He needed a respectful, meek and dutiful woman who would quietly provide him with an heir without any fuss and bother. Surely as a man of God, the Reverend could be relied upon to have raised his daughters to be such?
Nicholas became aware that the older man was staring at him open-mouthed.
“Is something amiss,” he asked as the silence lengthened.
The Reverend coughed finally. “Let me get this straight your grace. You wish to wed one of my daughters and make her a duchess?”
Nicholas sighed inwardly. “Yes, that’s precisely my wish. I will leave the choosing to you."
“Choosing?” Was the bloody man being deliberately obtuse or was he usually this dull-witted? It certainly didn’t bode well for the intelligence of any offspring that might issue from his stock. But then intelligence had never been considered a prize in the ton.
“As to which one it is to be.” Nicholas flipped over the paper he had been working on and pushed it across the desk. “I’m willing to pay handsomely for a pious, biddable wife.” One that was likely to do her duty and not ask for anything more from him.
Reverend Shackleford let out a strangled sound as he eyed the contract the Duke had prepared, and all of a sudden Nicholas was more concerned the man might be having an apoplexy. Just as he was about to rise and ring for help, the Reverend finally coughed and spoke.
“Certainly, your grace. I would be happy, and of course honoured, to give one of my daughters into your keeping for this happy union.”
“Good,” Nicholas stated, pressing his pen against the contract. “Sign and we will then discuss the particulars.”
The Reverend wrote his signature on the contract with a trembling hand before pushing it back to Nicholas. “When would you like to post the banns?”
“No banns,” Nicholas said as he scrawled his name under the Reverend’s. “No wedding day. I wish to be wed by the end of the week.”
“The week?”
Nicholas arched a brow. “Is that a problem?”
The man was wiping his forehead again. “No, of course not your grace. It will be as you wish. I will preside over the ceremony myself.”
Reverend Shackleford paused to savour this prodigious moment. “My eldest. You will have my eldest.”
It mattered not to Nicholas. “Bring her at the end of the week and she will become my Duchess. I trust she is of childbearing age?”
“She’s twenty-five,” the Reverend replied hesitantly, belatedly wondering if Grace’s age might bring this miracle turn of events to ruin at the last moment. Wincing slightly, he hurried on. “I know she’s a bit long in the tooth your grace, but most assuredly right at the peak of her childbearing years. And to top it all, she’s a good dutiful girl and will make you an admirable wife. Of that I am sure.”
“Fine,” Nicholas sighed. He did not want a simpering miss straight out of the school room. “Huntley will see you out. I will send you word of the day and hour I wish you to conduct the ceremony."
“I will wait eagerly upon your instructions your grace. And may I say how truly honoured I am that we are about to become family.”
The Duke eyed him coldly and Reverend Shackleford hurriedly took his leave, only just resisting the urge to skip out of the room.
∞∞∞
After the Reverend left the study, Nicholas’ valet ambled in, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat. “So, this is where yer spending yer days now.”
Nicholas leaned against the chair, feeling weary. “A valet does not come seeking his master.”
The Scot quirked a grin as he settled into the chair the vicar had just vacated. “Good thing I’m not a normal valet then laddie.”
Despite his need to make his unorthodox valet understand the correct airs and graces of English society, Nicholas returned Malcolm’s grin with one of his own. The Scot had been his steward for a good number of years. As Nicholas had risen in the ranks and been appointed from ship to ship, Malcolm had accompanied him and probably knew more about him than any other living person.
During their last campaign, which culminated at the victorious Battle of Trafalgar, Malcolm had saved Nicholas’ life, but in doing so had taken a vicious bayonet wound to the leg. It was while they were both convalescing in Gibraltar that word finally reached them of the Duke of Blackmore’s death, catapulting Nicholas into a role he was neither prepared for nor ever really wanted.
In some ways, the news had been fortuitous, although Nicholas would have died rather than admit it. Having been so grievously wounded in the battle, he’d been forced to give up his commission and simply had nowhere else to go.
Malcolm, ever his loyal steward, elected to return to England with his erstwhile captain, earning him Nicholas’ undying gratitude. The Scot might not know the difference between a barrel knot and waterfall cravat tie, but he understood what his captain had gone through since reaching manhood, and because of that, Nicholas would never see him homeless.
“That’s yer brother?”
Nicholas followed Malcolm’s gaze to the large portrait above the fireplace. Two solemn boys stared down at them, their father’s hunting hounds flanking them. “That’s him.”
“Ye really did look alike.”
Nicholas’s lips rose in a small smile as he thought about the times he and Peter had tricked others regarding their identities. It had proven very resourceful with their tutors and though they often saw the end of their father’s belt for it, they continued to do so even throughout their youth.
There were times, after he’d left England, especially when he was at sea, that Nicholas could have sworn he saw his brother or felt his presence on a stormy night.
After all, it had been on a stormy night he’d lost Peter, and for the life of him, he still could not understand why they’d thought it would be a good idea to race their horses
