Disciplining the Duchess

“That you like to mete out discipline because you were a strictly disciplined child.”

He waved a hand. “One has nothing to do with the other, believe me. And I will not fault my parents for the way I was raised. If they’d allowed me to be weak or shirk duties, there was no younger son to take my place. There was no measure for failure. They only had one chance to mold me into the man I had to be.”

“My brother was my parents’ only chance and they didn’t raise him so strictly.”

“Your brother is an ill-mannered rake.” He put a hand over hers, where she picked at the edge of a bench slat. “Stop that. You will damage your gloves.”

She ceased her fidgeting and folded her hands in her lap. “We will have children, won’t we?”

“Yes, of course.”

“What if I only have one son? Will he be raised as you were? What if I do not bear any sons at all?”

“We shall see what transpires,” he said stubbornly.

She knew she shouldn’t rip up at him. It was not something a fiancée or a future duchess should do, but she needed him to know before they married that she would demand a say in the raising of their children—and that she would never allow lessons on Christmas morning, or frequent trips to a dreaded study. “Whether I have one son or ten,” she said, “or only ten daughters, I will be a loving and kind mama. I will not be like your mother, and allow my children to be raised without joy.”

“My mother loved me in her way.”

“She doesn’t even use your given name.”

“Neither do you.” His voice sounded heated, almost as heated as when he’d scolded her on the side of the road. He drew a deep breath, then let it out. “No one uses my given name. I prefer they don’t.”

“You don’t like the name Benedict?”

“It doesn’t represent me. Courtland is my name. Courtland represents my dutiful side. I have responsibilities to a lot of people. I provide a great many people a livelihood and property.”

“What does Benedict represent?”

“A child. Someone that doesn’t exist anymore. I was Lord Raymore from the day I was born. Our first son will be born to the title too.”

“Lord Raymore,” she echoed, feeling sad for him, for all the poor little first-born children who were never allowed to be children. “How terrible, to make a child give up his own self to the cause of a family line.”

“Harmony. That is quite enough. I am a grown man and I would prefer not to spend my time with you hashing over my boyhood days, particularly since you disapprove of them. What do you wish me to say? That you may raise our children differently? I wish you would, but I warn you, they will not be permitted to run wild and undisciplined.”

“Like me?”

He gritted his teeth. “Like you and your brother, yes. Our children will know duty and responsibility. Our sons will be gentlemen and our daughters will not run about the North Country in search of damned Roman walls, trapping themselves into marriages with beleaguered aristocrats.”

She inclined her head to him a little, her lips curving in a smile. “You cursed again, Your Grace. But I understand your annoyance.”

He took her hand in a rough, affectionate way, perhaps as an apology. “Somehow I imagine I shall curse my fair share before our days are over.” With a great sigh he took to his feet and helped her rise. “I must see you home. I do not look forward to Mrs. Jenkins’ countenance should I deliver you one minute past the appointed hour.”

“Are you vexed with me?” she asked, straightening her bonnet.

“Only if you are vexed with me,” he answered lightly. “It cannot be easy to be affianced to such a dull stick. All the way home, I shall berate you with observations about the weather.”

He did no such thing, although they avoided fraught topics by silent agreement. In the name of peacemaking, she invited him to tea even though she knew he would decline. He’d developed quite an aversion to the hovering Mrs. Jenkins, and Harmony suspected the housekeeper made the tea intentionally weak to discommode him. At Brook Street, His Grace helped her down from the curricle with his hands at her waist as if she was light as a feather—and she was nowhere near light as a feather. As he led her to the front door, it opened to reveal a portly gentleman and a beloved, familiar face.

She pulled away and ran to her father’s arms. “Papa! You have finally come.” She turned back to the duke, her eyes shining. “Your Grace, now you must join us for tea!”

*** *** ***

Court could refuse her nothing, even if it meant an exceedingly awkward hour in the Morrow’s cramped day room with Mrs. Jenkins scowling over the tea tray.

Lord Morrow was the polite, pleasant fellow he remembered, although he was given to unusually prolonged silences. Court couldn’t tell if it was social ineptitude or disapproval of his company. Court had, after all, run off to Newcastle with his daughter, whether it was his fault or not.

Despite the tension, he enjoyed watching father and daughter share pleasantries and catch up on news of their country estate in Hampshire. Lord Morrow flattered Harmony’s new gown and listened patiently to talk of the wedding. Then, just as Court was about to make his excuses, Morrow stood and fixed him with a look.

“Shall we have a smoke in my study, Your Grace?”

Court didn’t smoke, but since his fiancée’s father was asking, the only appropriate answer was, “Yes, of course, sir.” He bid Harmony a chaste farewell under Morrow’s watchful eye and proceeded to the gentleman’s study at the back of the house.

Once there, the contemplative viscount lit an old-fashioned tobacco pipe and offered Court the same. He refused, but settled with Lord Morrow into worn leather chairs before the fire. The study was pleasing, a comfortable space lined with books. The fire was warm but not hot, and the aroma of Morrow’s pipe pleasant. The room reminded him not at all of his own father’s study, thank God, although he did feel called on the carpet a bit.

“Yes, well…” Morrow began, clearing his throat. “I’ve spoken at length with my son Stephen about this engagement. I admit I had questions when I first heard the news.”

Court regarded the man through a haze of smoke. He could glean nothing from his mild tone. “Have your questions been answered?”

“With Harmony, my questions are never answered, or, as soon as they are, more questions crop up in their place. She has a talent for getting into scrapes even though she is a docile woman.”

Court’s face nearly cracked, thinking of Harmony as a “docile” woman. With effort he schooled his voice to seriousness. “It is true our courtship and engagement did not proceed in the traditional manner, but we have become quite fond of one another.”

“I sense she is reluctant to wed you.”

Plain-spoken. Was this a quality he had appreciated in the man? He appreciated it significantly less when the directness was aimed at him. Court decided to offer it back, like for like.

“Her reluctance springs from a sense of unworthiness. Not that I have ever expressed to her that she was not worthy of being my wife.”