The Heiress In His Bed. Tamara Lejeune

she-Bamph has found out about it somehow.”

      “She’s just trying to rattle you,” his advisor explained. “Leave everything to me, Duke.”

      But the duke could not be calmed. Indeed, he was on the verge of leaving the house when the doors of the drawing room were flung open suddenly.

      “My son!” Lady Bamph announced proudly as Rupert Belphrey, the 3rd Marquis of Bamph, strode into the room tapping his thigh with a pair of yellow kid gloves. A proud, pretty fellow, he wore with distinction a garnet-colored coat and a pair of clinging buckskin breeches. His cravat was algebraic in its complexity, and his waistcoat was loudly figured in scarlet and gold. His sideburns were as carefully arranged as the red-gold curls on his brow, and he was as handsome as his mother, though a little less masculine. Gleaming black Hessian boots with long silver tassels and high heels completed the picture of a fashionable London dandy.

      The duke’s eyes were dazzled, and he dug his elbow into Julian’s ribs. “Not bad, eh?”

      “Isn’t it wonderful, Rupert?” said Lady Bamph. “His grace has invited us all to Yorkshire for a nice, long visit.”

      “By all means, take Belinda to Yorkshire,” the marquis said haughtily. Consulting the mirror hung beside the door, he painstakingly adjusted one of the red-gold crescents that made up his left sideburn. “If you think she has a chance of landing him. I shall stay in Town, of course. This Season is the best ever, and I am in great demand.”

      Lady Bamph fixed on her brightest smile. “But, Rupert, dearest, this trip will give you the opportunity to know Lady Viola better before the wedding takes place at York Minster in the fall. Surely that is more important than a few parties and balls.”

      “If my future wife wants to know me better,” he replied petulantly, “she must come to London as I command. I can’t be bothered to go to Yorkshire. Why, the society there must be primitive! And the wedding will take place at St George’s in June,” he added obstinately.

      The Duke of Fanshawe suddenly remembered that he had a part to play in the scene unfolding before him. “But Viola was baptized at York Minster,” he interjected. “And she ain’t a traveling exhibit, you know.”

      The marquis turned to stare at the duke. “Who the devil are you?” he asked coldly.

      “I’m the Duke of Fanshawe, but you can call me Dickon, if you like.”

      “No!” said Lord Bamph, now staring through his quizzing glass. “I don’t believe it.”

      “Yes,” said Lady Bamph. “It’s quite true, Rupert.”

      “You really can call me Dickon,” the duke assured him.

      Lord Bamph stared at his prospective brother-in-law in dismay. There was nothing about the stout, bald duke to suggest that his sister was one of the loveliest young ladies in the kingdom, and everything to suggest that she was not. While perfectly willing to marry a female version of the duke in order to obtain her handsome fortune, the exquisite young marquis did not want his London friends to witness the happy event; they would be sure to mock him mercilessly, as only London friends can. “Perhaps it would be best if I did marry her at York Minster,” he conceded. “At such a distance, my friends could not be expected to attend the wedding.”

      “I like this negotiating, Dev,” cried the duke. “Everything seems to be coming our way.”

      The marquis caught sight of Julian, or more precisely, Julian’s black trousers. He applied his quizzing glass to them with an air of disbelief, but they really were trousers. “And who are you, sir?” he sneered.

      “This is Mr Devize,” Belinda eagerly explained. “He lives in the City, and he works for the duke—because he must earn his living even though he’s a baron’s son. And he dislikes the affectation of wearing riding boots in town.”

      The marquis bristled. “These are not ordinary riding boots. They are Hessians.”

      “I beg your pardon,” said Mr Devize. “I should have said I dislike the affectation of Englishmen rigging themselves out like German mercenaries.”

      Lord Bamph turned beet red. “I should call you out for such impudence!” he spluttered.

      “That would do you no honor, my love,” his mother cried in alarm. “Mr Devize is merely the duke’s stockjobber. Pray, do not upset yourself over a trifle.”

      Lord Bamph’s lip curled with scorn. “I do not shoot stockjobbers,” he sniffed. “Nor am I in the habit of receiving them in the drawing room. Why is this man here?”

      “The duke has asked me to handle the negotiations for his sister,” Julian explained.

      “There will be no vulgar negotiating,” Lord Bamph declared. “The marriage contract is a simple, straightforward agreement between gentlemen. I will never consent to allow any part of my wife’s fortune to remain outside of my control. She will have an allowance, if she behaves.”

      Dickon’s pale gray eyes bulged. “You think women are chattel, then?” he asked.

      “You wrong me,” replied the marquis. “I don’t think women are chattel. I think they should be treated like chattel, that’s all. You see the difference.”

      “I do, of course,” said the duke, “but you may depend upon it—Viola won’t.”

      “Lady Viola will learn to submit to my will,” the marquis sniffed.

      “Of course Lady Viola will be guided by her husband,” his mother said quickly, “but first she must learn to love and trust you, Rupert. When she understands that you only have her best interest at heart, she will obey you without question and submit to your wishes joyfully.”

      The duke shook his head sadly. “I only wish it could be so, ma’am. But I’m afraid my headstrong sister has made up her mind to dislike your son.”

      “She will not dislike Rupert,” Lady Bamph laughed. “Women find him irresistible.”

      “It’s true,” Bamph said modestly. “I’m the most popular man in London.”

      “I’m not surprised!” the duke said with enthusiasm. “He’s a splendid-looking fellow, isn’t he, Dev? The hair! The clothes! He’s got it all. I daresay he’d give a peacock a run for his money, eh? But I feel I must warn you, young Rupert,” he said, with more gravity. “Viola’s not a sophisticated man about town like you and I. She’s grown up in Yorkshire, completely innocent of the ways of the world. She knows nothing of men—all she knows are dogs and servants and horses. She won’t like being told what to do.”

      “She sounds like a wild animal!” the marquis complained.

      “True,” the duke admitted ruefully. “She’s had voice lessons, of course, but I fear she’s not much of a singer. I’d rather hear the dogs bark, to be honest.”

      “Perhaps it would be better if Lady Viola remains in Yorkshire, even after the wedding,” Lady Bamph suggested. “Your sister might feel woefully out of place in London.”

      “There’s no question of her coming here!” cried Bamph, now determined that his friends never see his bride. “I am for Yorkshire! We leave at once.”

      “But, my dear,” his mother protested, “you must give us poor females time to pack.”

      “Very well,” he sniffed. “We leave for Yorkshire at dawn.”

      “Dawn, my love?” said his mama. “So early? I have just one or two little things that I must do before I leave town, a number of engagements I must cancel. The Duchess of Berkshire would never forgive me if I left town without taking leave of her.”

      “Very well!” he snapped. “We leave tomorrow afternoon, if that suits you.”

      “Yes, my love,” the dowager said pleasantly. “Whatever you command.”