The Duke had blamed Nicholas for pulling his brother into the foolheartedly escapade that had ended his life. Peter had always been the Duke’s favourite and the true heir of Blackmore. As the second son, albeit by minutes, he was merely an interloper.
“Leave me be,” Nicholas growled, turning back to his papers, determinedly pushing the hurt back down into the locked box he kept it in. “I have work to do.”
“Looks like it,” Malcolm remarked unruffled by his master’s bad mood.
Nicholas waited until his old friend had left the room before wiping a hand over his face. The past had no place here. He had no choice but to press forward, to look toward a future which no longer included the rolling of a deck beneath his feet.
Starting with the wife he would have by the end of the week.
Chapter Four
By the time Reverend Shackleford reached the vicarage, some of his early euphoria had evaporated, replaced by apprehension at the thought of the conversation he would have to conduct with Grace. Especially the question of whether or not his eldest daughter’s virtue remained intact.
The more he thought about it, the more Augustus Shackleford was afraid that what ailed Grace was simply a fall from that state.
If some rake had thought to ruin his daughter, the Reverend feared he would not be accountable for his actions. No matter how fortuitous the Duke of Blackmore’s offer had been, he nevertheless dared not risk trying to pass used goods onto him.
Should Grace prove to have been less than virtuous, he would be forced to choose another of his daughters to take her place in the Duke’s bed. And if Grace had a reputation for unruliness, it was nothing compared to her younger siblings.
The Reverend sighed, hovering at the foot of the stairs, unsure whether to simply question Grace himself or to involve Mrs. Shackleford whose diplomacy skills were actually worse than his own. Not to mention her complete lack of discretion.
Nevertheless, this kind of delicate questioning required a woman’s touch the Reverend decided. Beggars could not be choosers and as a man of the cloth, his wife was the only female he was on any kind of intimate terms with. Therefore, she would have to suffice.
“Fustian nonsense.” Agnes Shackleford’s response to her husband’s concerns was unusually loud, given the fact that most of the time she affected an air of fragility, speaking in breathless whispers. “Grace is no more a fallen woman than I am.” The Reverend truly had no ready response to either statement so for once he elected to remain silent.
“If you were to accuse her of spending too much time with her nose in a book, or climbing a deuced tree, then that would be more to the point Augustus. No, our biggest problem should the Duke of Blackmore go through with his hairbrained plan to make her a duchess will be how much she is likely to embarrass us in polite society. And I am not concerned it might be due to any pre-marital indulgence in the sins of the flesh.”
The Reverend winced as his wife’s voice rose an octave, showing a side to her he’d hitherto not suspected. The effort was clearly too much and she collapsed dramatically back against her cushions before continuing.
“Should she drag our name through the mud, then surely dear Anthony will never be able to mix with the fashionable elite.” She finished the end of the sentence in a tremulous whisper, dabbing her eyes with a lace kerchief as she did so.
“To be fair Agnes, the boy is only five.”
“The ton have long memories,” his wife responded with a sniff.
The Reverend sighed irritably. The whole thing was becoming devilishly complicated and his head was beginning to ache. “So what are you suggesting?” he asked with a frown. “After all Agnes, this is a golden opportunity we cannot expect to see the like of again.
“Do you propose I choose Temperance in Grace’s stead or perhaps Hope?”
“Definitely not.” Agnes Shackleford shuddered.
“Then, that’s settled. Grace it will have to be. As long as you are of the mind that she’s not surrendered her maidenhead to some devious scoundrel, I’m content she will understand her duty and make his grace a pious and biddable wife.” The Reverend felt as if a lead weight had been removed from his shoulders. “I’ll call for her to attend us right this minute to deliver the happy news."
Agnes Shackleford’s only response was a long-suffering sigh. Plumping her cushions, she lay back and closed her eyes. “Could you ask her to bring my salts while she’s about it.”
∞∞∞
“He’s what?” Grace jumped to her feet, her expression a mixture of horror and disbelief.
“I said his grace has done you the very great honour of asking for your hand in marriage.” The Reverend stifled his irritation and repeated his statement slowly in the mistaken belief that his eldest daughter had misunderstood the first time.
“Why on earth has he done that? He doesn’t even like me.”
“What has liking got to do with it?” the Reverend asked, genuinely nonplussed. “As long as you do your duty and provide the Duke with an heir, I’ll wager you’ll not have to see the man from one month to the next.”
Grace stared at her father’s baffled face and suddenly felt the need to laugh bubbling up inside her. It was all so ridiculous. The Duke of Blackmore could have any highborn lady he wanted, but for some reason had set his sights on a woman of low birth - one he clearly disliked, after only five minutes of conversation. Why on earth would he do such a thing?
She became aware that her father was speaking again, this time in the earnest voice he usually reserved for parishioners who remained unconvinced that a lifetime of poverty on
