Least Likely to Marry a Duke (Liberated Ladies)

She found she was feeling a trifle shaky so she sat down to set a few more stitches in her tapestry. She hadn’t finally committed herself to the design of the fallen angel himself—perhaps she could incorporate a few of the Duke’s features. Verity began to unpick the black of the angel’s eyes. Blue would be more arresting... He was, after all, as handsome as the Devil, if probably rather less cheerful, he had fallen to earth at her feet and he had the power to torment them all now.

* * *

Even before the move to Stane Hall Will had learned it was no use offering a place in the carriage to his stepmother on Sundays. Claudia always announced her intention of worshipping the deity—or deities, she was not prepared to commit herself—by communing with nature, which seemed to him to be an excellent excuse for prolonged country rambles accompanied by a picnic basket.

Her children had discovered, to their dismay, that now that they lived with him, a church service, sedate reading and educational pastimes replaced Sundays spent careering around the woods and streams. They had learned not to mope too visibly when Will put his foot down over an issue, but even so, it was a sulky and cramped carriage party that set out for morning service the second Sunday after their visit to the Old Palace and the first when they had attended church.

‘Basil, if you have so much to say for yourself you may undertake the reading of the second lesso

n in my stead,’ Will threatened. It was enough to silence his brother, who had been grumbling about having to take young Benjamin on his knees. ‘And, yes, we will take two carriages when the weather is bad or Miss Preston and Mr Catford prefer not to walk. But it makes more work for the staff on a day of rest when we should be as considerate as possible.’

At least they all trooped down the path to the church door in an orderly manner. The Verger was waiting to escort them to the Stane Hall pew, right at the front of the chancel. He ushered them in with a merciful lack of bowing and scraping. Will guessed this was because in his opinion the parishioners rated a duke rather lower than their resident Bishop. The high panelled walls of the Hall’s pew cut off their view of the one on the other side of the aisle, in the prime position right under the pulpit, but the Bishop’s coat of arms was on the door. It had a complex design on the shield, crowned with a mitre and with crossed croziers behind.

All he could see of the occupants was the top of a bald pate edged with greying brown hair, a dark head that must be the Chaplain and the crown of a brown-straw bonnet with a flash of ochre ribbon. Miss Wingate had accompanied her father. At least her rebellion did not extend to churchgoing.

Will brought his gaze back to the interior of his own large pew. The tutor and governess were already there and, under their supervision, the youngsters were at least sitting quietly as they found their places in the prayer books. He sent up a brief prayer of his own for a short and well-delivered sermon and told himself that he was not remotely interested in the presence or otherwise of unbecomingly outspoken bluestockings. He could only offer thanks to whichever merciful spirit looked after well-meaning dukes for the fact that it was not Miss Wingate who had been posing nude when he burst into that tower of outrageous females. With the exception of the one who had fled, there had not been a blush between them, which was shocking.

His prayers were answered with an intelligent sermon, although as it was on the theme of ‘The Stranger in Our Midst’ he could almost feel the collective gaze of the congregation boring into his back. The Verger came and opened the Bishop’s pew door first, which was telling. Dukes outranked bishops, but not, it seemed in Great Staning.

When he reached the door—the Verger bowed them solemnly out of their pew next—Will saw why the Bishop had precedence. He was seated in a carved chair by the side of the Vicar, who was waiting to speak to his parishioners as they filed out. Mr Hoskins was at his elbow and Miss Wingate stood a little apart, talking to a lady he guessed was Mrs Trent, the Vicar’s wife.

‘My lord. Mr Hoskins. Mr Trent.’ It was the first time the family had attended church in this parish, although the Vicar had called the week they arrived. ‘An admirable sermon, Vicar, I congratulate you. May I introduce my family?’ He gestured his siblings forward and tried not to be surprised when they lined up obediently and performed neat bows and curtsies. Their teachers were clearly doing an excellent job, which reminded him to introduce them, too.

‘But we are holding up the rest of the congregation.’ He led his small flock over to bid good morning to Mrs Trent, who was still talking to Miss Wingate. ‘Ma’am. Miss Wingate.’ Mrs Trent beamed and replied and promptly began to make a fuss of the children.

Miss Wingate favoured him with a slight bow. He assumed her frosty manner was due to embarrassment which was surprising; he had not thought she had sufficient sensibility to feel any. ‘Your Grace. Good day. Mrs Trent, I will make certain the gardeners send down those flowers in plenty of time for next Sunday.’ Then she was gone with a whisk of deep green skirts, leaving the tantalising scent of wisteria blossom behind her.

Mrs Trent straightened from speaking to Benjamin and Will saw her eyes widen as she looked beyond him. He half-turned to find that, far from filing out of the church after they had shaken the Vicar’s hand, the congregation was still milling about inside. Or, rather, that part of it composed of matrons with daughters in attendance was. He recognised Miss Lambert, Miss Newnham and Miss Taverner from the tower and he rather suspected, from the fact that she was the only person not looking in his direction, that the unnamed naked model was the young woman in the blue bonnet half-hidden behind a pillar.

‘Oh, dear,’ Mrs Trent murmured. ‘I am afraid you must expect a certain amount of interest from the parishioners, Your Grace.’

‘So I see. As we are in mourning I will not be entertaining on any scale, nor attending balls or parties,’ Will said. ‘I hope I may rely on you to depress any hopes that the Manor will be hosting any social events, as would normally be the case.’

‘Of course. I am sure there will be ample opportunities for you to meet anyone of consequence in the area without any fear of...er...’

‘Raising expectations?’ he asked with a smile that felt somewhat twisted. It had not occurred to him that he would be hunted, which was foolish of him. In truth, it was how he felt at that moment, with a flock of young ladies in what looked like their finest day dresses and best bonnets all focused on him. He was hardly likely to find a duchess in a sleepy Dorset parish, but that would not depress the hopes of the parents of marriageable daughters, he knew. Unmarried dukes under the age of sixty were gold dust on the Marriage Mart. In a way Miss Wingate’s hostility was a refreshing relief.

‘While my father lived I was at a remove from the succession,’ he confided, low-voiced. ‘The title appears to have excited rather more interest than I have been used to.’

Mrs Trent produced an unexpectedly wicked smile. ‘My advice is not to run, Your Grace—that only excites them to chase. Think of kittens and a ball of wool. Now, if you will excuse me, I will see what I can do to rescue my poor husband from the throng.’

‘I suspect I can help matters simply by leaving. Good day, ma’am. Come along, everyone.’ He shepherded his small flock out, with the tutor and governess bringing up the rear to catch the stragglers. Will bowed to left and right, exchanged greetings and kept on walking, trying not to imagine himself as a ball of wool. Somehow this was not quite how he had imagined life as a duke would be. There was considerably less of ermine-trimmed robes and speeches in the House of Lords and rather more worrying about drainage ditches and the lack of application to their Classics lessons on behalf of his small brothers.

And dukes really should not stride down church paths as though they had a pack of petticoat-clad hounds on their tail. Will could not help but think gloomily that his grandfather would have managed things better, but he could not bring himself to administer icy snubs as the old man would have done. Nor did it help his temper to observe Miss Wingate at the lych gate speaking to what, he assumed, must be the driver of the Bishop’s carriage.

She gave him a cool nod, waved cheerfully to the rest of his party as they passed and then directed a look brim-full of mischief and amusement at the path behind him. Clearly, he was being followed by the flotilla of hopeful matrons, their daughters around them like so many frigates, their husbands in tow.

Must stop mixing metaphors. Kittens, hounds and now battleships...

Will did not make the mistake of looking over his shoulder. When they reached his carriage he saw they were boxed in by the Bishop’s coach behind and a cluster of gigs, barouches and dog carts in front.

As the footman swung open the door Will saw the reflection of the pursuers behind him in the window glass. ‘Basil, sit up with the coachman. Miss Preston, Mr Catford, please take seats in the carriage, should you wish. I intend to walk.’

He strode off without a backwards glance, ignoring Basil’s crow of triumph at being allowed up on the box. There was a stile ahead and a field of cattle on the other side of the fence. No lady was going to pursue him through that, not in her best churchgoing shoes. A strategic retreat, that was what this was. A gentleman could, with propriety, take a dignified country walk on a Sunday morning after church, he told himself. And he would take care to instruct the coachman to have the carriage free and clear to dri

ve off immediately on the next occasion they attended St Mathew’s.

The herd scattered away as he walked diagonally across the pasture and Will tried to bring the map of the parish to mind and to work out whose field this was. His or the Bishop’s? Or perhaps it was part of the Vicar’s glebe lands. No, those lay to the south. There was a gate on the far side and he went through, closing it firmly on the cows who were following him with the usual curiosity of their kind. Beyond, a track meandered away and then cut left through a copse of trees, the green shade and faint damp smell soothing after his earlier irritation. He was heading in the right direction, he thought, glancing up at the sun filtering through the branches, although he could not recall this patch of woodland.