Two Hearts in Hungary. Barbara Cartland

the Queen could find somebody else to send in your place?” Aletha suggested crossly.

      The Duke’s eyes twinkled.

      “Her Majesty likes to be represented by someone who looks the part.”

      Aletha laughed.

      “Which you certainly do, Papa. In fact I suspect that as usual you will leave behind you a great number of broken hearts and this time it will be Danish ones!”

      “I cannot think where you get these ideas from,” her father replied.

      At the same time she knew that he rather enjoyed the compliment.

      The day before the Duke left Mr. Heywood arrived for a last word on the horses before he too left the next morning for Hungary on his mission for the Duke.

      They talked about the horses all the afternoon.

      Finally Mr. Heywood stayed on for dinner, sending a groom to his house so that he could change into his evening clothes.

      When Aletha came down wearing one of the pretty new gowns that had been bought for her debut in London, he said,

      “You will most undoubtedly, Lady Aletha, be the belle of every ball you attend, just as I remember your mother being many years ago.”

      “I shall never be as lovely as Mama,” Aletha answered, “but I will certainly do my best not to disgrace Papa as his only daughter.”

      “You will never do that,” Mr. Heywood smiled.

      He spoke with a sincerity that she liked and found refreshing.

      She realised that he admired her and it was somehow very consoling.

      She was always afraid that she would not live up to the reputation of the beautiful Lings, who all down the centuries had been acclaimed for their loveliness.

      They had all been painted by every famous artist of their time.

      In the Van Dyck Gallery at Ling Park there were portraits that she bore a recognisable resemblance to.

      Also to those by Gainsborough, Sir Joshua Reynolds and Romney, which were hanging in the drawing rooms or on the stairs.

      ‘I am certainly up against some very stiff competition,’ Aletha mused to herself.

      Yet she knew that, if Mr. Heywood admired her, she need not be as nervous as she had been two or three years ago.

      Then she had gone through what she always referred to as her ‘ugly stage’.

      She was very conscious that her father’s friends had said,

      “Oh, is this Aletha? I always expected that she would look like her mother who I thought was one of the loveliest women I had ever seen.”

      They had not meant to be unkind, but at the same time, Aletha had prayed every night that she would grow more beautiful.

      Then, almost like a miracle, her prayers had been answered.

      Now she could definitely see, when she looked in her mirror, a distinct resemblance to her mother and to the other beautiful Duchesses.

      But she was still apprehensive.

      Later in the evening when Mr. Heywood had gone, Aletha said to her father,

      “I hope, Papa, that Mr. Heywood is right and when I do appear in London people will admire me.”

      “What you mean by ‘people’ is men!” the Duke said. “I can assure you, my darling, that you are very lovely now and will be even more so as you grow older.”

      “Do you really – mean that – Papa?”

      “I do,” the Duke answered, “and I am already looking round to find you a husband.”

      Aletha stiffened and stared at him in astonishment.

      “A – h-husband?” she stammered.

      “Of course,” the Duke said. “If your mother was here I know she would be as anxious as I am that you should make a brilliant marriage and with somebody we would welcome here as a son-in-law.”

      Aletha was silent for a moment.

      Then she said in a small voice,

      “I think – Papa, I would – rather find – my own husband.”

      The Duke shook his head.

      “That is impossible.”

      “But – why?” Aletha asked.

      “Because in Royal and noble families like ours marriages are always arranged discreetly but definitively.”

      He paused before he added,

      “As my only daughter, I shall be very particular who you will marry and determined that it will be somebody who will, in common parlance, ‘fit in’.”

      “But, Papa, suppose I do not – love him?”

      “Love usually comes after marriage and I promise you, my precious daughter, I will find you a man who I am quite certain you will fall head over heels in love with.”

      “B-but – suppose,” Aletha said in a small voice, “he does not – fall in love with me and only – wants me because I am – your daughter?”

      Her father made a little gesture with his hand.

      “That, I am afraid, is inevitable. A man, if he is an aristocrat, of course, hopes he will fall in love in the same way as I fell in love with your beloved mother.”

      It was as if he was looking back in time before he went on,

      “But he usually accepts what the French call a ‘mariage de convenance’ simply because ‘blue blood’ should be matched with ‘blue blood’ especially if his bride is beautiful enough to carry on the line in the way that is should be.”

      Aletha was silent.

      Then she said,

      “I think that it sounds very cold-blooded and rather like being a piece of goods on the counter of a shop.”

      “It is not really like that,” her father replied a little sharply. “I promise you, my dearest, I will not make you marry anyone you do not like.”

      “I do want to – love someone,” Aletha said softly, “and I want him to – love me for – myself.”

      “A great many men will love you for yourself but, when it is a question of marriage, I think I am far more likely to choose the right man to ensure your future happiness than anyone you could choose for yourself at your age.”

      “What do you mean by that?” Aletha asked.

      “I mean,” the Duke answered, “that a young girl is easily deceived by a man who has the ‘gift of the gab’ as it is called.”

      He thought for a moment or two before he went on,

      “Honeyed words do not always come easily from someone who is self-controlled and has been brought up not to ‘wear his heart on his sleeve’.”

      “What you are implying,” Aletha said slowly, “is that I might be carried away by what a man says to me and not by what he is feeling.”

      “There are men who can be very glib,” the Duke said cynically, “especially when it is a question of money and rank.”

      Aletha was silent.

      She knew that any man in England, whoever he was, would consider it a privilege to be the son-in-law of the Duke of Buclington.

      She was the Duke’s only daughter and while the major part of his fortune would go to her brother, who at this moment was in India as an aide-de-camp to the Viceroy, some of it would be hers.

      She had also been