Page 7 of The Duke's Promise to Her Child
There were few professional matchmakers in London, and those who were available were older women with nothing to do with their time. Not dashing young dukes.
“And what do you get out of this?” she asked.
“Peace of mind,” he said. “As I told you, your father once saved me from a bullet that might very well have taken my head clean off, and I have felt the weight of that debt ever since.”
“I was not aware that the militia produced marksmen of such alarming accuracy,” she said. “And if you feel so very guilty, why have I not seen you before now? My husband died a year ago. My father four years before that.”
Was that guilt that passed over his face? She thought it was. Good. He needed humbling.
“I was at Captain Hartwell’s funeral,” he said, “though I would not blame you for not remembering me, given the circumstances. As for not coming to your assistance sooner — I do beg your pardon. The last few years have been rather tumultuous.”
She sat back, thinking over what she had read about him. Assorted tales about women. Drunken exploits. And then the story involving a curricle race that had left him suddenly a Duke — she was almost certain that had been the very headline in the London Sentinel.Suddenly, A Duke.
If that was all true, then this man had indeed had a rather busy few years. Busier than her own, perhaps.
“I see,” she said. “So I am to believe that you have come to my doorstep for no other reason than guilt over an old debt?”
“Indeed. And the truth is, I did not learn the full severity of your circumstances until last week, when I encountered your friend Lady Clara Hampshire at the Sandringham ball.”
The mention of Clara instantly lowered every wall she had put up.
“You know Clara?”
“I do.” He smirked but then caught himself. “Not intimately. But we spent some time together in Scotland last year, after she parted ways with Lord Bradbury.”
She remembered that time. Clara had been certain Lord Bradbury would propose to her, only to find he’d decided to marry some French courtesan instead and depart for the continent. It had been mortifying for her and she’d taken herself to Scotland for several weeks. She’d written to her then about a man she’d spent time with – platonically as she’d insisted. Helena had planned to ask for more details, but then Huxley had crashed down from the roof and taken her entire life with her and there hadn’t been occasion to talk about Clara’s exploits since.
Besides, she was all but married now. Still, knowing that he might be the man Clara had written about so flowingly put her a little at ease.
“I see,” she said quietly. “This is very unorthodox.”
“It is,” he agreed. “But if you will allow me to introduce you to a few gentlemen, I dare say your chances of finding someone who is not a complete fool are considerably better with a Duke’s endorsement behind you. I have very good judgement whenit comes to people. I can read a gentleman’s character and intentions from across a room.”
“Yes,” she said, “your abilities in that regard have been written about at length. Although they do not usually pertain to gentlemen.”
“My reputation is what it is, and I will not pretend otherwise. But it has no bearing on the matter at hand. I am looking for a husband for you. Nothing else.” He paused, then glanced almost imperceptibly toward the wall behind her, where several pale rectangles marked the places portraits had once hung. “Allow me to assist you. I can see that times have been difficult. Unless you have always preferred white patches on your walls?”
Her cheeks burned with mortification as she followed his gaze. She’d had to sell a few paintings this month which had left odd spaces on her walls.
“Times have not been easy,” she said stiffly. “But I am at point non plus as to why a Duke should concern himself with any of it.”
A cry from the back room cut her short. She knew Mary would tend to the child, but the truth was she needed to leave this room. She needed air, and space, and a moment to think. It did not matter that she had no great liking for this man or his reputation. The fact was, he was not wrong.
“Excuse me,” she said, and got up quickly.
She made her way to the nursery, her thoughts running ahead of her. He was an arrogant man who had charmed his way through half of England. And yet he might also be the answer to all of her problems. She could not maintain her present circumstances much longer.
She could not afford to pay Mary. There were the bills — the grocer, the butcher, and who knew who else would come knocking next.
She looked down at Lavinia, who had tears streaking down her red little face. She picked up her daughter and held her close. She could not provide for this child. Not properly. Not the clothes and shoes and schooling a little girl deserved. And the truth was, Helena simply could not go on as she was.
She glanced back toward the drawing room, where the Duke had risen and moved to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
Could it be that the man standing in her drawing room was the answer?
She was not, by nature, a religious woman. But she had prayed in the way that desperate people pray — not with great faith, but with great need.
Could it be that this was her deliverance?
