Christine Merrill - Regency Redemption - The Inconvenient Duchess / An Unladylike Offer

REGENCY Redemption

The Inconvenient Duchess

An UnladylikeOffer

Christine Merrill

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHRISTINE MERRILLlives on a farm in Wisconsin, USA, with her husband, two sons, and too many pets—all of whom would like her to get off the computer so they can check their e-mail.

She has worked by turns in theatre costuming, where she was paid to play with period ballgowns, and as a librarian, where she spent the day surrounded by books. Writing historical romance combines her love of good stories and fancy dress with her ability to stare out of the window and make stuff up.

Don’t miss these other Regency delights from Mills & Boon ®Historical romance’s bestselling authors!

REGENCY PLEASURES

Louise Allen

REGENCY SECRETS

Julia Justiss

REGENCY RUMOURS

Juliet Landon

REGENCY REDEMPTION

Christine Merrill

REGENCY DEBUTANTES

Margaret McPhee

REGENCY IMPROPRIETIES

Diane Gaston

REGENCY MISTRESSES

Mary Brendan

REGENCY REBELS

Deb Marlowe

REGENCY SCANDALS

Sophia James

REGENCY MARRIAGES

Elizabeth Rolls

REGENCY INNOCENTS

Annie Burrows

REGENCY SINS

Bronwyn Scott

The Inconvenient Duchess

Christine Merrill

To Jim, who knows I’m crazy,

but loves me anyway. And to James and Sean.

Making your own breakfasts and mating your own socks

builds character. You’ll thank me later, but I thank you now.

‘Of course, you know I am dying.’ His mother extended slim fingers from beneath the bedclothes and patted the hand that he offered to her.

Marcus Radwell, fourth Duke of Haughleigh, kept his face impassive, searching his mind for the appropriate response. ‘No.’ His tone was neutral. ‘We will, no doubt, have this conversation again at Christmas when you have recovered from your current malady.’

‘Only you would use obstinacy as a way to cheer me on my deathbed.’

And only you would stage death with such Drury Lane melodrama . He left the words unspoken, struggling for decorum, but glared at the carefully arranged scene. She’d chosen burgundy velvet hangings and dim lighting to accent her already pale skin. The cloying scent of the lilies on the dresser gave the air a funereal heaviness.

‘No, my son, we will not be having this conversation again. The things I have to tell you will be said today. I do not have the strength to tell them twice, and certainly will not be here at Christmas to force another promise from you.’ She gestured to the water glass at the bedside. He filled it and offered it to her, supporting her as she drank.

No strength? And yet her voice seemed steady enough. This latest fatal illness was probably no more real than the last one. Or the one before. He stared hard into her face, searching for some indication of the truth. Her hair was still the same delicate blonde cloud on the pillow, but her face was grey beneath the porcelain complexion that had always given her a false air of fragility. ‘If you are too weak … perhaps later …’

‘Perhaps later I will be too weak to say them, and you will not have to hear. A good attempt, but I expected better.’

‘And I expected better of you, Mother. I thought I had made it clear, on my last visit to your deathbed —’ the word was heavy with irony he could no longer disguise ‘—that I was tired of playing the fool in these little dramas you insist on arranging. If you want something of me, you could at least do me the courtesy of stating it plainly in a letter.’

‘So that you could refuse me by post, and save yourself the journey home?’

‘Home? And where might that be? This is your home. Not mine.’

Her laugh was mirthless and ended in a rasping cough. Old instincts made him reach out to her before he caught himself and let the hand fall to his side. The coughing ended abruptly, as though his lack of sympathy made her rethink her strategy.

‘This is your home, your Grace , whether you choose to live in it or not.’

So if fears for her health would not move him, perhaps guilt over his neglected estate? He shrugged.

Her hand trembled as she gestured towards the nightstand, and he reached for the carafe to refill her glass. ‘No. The box on the table.’

He passed the inlaid box to her. She fumbled with the catch, opened it and removed a stack of letters, patting them. ‘As time grows short, I’ve worked to mend the mistakes in my past. To right what wrongs I could. To make peace.’

To get right with the Lord before His inevitable judgement , he added to himself and clenched his jaw.

‘And recently, I received a letter from a friend of my youth. An old school companion who was treated badly.’

He could guess by whom. If his mother was planning to right her wrongs chronologically, she had better be quick. Even if she lived another twenty years, as he suspected she might, there were wrongs enough in her past to fill the remaining time.

‘There were money problems, as there so often are. Her father died penniless. She was forced home and had to find her own way in the world. She has been, for the last twelve years, a companion to a young girl.’

‘No.’ His voice echoed in the still sickroom.

‘You say no, and, as yet, I have asked no questions.’

‘But you most certainly will. The young girl will turn out to be of marriageable age and good family. The conversation will be about the succession. The question is inevitable and the answer will be no.’

‘I had thought to see you settled before I died.’

‘Perhaps you shall. I am sure we have plenty of time.’

She continued as if there had been no interruption. ‘I let you wait, assuming you would make a choice in your own good time. But I have no time. No time to let you handle things. Certainly no time to let you wallow in grief for losses and mistakes that are ten years past.’

He bit off the retort that was forming on his tongue. She was right in this at least. He needn’t reopen his half of an old argument.

‘You are right. The girl is of marriageable age, but her prospects are poor. She is all but an orphan. The family lands are mortgaged and gone. She has little hope of making a match, and Lady Cecily despairs of her chances. She fears that her charge is destined for a life of service and does not wish to see her own fate visited on another. She has approached me, hoping that I might help …’

‘And you offered me up as a sacrifice to expiate the wrong you did forty years ago.’

‘I offered her hope. Why should I not? I have a son who is thirty-five and without issue. A son who shows no sign of remedying this condition, though his wife and heir are ten years in the grave. A son who wastes himself on whores when he should be seeing to the estate and providing for the succession. I know how quickly life passes. If you die, the title falls to your brother. Have you considered this, or do you think yourself immortal?’

He forced a smile. ‘Why does it matter to you now? If St John inherited the title, it would please you above all things. You’ve made no effort to hide that he is your favourite.’