They entered the house and made their way to the smaller sitting room.
“Take her to be your mistress and be discreet about it,” his grandmother mur
mured sitting on a well-padded high back chair and peering up at him. “I can tell you are smitten, maybe even more, and will not let go the idea of her. Set her up and never let your duchess find out and be careful not to foist any bastard on her.”
"Before I knew Miss Cavanaugh's identity her strength and dignity captivated me. Her ability to laugh despite wounds carelessly dealt to her heart revealed much about her character. Her adventurous and improper spirit bewitched me. And she is the only woman I can recall since I've inherited the dukedom to speak to me with honesty, whether it be in disdain or admiration."
With each softly placed word, his grandmother's eyes grew more rounded, and her fingers dug more into the armrest.
"The only position a woman such as Miss Cavanaugh deserves in my life is that of my duchess or a respected friend. I will not marry a lady for more power and connections. Never that. I take the time to explain this, Grandmother, not because I need your approval, but because I respect and love you. Do you understand?"
Oddly, the eyes peering up at him glowed with love and admiration. “I do.”
“Good.” And he finally felt at least someone in his family understood his position. His wife would be his choice. And right now his heart and mind leaned toward Miss Pippa Cavanaugh. Christopher simply had to determine now if she felt the same way.
A few days later, Christopher alighted from the carriage which had taken him to Croydon, to the estate of his good friend the Marquess of Bancroft, only an hour's drive from London. The man had planned a day party comprising of archery, blind man's bluff, cribbage, and a picnic. This was a yearly event hosted mid-season by the marquess, and it was well attended by the fashionable ladies and gentlemen of the season. The marquess's manor was a lovely sixty-room building which sat on several acres of land with the most beautiful lake.
Croydon was close enough to Town to ensure those who had been invited would have made the journey. And Christopher had prevailed upon his friend to invite the baroness and her delightful daughter.
Everyone was gathered on the south side lawns for archery, and competition had been underway. Miss Cavanaugh had brightened upon seeing him and had bestowed in his direction a very improper and dazzling smile. Everyone had noted it.
Delighted with her genuineness he had bowed and charmingly greeted her, even if he had been more circumspect in his admiration. While he had burned to compliment her beauty, he had instead discreetly admired her prettiness. She was clad in a lime green cinched waist gown with a close-fitting bodice trimmed with white lace, which accentuated her lovely and curvaceous frame. Miss Cavanaugh’s dark hair was caught in a simple chignon with a matching green hat perched jauntily atop her head, curling tendrils dangled kissing her rosy cheeks.
Bancroft had craftily paired Miss Cavanaugh with him, after noting Christopher's interest. Her mother seemed delighted by this, but the lady appeared a bit puzzled by his attention.
It soon became clear to him how very different she was from the other ladies present. How competitive. The other ladies used the opportunity of holding their bow to show off their trim figure and played with little seriousness. Not Miss Cavanaugh, her concentration to the game and her determination to win was remarked upon, and not favorably. It seemed everyone was of a mind to think she should let him win.
Thwack! Her arrow hit the target which sat a remarkably one hundred yards dead center.
A hush fell over the gathering, and admiration rushed through him.
The baroness appeared unduly anxious, and it occurred to him she also believed her daughter should allow him to win.
She strolled toward the target and acting with the impulse he fell in to step beside her.
“Do you not know dukes should always win,” he murmured.
She shot him a side eye glance and then back at the small gathering, which avidly watched their interactions.
“Do you want me to allow you to win, Your Grace?”
“Would you?”
She grinned, and the prettiness of it made his heart lurch.
“No. but it is evident everyone expects me to allow you to win.”
“And you take delight in denying their expectations.”
She laughed and then fell silent for a minute. They reached the target, and she plucked the arrow from its center and handed it to him.
“Your turn,” she murmured, her eyes dancing with mirth.
With a smile, he nocked his bow and let loose his arrow. Of course, he was not as precise as Miss Cavanaugh, and with a sweet chortle his mother would no doubt think vulgar, she made it known she had won.
“I demand a rematch.”
“On what grounds?”