Louise Allen - Least Likely To Marry A Duke

How old was she? Twenty-three or four? Those dark eyes, that hair, like golden toffee streaked through with rich brown, those long legs and the elegant curves as she had risen to her feet... Her feet had been encased in boots more fitted for an under-gardener, but the flash of ankle he had glimpsed had been slender and rounded.

Stop it, Will , his conscience admonished as he climbed over a stile. She is clearly going to be an embarrassment as a neighbour and you have no business thinking about women at the moment in any case. Not for another forty weeks.

This mourning was a confounded nuisance. It was all very right and proper, of course. And he sincerely and deeply grieved for the loss of his grandfather, but he desperately needed help with his brood of half-siblings and a wife would be perfect for that. A wife with nerves of steel and a rigorous sense of duty, he added to his mental list of requirements. But no lady who was suitable to be the wife of a duke would consider flouting convention and being wooed and wed before the mourning period of a year was over.

And now he had gone half the distance he had intended to cover that morning and the encounter with Miss Wingate had made him forget to record points about the land as he went. Will climbed the next stile, sat down on the far step and got out his notebook.

Blockage in the west ditch, the fence across the tumuli...

A warm, mocking brown gaze... Mocking. She thought that entire episode was amusing, the confounded chit.

* * *

‘Good morning, Papa. Good morning Mr Hoskins, Larling.’ Verity caught sight of herself in the long mirror as she entered her father’s bedchamber on the stroke of half past nine and gave her reflection a nod of approval. She had bathed, changed, breakfasted and organised the events of the early morning into a suitably edited version in her head and now, looking the perfect model of a senior clergyman’s daughter, was ready to keep her father company while he breakfasted.

Her father smiled his lopsided smile, the Reverend Mr Hoskins jumped to his feet and mumbled a greeting in return and Larling, the valet, placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table.

A savage brain seizure almost two years before had left her father unsteady on his feet, liable to tire rapidly and with virtually no comprehensible speech. It had, mercifully, not affected his very considerable intellect. James Wingate was still a formidable scholar of the early church in Britain and was continuing his work with the assistance of his Chaplain and secretary, Christopher Hoskins.

Trial and error had helped the household establish a strict routine. Verity rose at dawn, had a cup of coffee, put an apple in her pocket and went off to her excavations for two hours, returning to bathe and take breakfast. At nine thirty her father broke his fast, in bed, while she entertained him with the results of her morning’s excavating and plans for the day.

When he rose the Bishop would retire to his study with Hoskins and they would work, communicating in their own manner, until luncheon at twelve thirty. Then her father would rest for two hours and either resume his researches until four or receive callers.

Which left Verity the afternoon free, provided there were no visitors and the cares of housekeeping did not entangle her for more than the morning. And today there was nothing to detain her. The threat of a descent by the Duke tomorrow she would worry about when it happened.

Her father finished his porridge and lifted an eyebrow, her cue to recount events so far.

‘I have succeeded in removing the skull intact, Papa. I can see no sign of anything buried with the body, but then, the rest of the skeleton is not visible, being under the far side of the mound. I will clean it and take measurements and then I can rebury it and fill in the cut. You recall that I have already made sketches of the exposed interior of the mound.’

He nodded, smiling his approval, encouraging her to continue. The only problem was, nothing else had happened at the excavation other than her unexpected visitor.

‘The Duke was out walking and...er...dropped in to see what I was doing.’

‘The Duke of Aylsham?’ Mr Hoskins asked, quite as though the neighbourhood was replete with a selection of dukes to choose from.

‘Yes. He was perfectly civil and expressed a desire to call tomorrow, Papa. I said we would be happy to receive him.’

Her father’s hands moved in the rapid signs that only his Chaplain was able to decipher at speed. ‘Does he appear to be intellectually inclined?’ Mr Hoskins asked.

‘I have no idea, I’m afraid. He seemed intelligent, although whether he has intellectual leanings I could not judge. He does not seem to know anything of antiquarian matters.’

And he certainly does not appear to believe in women using their brains.

The Chaplain was translating again. ‘I look forward to meeting him. His grandfather was a man of great powers—I have high hopes of our new neighbour.’

Verity told herself to be glad. The stimulus would be good for Papa, the presence of the ducal household would be excellent for the local economy and she should not be selfish. What did it matter if the man thought her an eccentric hoyden or blamed her for the teeth marks on his posterior? His opinion, good or bad, was a matter of supreme indifference to her. She had better things to think about, surely, than a pair of chilly blue eyes.

The breakfast room closely resembled a menagerie after all the cage doors had been opened. Will strode to the head of the table and nodded to Peplow, the butler, who pulled back the heavy carved chair, tilted it, then let it go with a thud.

The sound was enough to attract the attention of the other occupants of the room. Silence fell. Six heads turned in his direction, four footmen kept their gazes firmly fixed on the opposite wall. After the first two days they had learned not to flinch too obviously.

‘Good morning, Althea, Araminta, Alicia. Good morning, Basil, Bertrand, Benjamin. Gentlemen, your sisters are waiting for you to seat them.’ He remained standing while his half-sisters took their places with varying degrees of elegance, then sat, with a nod of permission to the boys which coincided with their own scramble to sit. ‘Basil, it is your turn to say grace, I believe.’

Basil, fourteen and possibly the world’s least devout boy, lurched to his feet again and looked around wildly for inspiration. ‘Er... Thank you, God, for kedgeree for breakfast. Amen.’ He sat down again with a grin of relief.

Will told himself that he should probably be grateful that the thanks had been addressed to the deity and not to Beelzebub and nodded to the butler to begin service. He had rapidly discovered that a breakfast where everyone helped themselves from the buffet was a recipe for chaos.

‘Boys, napkins. Benjamin, pass your sister the butter, she should not have to ask twice. Althea, Araminta, Basil, tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to call on our neighbour, the Bishop of Elmham. Please inform Miss Preston and Mr Catford that you will be absent from your lessons.’

‘A bishop?’ Althea wrinkled her very pretty nose. ‘That sounds dull.’

‘Bishop Wingate has retired due to ill health. He is, however, a notable scholar and, I should not have to point out, it would not matter if he was as dull as ditch water, it would still be our duty to call upon our neighbour as a matter of courtesy. You address a bishop as my lord. ’

The rest of the meal was an obstacle course through instructions on etiquette, a lecture on the absolute necessity to do things out of duty which might not give one pleasure, the privileges and responsibilities of rank and the discovery that Basil had a mouse in his pocket.