Disrupting The Duke, page 3
Even the rogues, when it came time to settle down, asked her opinion of which lady they should offer for. They knew they could trust her opinion, never given rashly. Wynter took her time before making her suggestions for marriage. So far, she had met with success in pairing together over two dozen couples.
Setting her list aside, she ventured downstairs to breakfast. Her father glanced up and gave her a smile.
“Good morning, Wynter.”
“Good morning, Papa.”
She went to the sideboard and put a few items on her plate. A footman brought her a cup of tea and helped seat her.
“Where is Pickford? He usually drops in about this time.”
“I don’t know, Father. He may not breakfast with us this morning. He does have his own place to eat,” she said.
Just then, Sam entered the breakfast room and greeted them both. He headed to the buffet as if he were at home and filled his plate with rashers of bacon and ham and a mound of scrambled eggs. The footman brought coffee for him.
Wynter loved that Sam started his day with them most mornings. Their London townhouses sat next to one another. Their country estates lay only seven miles apart. Though she hadn’t known him growing up since he was six years older than she was and often away at school—and their fathers were sworn mortal enemies—they had become friends once she came to London for her come-out. They saw each other frequently in town and several times a month in the country. Her father adored Sam. Not only because Sam was beloved by everyone but because the earl’s friendship with Sam irritated Sam’s father, the Duke of Haverhill, to no end.
She couldn’t think of a better best friend to have than Sam.
“Father and I are leaving for home today,” Sam told them.
“Today?” she asked. “I wouldn’t advise it. It’s been raining for a good week and doesn’t look as if it will let up anytime soon. The roads will be a mess.”
Sam shrugged. “You know Father. Once he gets something in his head, there is no persuading him otherwise. Most of his friends left London a week ago. He’s bored and restless. Ready to be back at Hillside.”
“Haverhill was born restless,” the earl observed. “He was like that as a boy and never grew out of it.”
“You are right, Lord Cheston. Perhaps you might try and talk some reason into him. I fear with the mud and rain, it will take us three times as long to reach Hillside than it usually does.”
“I have no wish to involve myself in an argument with your father, Pickford. We didn’t get along as boys and never learned to as men.” His eyebrows arched. “You know the reason why.”
Wynter had found it hard to believe that anyone couldn’t get along with her father, the most reasonable and affable of men.
Until she had met the Duke of Haverhill.
She thought the duke pompous, staid, and mean-spirited. Though Sam was Haverhill’s heir, she cringed at times by the way father addressed son. Sam seemed to take it all in stride. He had told her that his father often put him through various tests, wanting him to learn to be what a good duke should. She bit back her retort that a good duke should be the opposite of Haverhill, not wanting to hurt her friend’s feelings. Besides, Sam was his father’s opposite. He would make for an excellent duke someday.
Sam thought that their fathers merely hadn’t gotten along as schoolboys and the animosity continued when they matured. Wynter had once asked her father about it.
And learned that her father had been in love with Sam’s mother.
The future Duchess of Haverhill had been the most beautiful girl of her come-out group. One look between them and Wynter’s father told her that he knew he would wed the girl at Season’s end. After all, he was a viscount and future earl. Nice-looking and wealthy. He would make an excellent candidate as a husband.
Unfortunately, the Duke of Haverhill had overheard Lord Cheston tell a few friends at White’s of his intentions. That had led to the duke pursuing the girl with a fervor unseen by Polite Society. In the end, she hadn’t been given a choice. Her father told her she was to wed the Duke of Haverhill, other suitors be damned. Haverhill was already a duke, wealthy and powerful. She would immediately become a duchess upon her marriage, one of a handful in society.
As any other young girl of her class would have done, she obeyed her papa. Naturally, Haverhill told her she was never to speak to Lord Cheston again. Wynter’s father had wed a few Seasons later. His bride was beautiful but a known featherhead. She had given birth to Wynter and died two years later in childbirth, having produced a stillborn son.
“When do you leave?” she asked, missing him already even before he was gone.
“Within the hour. I just wanted to come over and say my goodbyes.”
“And eat me out of house and home,” Cheston grumbled good-naturedly.
“And that,” Sam agreed amiably, winking at Wynter.
The earl rose. “Have a safe journey, Pickford. Wynter and I will be leaving at week’s end. We hope to see you at Chesterfield soon after.”
“You can count on it, my lord,” Sam replied. Once her father left, he added, “Would you play me one song before I leave, Wynter?”
“Of course.”
They went to the drawing room and she sat at the pianoforte. Her father had encouraged her to take up various womanly arts, in addition to being a tomboy and becoming competent at riding, shooting, and hunting. She had learned to play the pianoforte and taken voice lessons, as well as learning to embroider and do other types of needlework. She found sewing boring and had abandoned it. The voice lessons only proved she sounded no better than a croaking frog. She had taken to the pianoforte, though, and played for an hour every day for the sheer enjoyment of it.
Sam joined her on the bench and asked for a lively tune. She obliged him, pounding the keys with skill and enthusiasm. When she finished, he applauded her efforts.
“You are so talented, Wynter. I think you could do whatever you wished if you put your mind to it.”
She thanked him but saw something in his eyes. Something she didn’t like at all. Inside her mind, she started a mantra.
Don’t say it. Don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Don’t ruin things between us.
“Before I leave, I must ask something of you.” Sam grew serious, something he rarely was. “You know I am past thirty now. It is time I thought of a wife and children.”
She glanced down at her hands in her lap as he took one. His other hand slid to the small of her back.
“Wynter, I have never known a more spirited girl than you. You bring sunshine wherever you go. I know we are good friends and that is the basis of any successful marriage.”
She met his earnest gaze. “Sam, I—”
He kissed her. Instinct told her he had seen in her eyes what her answer would be and he was doing his best to convince her to change her mind.
She had been kissed before. Several times. No kiss had ever moved her.
Sam’s was no exception.
He broke it, his gaze searching her face. “It’s a no, isn’t it?” he asked, his disappointment obvious.
“You know how I feel about you, Sam,” she began. “You are my closest friend. I enjoy every minute we spend together.”
“But wouldn’t that make for a good marriage? We respect each other, Wynter. We have fun with one another.”
She shook her head. “You know I have no desire to wed. Women give up what little identity they have when they become a wife—and brood mare. I am not one of those nurturing creatures who longs for children. I enjoy my life exactly as it is. I am free to come and go as I please. Do what I wish. Answer to no man.
“I am sorry, Sam. I simply cannot marry you. My heart wouldn’t be in the marriage. I want you to find a woman you are batty over. One who will bring you joy each day. One who will bear your children and live for your smile.”
He looked at her ruefully. “Are you certain you don’t want to be that woman, Wynter? I would never try to cage you as other men would. I would let you remain true to yourself.”
“If I ever married, it would be to you,” she said honestly. “But I have no wish to do so.”
He squeezed her hand and rose, a wry smile on his face. “Thank you for hearing me out. I was expecting the answer you gave—but I had to ask all the same.”
She rose and took his hands in hers, squeezing them. “You know I think the world of you, Sam. I do believe it is time you wed. I will start considering wives for you at once. You know I have a talent in finding a man the perfect wife. We can see about eligible young ladies in Surrey first. If none proves acceptable, then next Season I guarantee that we will find you the perfect bride.”
Sam bent and kissed her cheek. “I do love you, Wynter. You are as a sister to me and the best friend I will ever have.” He chuckled. “Be sure whatever wife you find for me won’t be jealous of you.”
“I would never be a threat to her,” she promised. “I will match you with someone who will make you happy, Sam. You can count on it.”
She walked him to the foyer. “Take care. The weather is so nasty.”
“I will see you soon.”
A footman handed Sam an umbrella and opened the door. Sam opened the umbrella as he stepped across the threshold and then turned, a smile on his face.
“Farewell!” he called as he raced away.
Wynter waved and shouted, “Goodbye!”
Returning to the drawing room, she played for an hour, melancholy pieces which matched her mood. She chided herself for not seeing it coming. She had been friends with Sam for so long. They bantered as siblings and spent a great deal of time together. It hurt her to know that she had hurt him, something she would never deliberately do. But she had to stay true to herself. One day, Sam would be the Duke of Haverhill.
Wynter Day simply wasn’t duchess material.
*
With the last garden party of the Season rained out, Wynter felt a bit of relief. She enjoyed being around others but this Season had seemed to drag on far too long. She supposed she, too, was ready to leave for Surrey, as Sam and his father had done two days ago.
Escaping to her sitting room, she closed the door. She spent so much of the Season with people surrounding her that she cherished time alone when she could manage it. She had told their butler she wouldn’t be at home this afternoon. Not that anyone would come calling in this weather, which threatened to become a monsoon.
She went to the small pianoforte she kept there. This room was hers alone, her sanctuary during their time in London. Here she read, played music, or simply sat and thought. Today, she would play Bach’s inventions. She loved how they kept her on her toes, one hand going off in one direction and the other following several beats behind. She decided to start with Number 8, a spirited piece that didn’t allow her mind to wander.
Halfway through the piece, she heard a knock on the door. Wynter stopped playing, peeved that she was being disturbed. The servants knew she was to be left alone when the door to the sitting room was closed. The butler knew she wasn’t receiving any guests today.
“Come!” she called, tamping down her annoyance.
The door opened and their butler said, “My lady, you have a visitor. Not a guest.”
He looked a bit perplexed and she asked, “Who is it?”
“It is . . . Haven.”
“Haven?” she asked. “The Haverhill butler from next door?”
“Yes, my lady. He said it is most urgent. That he must speak to you at once.”
Wynter had no idea why Haven would wish to see her, especially with Sam gone to the country. Curiosity filled her.
“Show him in.”
“Very good.”
She closed the case which protected the keys of her instrument and stood, moving away from the bench. She took a seat and smoothed her skirts.
The door opened again and Haven appeared. Usually, the butler stood tall and proud, happy for the world to know he served a duke. Today, though, his shoulders slumped. He seemed to have aged several years overnight.
“Lady Wynter, thank you for seeing me,” he began.
“You look as if you need to sit, Haven.” She indicated a chair near the one she sat in.
“Thank you, my lady. I am grateful.”
Haven took a seat and swallowed. “I have news which I must share with you. I did not want you to see it in the newspapers tomorrow morning and have no warning.”
The only thing she could think of in the newspapers—especially this time of year—were betrothal announcements.
Had Sam left her merely to go to another woman and ask her for her hand in marriage?
No, that made no sense at all. She and Sam had discussed searching for his bride at home in the country and failing to find one, going about the business next Season of locating the perfect match for him in town. She doubted he would have agreed to all of that only to leave and offer for a woman before he left London.
“Go on,” she encouraged.
Pain filled the butler’s eyes. “I regret to inform you, my lady, that His Grace and Lord Pickford died in an accident two days ago.”
“Died?” she echoed, her mind whirling, her heart beating too fast. “No, you are mistaken, Haven. I saw Lord Pickford two days ago, just before he and His Grace left for Surrey.”
Haven shook his head sadly. “It happened on their journey home. The roads were abominable. They reached a bridge, which had washed out, but the driver did not see it in time. Their carriage plummeted into the water. They and their driver drowned. Only the footman survived. He clung to the carriage, trying to get the door open but it was stuck. He was then swept downstream and washed up on the bank.”
He paused. “I am sorry, Lady Wynter. I know his lordship and you were very close. I wanted to tell you in person of the tragedy.”
She had gone numb as the butler spoke. She could picture the scene in her mind. Her eyes filled with tears, thinking of the moments as the interior of the vehicle filled with water and Sam couldn’t get out.
What had been his last thoughts?
Her throat grew thick with unshed tears but she managed to say, “Thank you, Haven. I appreciate you coming to tell me.”
The butler rose and she followed suit. “Lord Pickford was a wonderful man. He would have made for a fine duke.”
“Yes, he would have,” she said faintly.
“Can I summon someone for you, my lady?” Haven asked gently. “I don’t wish to leave you alone.”
“No, I prefer it,” she said, her voice coming from a distance. “Thank you,” she said, dismissing him.
Once Haven left, Wynter dropped into the chair again. The numbness receded, followed by a deep anger. If only Haverhill hadn’t been so insistent on leaving London with the roads in such a mess. If only the driver had been paying better attention. If only the bridge hadn’t washed out.
Change any of those things—and Sam would still be alive.
Regret filled her at their last meeting. How she had turned down his offer of marriage. If she hadn’t and instead accepted him, would he have stayed and allowed his father to return to Hillside without him? Would they have gone to the final few events of the Season, happy to receive felicitations from all their friends and Polite Society?
Wynter would never know.
All she did know was that Sam was never coming back.
Chapter Four
Spain—November 1811
Donovan Martin poured a healthy bit of wine into the tin cup and handed it to Hart before doing the same for himself.
“To us!” he said. “Both majors now.”
The two men tapped their cups together and downed the wine. Hart held out his cup.
“More!” he cried. “It’s not every day captains become majors.”
As Donovan refilled Hart’s cup, he added, “And majors who are and will always remain lifelong friends.”
Satisfaction filled him as he sipped the wine this time since the first cup already warmed his belly.
“So, Major Hartfield, do you have plans this evening?”
Hart grinned. “I suppose a celebration is called for. I assumed you would make your way to the nearest village and find a willing wench to help you celebrate.”
Donovan beamed. “You know me well, Aaron.”
Hart shuddered. “Don’t ever call me that. It was bad enough hearing Wellington use it when he promoted me.”
“The last time I recall seeing that was our first day at Turner Academy. Remember how above the beds placards had been placed with our names? So we would know which one was ours?”
Hart took another sip of the wine. “That first day we met was what I thought would be the worst day of my life—yet it turned out to be one of the best. I remember Finch also had his Christian name above his place. William, was it?”
“Yes,” he replied. “You two were the only Terrors who went by nicknames. They suited both of you.”
“I remember how one of the boys tried to call you Don once. I believe you punched him soundly in the nose and he never uttered that again.”
Donovan laughed. “It wasn’t my name. I’m rather partial to it.”
He liked his name because his mother had named him after her grandfather. She had told Donovan that many times over the years they’d had together. That since he was the second son, the Duke of Haverhill hadn’t cared what she called the boy, so she decided to honor her beloved grandfather.
He still missed his mother all these years later. He tried never to think of her and how her life had been cut short.
Thanks to the Duke of Haverhill not wanting half a wife.
It still angered Donovan after all these years. True, the doctor would have had to remove part of her leg but she would have lived. She could have seen him grow to the man he’d become. Sent him off to war. Given him someone to write to, knowing she was home and loved him.
Instead, his mother died because of her husband’s selfishness. The duke had sent Donovan away to Turner Academy and had washed his hands of his son. He had forbidden Sam to ever contact Donovan. Sam, ever dutiful, had abided by their father’s wishes.
