Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

BLACKRIDGE HALL, CUMbrIA

“ Y ou will pay for this, Grandmother,” Frederick Wyndham, the Duke of Blackridge, muttered under his breath. “Mark my words.”

Frederick glared at the person responsible for his current misery—his grandmother, the Dowager Duchess Vivian Wyndham.

She stood with perfect poise, smiling sweetly at the collection of guests as if she had not just orchestrated this elaborate charade to trap him into finding a wife. Her snowy hair was arranged in a neat, regal bun, and her gown was a touch too lavish for her age, but she was every bit the image of a noble matriarch.

“I am sure I do not understand what you mean, my boy,” she whispered back, unfazed by his dark mood, then turned back to the guests with a soft chuckle.

She raised her glass to one of the eligible young ladies, nodding in approval as the girl stammered through her conversation with an older gentleman beside her.

Frederick ground his teeth together, his fingers tightening into fists. He had expressly told his grandmother that he wanted no part of these matchmaking schemes, yet here he was again, surrounded by the most eligible ladies from across the north of England.

Conversation buzzed around him, ladies tittering behind fans, and gentlemen discussing matters of little interest to him.

His patience, thin as it was to begin with, was quickly unraveling.

“I thought I would find you here,” Andrew Gulliver, the Earl of Newfield, said to Frederick while approaching him. “Skulking in the shadows like a veritable gargoyle.”

Frederick stood against a wall in the ballroom and watched couples dance past him, his narrowed eyes skipping over every unmarried woman in the room. If it was not for the damned obligation of being part of the ton, of being a duke, he would have refused to open his doors to these fifty guests.

The past two hours following dinner had been excruciating. He had danced with nearly all the unattached women, debutantes, spinsters and widows alike, all of them marriage-minded, all of them irksome.

Whether it was the sound of their voices, their incessant chattiness, their beguiling fluttering lashes, or their evident wheedling to learn if he was looking for a bride, it all irritated him.

Frederick’s eyes swept the crowd once more. Despite the constant demands from the ton, from his friend and from his grandmother, he neither needed nor desired a wife.

“You must pass down the line.”

“The Dukedom cannot die.”

“You will be better off with a wife. She would steady you.”

“Leave me to it then,” Frederick scowled. “Don’t you need to get on with that plan you have up your sleeve to lure an innocent woman into your lair?” Snorting, Frederick sipped his whiskey, knowing light champagne would not be enough to settle his nerves.

“Me?” Andrew pressed a hand to his chest in mock chagrin. “Your unfounded accusation has hurt me, sir; you have wounded me deeply.”

He cocked a brow, “You are telling me that you have repented your rakish ways and are now a reformed man who has been bitten by the matrimonial bug at last? Are you now marriage-minded?”

“ Marriage ?” Andrew choked out the word as though it was sour on his tongue. “Now you insult me even further. I know you have not been down my path, but a rake is as likely to change its ways as soon as a leopard can change its spots. However, I was about to ask you that same question. Have you not yet found your bride? One you can love and cherish until the end of eternity?”

“I think you have forgotten how ton marriages work,” Frederick said dryly. “I do not need to fall in love with the woman. I just need her to be decent enough to sire me an heir.”

Besides, I doubt that any gently bred woman would take to my tastes in the bedroom. It would send any virgin into a dead faint.

Frederick extracted himself from his shadowy corner and aimed to escape to the balcony, only to have his plan foiled as an older lady wearing a dark sage green gown and her greying blonde hair in a high chignon, nearly collided with him.

She stepped back, her eyes hardly opening as one would if it had been an unintentional collision. Frederick was tired of these games, and well-rehearsed tactics, but he could not call her out on it.

“Oh, I am so terribly sorry, Your Grace,” she curtsied. “I hope I have not caused you to spill your drink.”

“No, it is perfectly untouched,” he said. “But thank you for your consideration, Miss…”

“I am certainly older than a miss, but I appreciate your compliment,” the lady said. “I am Anna Clarke, Marchioness of Treston at your service.”

Frederick inclined his head, hoping to escape the interaction before her daughter, niece or charge appeared “Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lady. Now, if you will excuse me?—”

“Mama,” a young woman came forward bearing two glasses of champagne.

Clad in a gown of white silk, he decidedly ignored how the glow of the candelabra slid over her décolletage, the neckline of the gown low enough to tease, but not low enough to be condemned for a debutante. “I have your drink.”

Frederick wondered dryly how long she had been waiting with those drinks in hand.

The girl was pretty as pretty went, with dark blonde hair, softly rounded cheeks tapered to a piquant little chin and big blue eyes.

“Oh,” she blinked at him. “I am so sorry, Your Grace.”

And now we begin to play the cat and mouse game, where I am the mouse.

“No harm done,” Frederick said, “And you are?”

“My daughter, Elizabeth Clarke,” the marchioness said proudly. “She just completed Dame Chandler’s Finishing School with outstanding marks.”

I wonder how far removed this is from parading the girl around the market like a cow, shouting, hear ye, hear ye, she is to be sold to the highest bidder. Cast your bids now.

“Ah, from what I heard that lady is a harsh taskmaster. My felicitations to you on leaving unscathed,” Frederick replied, lifting his glass. “I do hope you enjoy the evening but please, do excuse me.”

Without waiting a polite moment for her reply he walked away, leaving Andrew to jog after him. “That was very cold of you.”

“I would have been much colder if I was forced to endure inane chit-chat over the weather or, god forbid, cures for colic,” Frederick said.

“Wait,” Andrew halted, one brow lifted over his brown eye. “A lady spoke to you about colic ?”

“Colic, cross stitching, the ingredients in turtle soup, the many variations of houndstooth, and why it is a cardinal sin to wear silk and satin together,” Frederick shuddered. “I understand your need to be a rake, Andrew, all the pleasure and none of the pain of listening to such nonsensical chatter.”

The dance broke and as the women and men left the floor to obtain refreshments, Andrew said, “Is that your way of saying you wish to be inducted into the hall of the brotherhood of rakes?”

“I will tell you when I am ready to jump out of windows on threat of discovery,” Fredrick replied as he seated himself at the table.

Just as he contemplated excusing himself with some made-up errand, his grandmother let out a small yawn, only half-concealed behind her gloved hand. He shot her a glare.

“I need to check something with the staff,” he announced abruptly, pushing his chair back and rising to his full, towering height. The conversation at the table barely faltered as he left, but his sudden departure did not go unnoticed by the guests. Eyes followed him with curiosity, particularly those belonging to the young women who had been so eager to catch the Duke’s attention.

As Frederick made his way out of the room he was quickly joined by Andrew, whose eyes sparkled with amusement as he fell into step with the Duke.

“Checking something with the staff, hmm?” Andrew’s voice was laced with barely concealed laughter. “Quite the excuse, my friend.”

Frederick cast him a sidelong glance, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Like charming one of those women my grandmother lured here?”

Andrew chuckled. “Ah, but this is far more entertaining. Your face alone, Frederick, was worth the trip.” He gestured back toward the dining room with a flourish. “All those lovely ladies, and yet not one of them has managed to capture the great Duke’s attention.”

Frederick scowled, quickening his pace. “They are here because my grandmother forced them to come. This is not some game to me, Andrew.”

“Not a game?” Andrew quirked an eyebrow. “What do you call a room full of desperate ladies all vying for your favor? Sounds like a game to me.”

Frederick growled low in his throat. “These women are neither here for pleasure nor are they here because they want me. They have come here because they want the title. They want the Blackridge name and everything that comes along with it.”

Andrew shrugged, the casual movement making him look every bit the rake he was. “Well, you cannot deny that they are all quite beautiful. I am certain that more than one of them could be persuaded to…”

“Enough,” Frederick interrupted, rolling his eyes. “You know damn well I am not interested in your persuasion. This entire evening is a farce and I will not participate in it.”

Andrew sighed dramatically, shaking his head sadly and placing a heavy hand over his heart. “You are a difficult man to please, my friend. But if you insist on being unsociable, I suppose I can go back in there and distract the guests while you slink off to hide.”

“Thank you,” Frederick said dryly. “Do try not to embarrass me while you are at it.”

Andrew grinned. “With pleasure, my unsociable friend.” He gave a deep, exaggerated bow before turning back toward the dining room, leaving Frederick alone in the corridor.

Frederick allowed himself a long, annoyed exhale as he watched Andrew disappear through the door. He would finally have a moment of peace.

He made his way down the hall to the library, seeking the quiet solitude of the room that always managed to calm his frayed nerves.

The library had always been his sanctuary; a place where he could escape from the pressures of the world, and from people who wanted things from him—people like his grandmother and her endless parade of eligible women.

But the moment he pushed open the library door and stepped inside, he stopped dead in his tracks.

There, sitting in his favorite armchair by the fire, was a stranger—a young woman he had never seen before.

Her legs were curled beneath her and a book was opened on her lap as she read and basked in the soft glow of the fire’s fading embers. She looked utterly at peace, as though she belonged there.

The firelight also revealed the disheveled state of her clothes, the bruises on both of her knees and the smudges of dirt on her face.

Frederick’s eyes narrowed as his mind quickly shifted from surprise to suspicion. How had this woman come to be in his library? Who was she? And, more importantly, what was she doing here, alone, in his private sanctuary?

He quietly shut the door behind him and took a few measured steps toward her, his boots tapping softly on the hardwood floor.

The woman didn’t notice him at first, her attention entirely absorbed by the book in her hands.

“Who are you,” Frederick asked, his voice low and commanding, “and what are you doing here?”

The woman jumped at the sound of his voice, her head snapping up to meet his gaze. Her wide, startled eyes locked onto his own and for a brief moment neither of them moved. The book she had been holding slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a soft thud, the noise echoing in the quiet room.

“I—I am sorry” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I did not mean to?—”

He did not yet need her to explain herself. He wanted an answer to his question.

He took another step forward, his gaze sharp and unwavering as he studied her more closely.

She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, with chocolate brown hair, delicate features and an air of exhaustion clinging to her like a second skin.

Her simple clothes were torn and stained and there were dark smudges of dirt on her knuckles and the palms of her hands. Her knees were bruised as though she had fallen or been forced to remain on her knees for a duration. She appeared to have recently endured a difficult journey.

“You should not be here,” Frederick said, his voice low and clipped. “This is a private estate, and this is the Duke’s library.”

“I—” she swallowed hard, her eyes darting toward the door as if considering an escape. “I did not mean to intrude. I—I just needed?—”

Frederick crossed his arms and glared at the woman in his chair. “I demand an explanation.”