Least Likely To Marry A Duke. Louise Allen

      ‘Hell’s bells,’ Melissa said faintly. ‘What a very beautiful, very frightening man.’

      ‘How is Prue?’

      ‘Resigning herself to imminent ruin. I told her a duke would be too much a gentleman to ever refer to the matter.’

      ‘He has gone.’ Prue came in, dressed, but pale-faced. ‘I saw him from your bedchamber window, Verity. Will someone help me with my hair?’ She held out her hand, shaking so much that half the pins she was holding fell to the floor.

      ‘I will.’ Lucy pressed her down into a chair and began to put up the brown curls. ‘He will not say anything, we are sure—far too much the gentleman.’

      ‘And it would lower him in his own estimation to gossip,’ Verity added, patting her friend’s shoulder in an attempt at consolation. ‘He is an absolute pattern book of proper behaviour. You will be quite safe, Prue, don’t worry.’

      ‘But I will be sure to meet him,’ she wailed. ‘And he will recognise me and I will just sink through the floor, I know I will. Even if he says nothing, Mama will guess something is amiss if I blush scarlet whenever I see him.’

      ‘I doubt he was looking at your face,’ Melissa said, with a significant glance at Prue’s bosom which was positively heaving with emotion. ‘You must just brazen it out, Prue. Tell your mama that you are knocked all of a heap by his rank and looks and your overwhelming urge to be worthy of him. Besides, he is in mourning, so you are unlikely to encounter him often.’

      ‘I suppose so.’ Prue began to look slightly less ill.

      The clock struck four. There was a faint shriek from Lucy, who began to bundle up her sheet music while the others tidied their work away into the cupboard.

      ‘Leave it, hurry down,’ Verity urged. ‘Prue, blow your nose. And take some tracts with you, everyone.’ A pile of tub-thumping religious tracts had been sent to her father by a well-meaning curate. Papa, having scanned one, pronounced it badly written, inaccurate and guaranteed to make heathens of the most devout churchgoer. Verity had saved them as props for her ‘reading group,’ who went off downstairs, bonnets and gloves in place, each clutching a leaflet. ‘And the book for next week is Pilgrim’s Progress,’ she called after them.

      ‘But we all read that ages ago,’ Melissa stopped at the head of the stairs to protest.

      ‘Exactly. Which means we don’t need to talk about it again, but you know all about it if your parents ask what we have been studying.’

      She found she was feeling a trifle shaky so she sat down to set a few more stitches in her tapestry. She hadn’t finally committed herself to the design of the fallen angel himself—perhaps she could incorporate a few of the Duke’s features. Verity began to unpick the black of the angel’s eyes. Blue would be more arresting... He was, after all, as handsome as the Devil, if probably rather less cheerful, he had fallen to earth at her feet and he had the power to torment them all now.

      * * *

      Even before the move to Stane Hall Will had learned it was no use offering a place in the carriage to his stepmother on Sundays. Claudia always announced her intention of worshipping the deity—or deities, she was not prepared to commit herself—by communing with nature, which seemed to him to be an excellent excuse for prolonged country rambles accompanied by a picnic basket.

      Her children had discovered, to their dismay, that now that they lived with him, a church service, sedate reading and educational pastimes replaced Sundays spent careering around the woods and streams. They had learned not to mope too visibly when Will put his foot down over an issue, but even so, it was a sulky and cramped carriage party that set out for morning service the second Sunday after their visit to the Old Palace and the first when they had attended church.

      ‘Basil, if you have so much to say for yourself you may undertake the reading of the second lesson in my stead,’ Will threatened. It was enough to silence his brother, who had been grumbling about having to take young Benjamin on his knees. ‘And, yes, we will take two carriages when the weather is bad or Miss Preston and Mr Catford prefer not to walk. But it makes more work for the staff on a day of rest when we should be as considerate as possible.’

      At least they all trooped down the path to the church door in an orderly manner. The Verger was waiting to escort them to the Stane Hall pew, right at the front of the chancel. He ushered them in with a merciful lack of bowing and scraping. Will guessed this was because in his opinion the parishioners rated a duke rather lower than their resident Bishop. The high panelled walls of the Hall’s pew cut off their view of the one on the other side of the aisle, in the prime position right under the pulpit, but the Bishop’s coat of arms was on the door. It had a complex design on the shield, crowned with a mitre and with crossed croziers behind.

      All he could see of the occupants was the top of a bald pate edged with greying brown hair, a dark head that must be the Chaplain and the crown of a brown-straw bonnet with a flash of ochre ribbon. Miss Wingate had accompanied her father. At least her rebellion did not extend to churchgoing.

      Will brought his gaze back to the interior of his own large pew. The tutor and governess were already there and, under their supervision, the youngsters were at least sitting quietly as they found their places in the prayer books. He sent up a brief prayer of his own for a short and well-delivered sermon and told himself that he was not remotely interested in the presence or otherwise of unbecomingly outspoken bluestockings. He could only offer thanks to whichever merciful spirit looked after well-meaning dukes for the fact that it was not Miss Wingate who had been posing nude when he burst into that tower of outrageous females. With the exception of the one who had fled, there had not been a blush between them, which was shocking.

      His prayers were answered with an intelligent sermon, although as it was on the theme of ‘The Stranger in Our Midst’ he could almost feel the collective gaze of the congregation boring into his back. The Verger came and opened the Bishop’s pew door first, which was telling. Dukes outranked bishops, but not, it seemed in Great Staning.

      When he reached the door—the Verger bowed them solemnly out of their pew next—Will saw why the Bishop had precedence. He was seated in a carved chair by the side of the Vicar, who was waiting to speak to his parishioners as they filed out. Mr Hoskins was at his elbow and Miss Wingate stood a little apart, talking to a lady he guessed was Mrs Trent, the Vicar’s wife.

      ‘My lord. Mr Hoskins. Mr Trent.’ It was the first time the family had attended church in this parish, although the Vicar had called the week they arrived. ‘An admirable sermon, Vicar, I congratulate you. May I introduce my family?’ He gestured his siblings forward and tried not to be surprised when they lined up obediently and performed neat bows and curtsies. Their teachers were clearly doing an excellent job, which reminded him to introduce them, too.

      ‘But we are holding up the rest of the congregation.’ He led his small flock over to bid good morning to Mrs Trent, who was still talking to Miss Wingate. ‘Ma’am. Miss Wingate.’ Mrs Trent beamed and replied and promptly began to make a fuss of the children.

      Miss Wingate favoured him with a slight bow. He assumed her frosty manner was due to embarrassment which was surprising; he had not thought she had sufficient sensibility to feel any. ‘Your Grace. Good day. Mrs Trent, I will make certain the gardeners send down those flowers in plenty of time for next Sunday.’ Then she was gone with a whisk of deep green skirts, leaving the tantalising scent of wisteria blossom behind her.

      Mrs Trent straightened from speaking to Benjamin and Will saw her eyes widen as she looked beyond him. He half-turned to find that, far from filing out of the church after they had shaken the Vicar’s hand, the congregation was still milling about inside. Or, rather, that part of it composed of matrons with daughters in attendance was. He recognised Miss Lambert, Miss Newnham and Miss Taverner from the tower and he rather suspected, from the fact that she was the only person not looking in his direction, that the unnamed naked model was the young woman in the blue bonnet half-hidden behind a pillar.

      ‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs