‘You are refusing to marry Miss Wingate, Your Grace?’ Bishop Alderton demanded. ‘I am astounded.’
‘I am refusing to force the hand of a lady. I am entirely at Miss Wingate’s disposal.’ It was curiously liberating to be doing what virtually everyone in the room clearly considered was the wrong thing. Twenty-four hours before, he would have thought it the wrong thing. It was totally inappropriate. Good.
‘Papa, please?’ Verity went and knelt in front of her father and Mr Hoskins lowered his voice as the three of them huddled together.
Then Verity stood up and kissed her father’s cheek and Mr Hoskins announced, ‘My lord is quite content that Miss Wingate’s reputation is secure and that there is no necessity to consider this matter any further.’
‘Excellent,’ Will said. ‘In that case we have no need to trouble you longer, Bishop, gentlemen. Your desire to help is much appreciated, as is your willingness to have your travel plans disrupted overnight. However, there is nothing to keep you here now.’ He should extend an invitation to luncheon, he knew. He should continue to offer hospitality to this pillar of the Establishment, but he was damned if he would. ‘And your absolute discretion is something I know I may rely upon.’
The Bishop bristled at him and Will smiled back, finding he was enjoying himself. He outranked a bishop, he did not like the man and he wanted him off his property. ‘If His Grace the Archbishop were ever to hear of this I feel certain he would feel you have come to the correct decision.’ He did not even trouble to hide the fact that this was a threat. Bishop Alderton bristled, one of the curates stared, open-mouthed. Bishop Wingate lifted one hand to his mouth and did not quite succeed in hiding his smile.
‘Your Grace.’ Peplow, who appeared to have recovered his poise and his dignity, opened the door and shot Will the warning look that normally preceded the revelation of yet another hideous exploit by the children. ‘Lady Bromhill.’
His stepmother swept in, her sky blue skirts swishing, her waving mass of hair caught loosely into a topknot secured with a large Oriental clasp. There was a portrait miniature of her late husband pinned to her bosom. Bishop Alderton visibly winced at the sight of her.
‘William, dear boy! You are both safe—I can call off the search parties, thank goodness. I should have known that darling Althea was taking too serious a view of matters when she told me that Basil had stranded you on the island in the middle of the storm. Naturally, I turned to Mr Blessington and the members of the sailing club and they put their smallest boats on carts to get here and have been scouring the lake for the past hour.’
‘Mr Blessington, my lady?’ Mr Hoskins asked. He was on his feet, along with every other gentleman in the room with the exception of Bishop Wingate, but his tone was hardly respectful. ‘Married to Mrs Blessington, the worst gossip in the county?’
&nb
sp; ‘Well, she is a trifle eager to spread news about and she is not always the most discreet of women, but that is because she has the most wonderful imagination. You should read the little pieces she writes for the newspapers...’
‘I have,’ the Chaplain said darkly.
Will sat down in his chair behind the desk. If he stayed on his feet he was going to lose all control over his temper and the result would be spectacular. Dukes did not lose control. Dukes stayed calm, Dukes did not tell their stepmothers that they were interfering, thoughtless baggages. Dukes solved the problem. And there was only one solution to this: marriage to a woman who disliked him before and was going to hate him now.
Chapter Twelve
‘No.’
But no one was listening. Verity slipped out of the door while everyone was still talking at once. All, that is, except her father and Mr Hoskins, who must be waiting for the noise to subside, and the Duke, who sat behind his desk, stony-faced, hands palm down on the leather surface.
She wondered how long his patience would hold and was answered as she reached the door to the terrace.
‘Silence!’ The resulting quiet almost shuddered in the air. ‘If you please,’ Will added, with a savage politeness that made her wince.
Verity opened the door and went out. There was a stone bench under an arbour on the edge of the terrace, a safe distance from the house. She did not wish to hear any more, certainly did not want to listen to Will sounding every bit as formidable as his grandfather must have done.
I am not going to marry that man. I will not live with him or share his bed. I have done nothing wrong and yet I am the one they want to punish, all for going for a row on a lake.
She sat down and tried to think positive thoughts, because panicking was not going to help. There was the advantage that Will probably regarded her as the woman he least wished to wed, the eligible young lady who would nevertheless make the most disastrous duchess. On the other hand, his sense of duty and honour probably overrode his personal preferences.
Oh, drat. Verity found her handkerchief and blew her nose inelegantly.
‘Why are you crying, Miss Wingate?’
Over the top of her handkerchief she could see a blurry row of heads. Verity blinked, blew her nose again and stuffed her handkerchief inelegantly up her sleeve. The wretched brats had arranged themselves in order of height, presumably because they thought it made them seem more winsome.
They need a small dog at the end for maximum impact. Basil has missed a trick there, she thought cynically.
‘I am not crying. I am cross,’ she retorted.
‘With us?’ Lord Benjamin, the youngest, asked. His face was screwed up with worry, his trouser legs were stained with grass and one pocket was inside out.
‘Of course with you. Whatever were you thinking to do such a thing?’
‘We thought you would marry Will.’