderful stories to tell.”

      “No, not one.”

      Belinda was taken aback, until she noticed that his blue eyes were twinkling again. “Oh, you are teasing me! But how splendid you must have looked in your regimentals! Was yours a cavalry regiment?” she asked hopefully.

      “No, but I did ride a horse.”

      This riddle flummoxed Lady Belinda, but her mother understood. “An officer?” she sneered. “In my day, only gentlemen could be officers.”

      The duke handed Belinda his empty plate and licked his fingers. “Madam, I’ll have you know that Dev is a gentleman,” he said angrily. “His father’s a baron.”

      Lady Bamph’s eyes widened. “You are that Mr Devize?” she gasped. “The son of Lord Devize?”

      Julian smiled faintly. “I have that honor, yes.”

      “You are the odious wretch who broke Child’s Bank!” she accused him, rising to her feet majestically. “Infamous cur! How dare you show your face among civilized people? You, sir, have been the means of ruining some of my dearest friends! I know your mother,” she went on, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Odious, grasping female! She must be so proud of you.”

      “Of course she’s proud of him,” said the duke. “Aren’t you proud of your son? Speaking of which, where is he? The sooner he marries my sister, the sooner I get my nephew.”

      Forcing a smile, Lady Bamph sat down again. “I’m sure Rupert is on his way, Your Grace,” she said pleasantly. “He is most eager to meet you…and Lady Viola, too, of course. What a pity her ladyship could not come to London.”

      “No, Dev,” the duke said firmly as Julian opened his mouth to speak. “I’ll handle this. My sister is not a traveling exhibit,” he announced as he sponged cake crumbs from his waistcoat with his fingers. “She flatly refuses to come to London. If your son wants her, he must go to Yorkshire and do the pretty. Now, don’t ask me why a man should go all the way to Yorkshire to make love to a girl he’s already engaged to. I couldn’t tell you if you did ask. But Viola is not a man, and we can’t expect her to behave like a rational human being.”

      Concluding his speech, he licked his fingers.

      “It was I who suggested Rupert invite Lady Viola to London,” Lady Bamph answered. “I thought her ladyship might enjoy the delights of the Season with us. I see now my interference has led to infelicity all around. I see no reason why Rupert, Belinda, and I could not go to Yorkshire with you for an extended visit, if that is Lady Viola’s preference.”

      “But Mama!” Belinda protested. “Rupert said if Lady Viola didn’t obey him, he’d make her very sorry indeed when they married. Rupert has a very bad temper when he is crossed,” she confided to Julian, who was taking notes again. “And besides, Mama, it is the height of the Season! We shall miss some very important plays and assemblies. I do not suppose there are plays and assemblies in Yorkshire. Rupert says that Yorkshire is the back end of beyond.”

      Lady Bamph watched anxiously as Julian scribbled in his notebook. “Nonsense!” she snapped. “Rupert would never dream of saying anything so offensive. For myself, I long to see my future daughter. We will gladly go to Yorkshire as soon as it can be arranged.”

      Resigned to exile, Belinda asked hopefully if Mr Devize would be accompanying them.

      “I’m afraid my work keeps me in London, Lady Belinda,” Julian replied gently.

      Belinda pouted. “Work! Haven’t you made your fortune already?”

      “I’m afraid not,” he said, putting his notebook away.

      “But you broke that silly old bank!” she protested.

      “I make fortunes for other people, not myself,” he explained. “It’s how I earn my living.”

      “Oh, how sad,” she sighed, full of pity. “I think you must be very brave, Mr Devize. Why, if I had to earn my living, I think I should die, or else starve.”

      “So that’s settled,” said Lady Bamph, smiling at the duke. “We shall pass the spring in Yorkshire, then travel back to London for the wedding.”

      The duke spoke up. “Viola wants to be married from York Minster. Is that a problem?”

      “Not at all,” said her ladyship agreeably. “I’m sure York Minster is very nice.”

      “And the first week in June is out of the question,” said the duke, rather surprised that he was having such an easy time of it. “That’s our holidays. Then there’s the shooting, of course.”

      “Oh, yes,” said the dowager. “There’s a hunting lodge in Scotland, isn’t there?”

      “No, there isn’t,” said the duke, growing red in the face.

      “I