“There are always some secrets within marriage. It’s inevitable. Might it be prudent to wait for a better time?” Marian glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “And we are late.”
Nellie sighed. Shewsbury would never understand her aversion to foxhunting. “Papa and Mama had an arranged marriage. Papa says very few in Society marry for love. Love is only for the lower classes because no money is involved.”
“Your marriage to the duke is to honor the pledge Papa made with the old duke. Never mind that it was years ago, and the duke has since passed away. Men are funny that way. A gentleman’s honor means a lot. Not always practical, but there it is. Turn around and let me take a good look at you.”
Nellie obliged.
Marian smiled. “You look wonderful in that. He will be struck dumb.”
Distracted, Nellie smoothed her skirts. “A man of his ilk will disparage my interest in poetry. We have absolutely nothing in common.”
Marian grabbed her arm and steered her toward the door. “Is that so important?”
“Well, of course it is!”
“Mm. In the bedroom, certainly.”
“Oh, the bedroom. Mama attempted to explain all that to me. It sounded embarrassing and uncomfortable. I wanted to put my hands over my ears, but I didn’t wish to upset her when she clearly wasn’t enjoying telling me about it. I prefer your version, although you put me to the blush, Marian.”
“You must admit my version of events sounds more fun. And I rather think the duke… Oh, we must hurry, Nellie. We’ll be unforgivably late, and I can’t wait to clap eyes on him. Surely you feel the same, and that article about his mistress is rather titillating.”
Nellie eased her tense shoulders. “Titillating is hardly the word. It’s positively unnerving. The man is an obnoxious brute!”
“Listen! There’s the duke’s coach,” Marian cried, flying to the window. “Father will be furious.”
“All right,” Nellie said breathlessly. “Into your basket, Peter!”
Peter merely yawned and rested his head on his paws.
“Really! That dog is most dreadfully spoiled,” Marian observed. “He should be outdoors.”
“Lilly will take him for a walk.”
Marian shrugged, “You have a very obliging maid. Mine would protest and say it was a footman’s job.”
They left the bedchamber and hurried along the corridor. Nellie paused in the gallery to gaze down into the great hall. Hinkley had just admitted a gentleman who handed him his hat and gloves. His short-cropped hair shone inky black in the light from a tall window.
Their parents’ voices rose in welcome as they greeted Charles Glazebrook, His Grace, the Duke of Shewsbury.
“You should be there to welcome him.”
Nellie’s fingers gripped the banister rail. “I needed time to compose myself.”
“And are you composed now?”
“Not entirely.”
“Goodness, but he’s tall. Look at those shoulders,” Marian observed thoughtfully. “He could easily carry a woman.”
“I’ll bet she was as hipless as a gazelle,” Nellie said through her teeth.
“Don’t gazelle’s have hips?” Marian asked, her attention on the hall below.
Nellie watched from behind a column. “He looks as if he owns us,” she murmured. It was the way he walked. He seemed to prowl across the marble floor.
The duke accompanied her parents toward the staircase leading to the drawing room.
“He is to prop up Papa’s finances, so maybe he will,” Marian said as they made their way to the stairs.
Nellie’s chest swelled. She intended to be a reasonable wife, but he would never own her heart. She shivered, recalling another item Marian had found in The Times, which described the duke as an uncompromising negotiator in the House of Lords, who reduced his opposition almost to a state of helpless rage. Her sister had garnered every scrap of gossip she could about the duke, details which only served to further alarm her. She’d assumed there would be a mistress but still felt unprepared. He looked like a man who would want regular… She wrestled her mind away from the subject.
Shewsbury was a member of the Quorn Hunt, a Melton man, his estate in Leicestershire was where the oldest and most famous of the fox hunting packs were found. And renowned for his sporting prowess. Marian, scouring the journals, discovered the duke also excelled at fencing and boxing. With a First in mathematics at Oxford, he was known to have a meticulous eye for detail in everything he undertook and did not suffer fools gladly. It all served to make Nellie very tense.
She went over what she’d learned about him in case it might enter the conversation. The widowed duchess still lived and was in residence at Shewsbury Park. The old duke’s eldest son and heir, Michael, had died from consumption a year or two before the duke; and Shewsbury’s much younger brother, Lord Jason Glazebrook, had married Lady Beverly last year.
The footman opened the door for Nellie and Marian. Surrounded by guests, Shewsbury stood near the fireplace at the far end of the long drawing room her mother had recently repainted porphyry pink, to set off the white columns and the carpet.
Nellie had to agree with her sister’s assessment. He was elegantly but appropriately dressed for a country drawing room. He was undeniably attractive, his well-built frame set off by the excellent tailoring of his blue tailcoat, his muscular legs encased in light-colored pantaloons. She couldn’t find fault with his appearance at least, for everything about him, from the simply tied knot of his cravat to the discreet gold fob and seal that decorated his blue and cream-striped waistcoat, was tasteful and restrained.
“He is worth looking at, I must say.” Marian murmured.
Her sister sounded impressed, and it was not easy to impress Marian without first engaging her in conversation.
They had hesitated near the door. It seemed bad manners to wander over to him. “I wish Papa would introduce
