“Right, we’ll need a list of suitable wealthy titled gentlemen bottle-headed enough to take ‘em on Percy,” he decided, motioning for another mug of ale. “Then we’ll let ‘em know that I have, err…, good, dutiful daughters who are in need of husbands.”
“As you wish Sir,” Percy said doubtfully as the serving wench brought another ale for them both. The Reverend picked up his tankard and took a large gulp.
“But before we do that, we’ll start by writing down all the positive attributes of the chits so we can emphasize their good points to any prospective husbands. I mean we both know that none of them are exactly bachelor fare, but we can fudge it a bit without anyone being the wiser. At least until they have a ring on their fingers.
“We’ll start with Grace since she’s the one most likely to end up an old maid if we don’t come up with the goods pretty sharpish. Right then Percy, you start.”
Silence.
The Reverend frowned. “Thunder an' turf man, surely you can find something good to say about her.”
"She has nicely turned ankles,” responded Percy a bit desperately.
“Steady on Percy. I certainly hope you’ve never had an extended opportunity to observe my eldest daughter’s ankles otherwise I might have to call you out.”
Percy reddened, flustered. “Oh no Sir, not at all, I just happened to notice when she was climbing into the carria…”
“Humph, well I’m not sure we can put that at the top of the list but in Grace’s case, we might have to resort to it. I mean why her mother chose to call her Grace is beyond me considering she’s distinctly lacking in any attributes remotely divine like. And she’s the least graceful person I’ve ever come across. If there’s something to trip over, Grace will find it. Clumsy doesn’t even begin to cut it,” he added gloomily.
“Well, she has very nice eyes,” Percy stated, thinking it best to keep any further observations about the Reverend’s daughter above the neck, “And her teeth are sound.”
The Reverend nodded, scribbling furiously.
“Can she cook Sir?” The Reverend stopped writing and frowned. “I don’t know that she can Percy. At least not in the same capacity as Mrs Tomlinson.”
“Probably best not to mention it then,” Percy interrupted hastily, unwillingly conjuring up the vision of Mrs. Tomlinson’s Bread and Butter pudding again. “And anyway, marriage to a gentleman is not likely to necessitate her venturing into the kitchen.” The Reverend nodded thoughtfully.
“How about her voice? Can she sing?”
“Like a strangled cat.”
“Dance?”
“I don’t think she’s ever danced with anyone. I deuced hope not anyway. If she has, I’ll have his guts for garters.”
“Conversation?” Percy was getting desperate.
“Non existent. I don’t think she’s spoken more than half a dozen words to me since she was in the crib.” The Reverend was becoming increasingly despondent.
“Does she cut a good mother figure to her sisters?”
The Reverend snorted. “I don’t think any of ‘em are without some kind of scar where she’s dropped ‘em at some time or another.”
“How about her brain?” Percy now resorted to clutching at straws.
“Now that’s something the chit has got. Every time I see her, she’s got her nose in a book. Problem is, that’s the one attribute any well-heeled gentleman will most definitely not be looking for…”
Chapter One
Nicholas Sinclair, newly appointed Duke of Blackmore looked up at the imposing house in front of him and sighed, knowing he couldn’t remain in the carriage for much longer. After a month of travelling, he longed for nothing more than a warm bed and a glass of brandy. Regrettably, it was only late afternoon so the bed would have to wait, but certainly not the brandy.
The door was opened by the footman and Nicholas forced himself to move, taking his time on the step so he could climb down without falling on his face.
It had taken nearly six months for him to be well enough to attempt the journey home. His father had been dead for three of them.
“Your grace, welcome home.”
Nicholas straightened his coat before moving up the steps towards the imposing front door where the aging butler stood waiting patiently. “Huntley? By God man, I didn’t think you were still alive.”
The butler’s expression did not change as he bowed before Nicholas. “I still have some years in me, your grace.”
Nicholas allowed a small smile to cross his face before it disappeared just as quickly. He’d never thought to be back in front of this house and certainly not as the Duke of Blackmore.
Moving from the steps, he allowed Huntley to open the door before stepping inside the house. The few staff were lining the long hall, waiting for him to address them as their new master.
His collar suddenly tight around his throat, Nicholas cleared it. “Carry on with your duties.” He did not need to know their names nor their positions, only that they stayed out of his way.
“Your grace, this is Mrs. Tenner,” Huntley stated, motioning to a plump woman wearing a tentative smile as she curtsied before him. “She is your housekeeper.”
Nicholas acknowledged her with a nod. “Mrs. Tenner. I will not require anything but my meals in my study.”
“Of course, your grace,” she answered. Nicholas moved past her and continued down the hall slowly, feeling the stares of his staff burning in his wake. The home was as he remembered, with dark wood and portraits of the previous Sinclairs bearing down on anyone who walked through the hallowed halls.
There was a faint hint of disuse, likely because the house had been in mourning since his father’s death. And since there remained only a handful of servants, it was clear that most of the house had simply been closed off.
Nicholas waited for the pain of his father’s demise to strike some sort of chord within him, but it never came. There had been no love between the father and son
