The Duke's Dilemma

The Duke’s Dilemma

by

Nadine Miller

London, 1812

“S
o, the day of reckoning has finally arrived.” A wicked glint brightened Lady Sophia Tremayne’s sharp old eyes. “You have danced to your own tune for thirty years, my lad., but the time has come to pay the piper.”

Jared Neville Tremayne, Eighth Duke of Montford, Marquess of Brynhaven, and various other titles too numerous to mention, raised his quizzing glass and stared down his elegant nose at the crusty old woman.

Lady Sophia was both his aunt and his godmother, and one of the few people in all of England rash enough to address him with such a lack of deference.

“If there is a point to that obscure statement, Lady Sophia, please make it and be done with it,” he said stiffly. In truth, he knew all too well what her point was; it was the very reason he had given up his morning to pay a duty call on the two old tabbies who inhabited this stuffy, over-furnished townhouse in Grosvenor Square. More to the point, it was what had afforded him countless sleepless nights during the past month and soured his outlook on every aspect of his formerly pleasant existence.

Lady Sophia matched her godson’s haughty stare with one of her own, and the temperature in the small salon chilled at least ten degrees. “My point is, your grace, I remember a promise you made your dying grandfather some ten years ago and I feel it my duty to inquire how and when you intend to honor it.” She raised a questioning eyebrow. “You do remember the promise of which I speak?”

“Of course he does, Sophie. The dear boy has a memory every bit as retentive as your own. I’m the only one in the family so dreadfully forgetful.” Lady Cloris Tremayne, lace cap askew and ribbons flying, fluttered through the open doorway like a small bright moth to perch on the rose velvet settee next to her austerely gowned sister. “What is it he is supposed to remember?”

“That today is his thirtieth birthday, of course, and—”

“Thirty years! I simply cannot credit it. Why, it seems only yesterday I was listening to him recite his sums.” She fixed her nephew with her usual vague, sweet smile. “I suppose, my dear, I must try to remember to address you as
your grace
from now on.”

“And,” Lady Sophia continued, scowling at her garrulous sister, “he promised the old duke he would make a suitable marriage in his thirtieth year, if he had not already done so, and produce an heir.”

“A family wedding! How delightful! And a christening too.” Lady Cloris’s faded blue eyes took on a new sparkle. “And what a stroke of fortune that my friend, Lady Hargrave, taught me to knit last spring while we were chaperoning dear little Lady Lucinda’s dance classes. I shall have no trouble at all keeping Jared’s children in caps and mittens.” She smiled shyly at her nephew. “Is she exceedingly lovely and good-natured?”

The duke frowned. “Who, my lady aunt?”

“Why, the girl you have in mind to marry.”

“I have no one in mind,” he said tersely. “No one at all. In fact, considering the disastrous marital history of the previous Dukes of Montford, I am more inclined to remain a bachelor forever.” He raised his hand to forestall the objection he could see forming on Lady Sophia’s tightly pursed lips. “Be assured you need not remind me of my obligation to secure the title, my lady. I am fully aware of my responsibilities and, if nothing else, the thought of that blithering fool, Cousin Percival, being next in line to inherit would compel me to set up my nursery.”

Crossing one impeccable buckskin-clad leg over the other, the duke surveyed his two elderly relatives through narrowed eyes. He had learned one sad fact during the soul-searching month he had just endured awareness of his obligations to the title did not make the idea of donning a pair of leg shackles one whit easier.

He was an intensely private man; the last thing he needed was some silly female cluttering up his life. Not that he lacked appreciation for the gentler sex; he’d kept a series of very engaging mistresses in the ten years since he had reached his majority and had thoroughly enjoyed every one of them. But a mistress didn’t live in a man’s house and share his table, nor did she have the right to expect him to spend the Season in London when he would much rather be at one of his country estates—and when a man’s passion abated, he had only to present her with a suitably expensive bauble and send her on her way. It was not so easy to dispose of a wife.

He sighed deeply. As the Duke of Montford, he was obliged to produce a legitimate heir, and to accomplish that, he must take a wife. At times like this, he found himself wondering if the obligations of nobility didn’t sometimes outweigh its privileges.

But, to the business at hand. His two aunts were already eyeing him speculatively, and he schooled himself to hide his seething frustration behind the mask of aristocratic indifference he had inherited along with the ancient title.

“I am aware the time has come that I must marry,” he said with indifference, just as he might if discussing a new method of tying his cravat. “But, since I have no inclination to expend a great deal of effort on the tedious business, I was hoping I could count on the two of you to take care of the preliminaries for me. It is the sort of thing I feel would best be handled by a woman, but somehow I cannot picture any of my bird-witted female cousins rising to the task.”

“What preliminaries?” both ladies asked simultaneously.

“To make a list, if you will, of the five young women coming out this Season whom you consider to be most eligible. Nothing less than an earl’s daughter, of course, but spare me those two horse-faced creatures spawned by the Duke of Ashford. The ladies’ bloodlines may be unexceptionable but I should not care to risk producing progeny with features so closely resembling one of my prize stallions.”

The duke momentarily toyed with his quizzing glass, then thrust it impatiently into the pocket of his fawn-colored vest. “I am leaving this afternoon for the races at Newmarket,” he said, brushing an offending speck of lint from the sleeve of his beautifully tailored coat of forest green superfine, “but I shall plan to inspect the candidates when I return and subsequently make my choice.”

“And just where do you propose to inspect these
candidates
, your grace?” Lady Sophia asked acidly. “At Almack’s? You have not darkened the doors of that hallowed establishment in years. If you should attempt to do so now, unannounced, the patronesses would succumb to apoplexy.”

Montford’s stern mouth curved in what, in a less imposing man, might have been supposed to be humor. “Never fear, my lady. I am not
that
anxious to conclude the business at hand.”

He crossed to the window and stood for a moment looking into the small formal garden at the rear of the town house. “Arrange a house party, in my name, at Brynhaven and invite all five of them, with their parents, for a fortnight’s stay beginning Friday next. That is where I shall expect my”—he nearly strangled on the word—”
wife
to live until she produces the obligatory heir, so it will be well to observe the ladies in that venue.”

“Let me see if I have the right of this,” Lady Sophia said at last. “You decline to shop for your bride at the Season’s social functions as custom dictates, but propose to hold a private
marriage mart
of your own at Brynhaven starting Friday next?”

“Precisely,” the duke declared with an impatient scowl.

“Surely you jest. Not even
you
could be so autocratic. You cannot expect people of consequence to leave London at the height of the Season with less than ten day’s notice. They will already have accepted other social obligations.”

“Which they will cancel, I have no doubt, once they sniff out the reason for the invitation. From what I have seen of the rapacious matrons of the
Ton
, they will harness themselves to the family carriages and trot to Brynhaven before they’ll miss the chance of obtaining the title of Duchess of Montford for their vacuous little daughters.”

Lady Sophia’s smile was a bit thin around the edges. “You may be right at that. Ah well. If nothing else, such a blatant disregard for convention will certainly enhance your already legendary reputation.”

“As well as accomplish my aim with the least possible inconvenience to myself,” the duke said dryly. With that, he strode across the room, yanked the gold tasseled pull-cord and retrieved his stylish brushed beaver and gray kid gloves from his aunts’ ancient butler. “I leave you to your list-making, dear ladies, certain that the commission will be well and truly accomplished.”

Lady Sophia raised a hand to halt his exit. “I cannot say I entirely approve, your grace, but I commend your good sense in allowing responsible female relatives to separate the wheat from the chaff in the matrimonial mill. Men are notoriously bad judges of women; witness the deplorable mistakes your predecessors have made by relying on their own judgments.”

The duke nodded. “My thoughts exactly, my lady.”

“However,” Lady Sophia continued, “for the sake of propriety, I feel we must also invite a suitable number of young gentlemen as well. There will, after all, be four very disappointed young ladies who will not come out the winner in this highhanded lottery of yours. We should consider their tender feelings.”

“You are right, of course, Godmother, as usual.” Montford sighed deeply. “Very well. Invite whomever you wish. I, for one, intend to mention it to Brummell when I see him at Newmarket. The Beau is always amusing and I suspect I shall have sore need of a diversion before the infernal fortnight is over.”

With a last perfunctory bow, the Duke of Montford took his leave of the two ladies, secure in the knowledge that with two such
arbiters elegantiae
in charge, this blasted business of arranging a socially correct marriage would soon be a
fait accompli
.

For the first time in all her twenty-four years of hand-to-mouth, catch-as-catch-can existence, Miss Emily Louise Haliburton found herself deeply grateful she was the plain-faced daughter of a penniless third son.

Listening in horror as her aunt, the Countess of Hargrave, read aloud her note from Lady Cloris Tremayne, Emily even counted herself fortunate that she had inherited her mama’s mousy brown hair and pudding bag figure. At least
she
would never have to worry about being caught in the kind of insidious trap she could see closing around her beautiful young cousin, Lucinda.

The note had arrived at an unseemly hour, as if of too much import to wait until fashionable London was officially astir. Lady Cloris’s elegantly liveried footmen had hand-carried the missive to the Earl of Hargrave’s equally elegant footman, who in turn had handed it to the Earl’s austere butler, who had delivered it on a small silver tray to the countess while the ladies of the house were still at breakfast.

“Oh, my Heavens!” the Countess cried upon quickly perusing the contents. “Where are my salts? I cannot take this in with just one reading. I must read it again,” the countess said, and promptly proceeded to do so.

My dearest Hortense,

Enclosed you will find an invitation addressed to the Earl, yourself rand Lady Lucinda to spend a fortnight with us at Brynhayen, one of the country homes of my nephew, Jared Tremayne, Duke of Monttord. The duke has decided the time has come when he must consider taking a wife and setting up his nursery. and has requested that my sister and I recommend five eligible young ladies from among whom he might choose his duchess. Naturally. because of the warm friendship we share, I insisted Lady Lucinda’ s name head the list, I do not know the names of the other four (as they will be my sister’s recommendations) who, with their parents, will join you at Brynhayen. I am certain, however, that your dear little daughter will outshine them all.

With most heartfelt regards,

Cloris Tremayne

Emily could scarcely believe her ears. What kind of cold fish was this Duke of Montford to blithely relegate the choosing of his wife to two elderly spinsters? Lady Hargrave’s cook gave more personal attention to choosing the mutton for Sunday dinner than this peer of the realm did to choosing the future mother of his children.

In the two months since she had joined the Earl’s household as her cousin Lucinda’ s companion, Emily had observed that most of the high ‘sticklers of London society were a shallow, jaded lot. But this toplofty duke must surely be the most outrageous of them all.

She shuddered. A cruel twist of fate had landed her amongst these philistines and here she must stay for the next four months until she could receive the modest portion her grandmother had willed her. But then, God willing, she would leave the dirt and decadence of London behind forever and return to her beloved Cotswolds.

Warily, she looked to her aunt to gauge her reaction to the amazing missive just received. As she might have expected, a smile as bright as the sun flooding the window of the cheerful morning room lit Lady Hargrave’s plump face. Laying the note aside, she reached across the table to clasp her daughter’s hands. “Never say your mama has not looked out for your welfare, my darling. Now do you wonder why I spent all those tedious hours teaching Lady Cloris to knit? Just think of it. My little girl a duchess!”

Lady Lucinda’s already pale skin blanched a shade whiter. She was a timid little thing who, at the slightest provocation, swooned gracefully away. Emily normally found such missish behavior distasteful, but in this case she could scarcely blame her cousin for feeling faint.