14. Calling on a Duchess

A half-hour earlier, Weston Hall

Michael regarded the front of Weston Hall through the window of the Fenwick town coach and sighed. His heart was racing with anticipation, and he couldn't decide if it was due to the thought of a possible verbal spar with Alfred, Duke of Weston, or of seeing the love of his life for the first time in three decades.

Probably a bit of both.

The front door opened even before he had a chance to use the boar's head knocker. "Michael, Marquess of Fenwick, to see His Grace." He handed the butler his calling card, but the servant didn't even glance at it.

"His Grace is not in residence this morning, my lord. Would you like to wait inside?"

Michael sighed. "Was he in residence an hour ago?"

The butler shook his head. "He was not, my lord."

Feeling a combination of disappointment and relief on behalf of his son—if the duke wasn't in at Weston Hall an hour ago, then Philip wouldn't have been able to speak to him.

At least his request hadn't yet been denied.

Michael considered his second mission of the morning. "Is the duchess here?"

His gaze dropping to the calling card, the butler said, "I'll see if she is, my lord. Do come in."

Following the butler, Michael scanned the interior of the vestibule and then the marble-tiled hall before he was led into a reception room with windows facing the street. From the feminine furnishings and rose and green color scheme, he assumed it was Helena's sitting room. He took an experimental sniff but didn't detect a hint of perfume or cologne.

"Tell me, would she see me if she didn't know my identity?" Michael asked of the butler. "If you didn't give her my name?"

Perplexed by the query, the butler seemed to think on it a moment. "She might if I told her you wished to surprise her, my lord."

Michael grinned and nodded. "Yes. That's it exactly."

The butler smirked and bowed before heading for the stairs, and Michael watched him until he disappeared from view.

Moving to the window, he glanced out to discover the trees of Hyde Park lined up beyond his town coach and the patterned bricks making up Park Lane. The last time he'd been in London, the park had been hidden from view by a tall brick wall. He absently wondered when it had been torn down. The park was certainly a better view.

Given the earlier morning rain had stopped some time ago, the clouds were parting to reveal a blue sky and spring sunshine.

"It's a beautiful vantage, is it not?"

Michael whirled around. Although the voice was familiar, the young lady who stood on the threshold of the salon was not—at least, not quite. Her facial features were similar to Helena's, and her hair was the color he remembered—a rich mahogany with hints of gold and red. "It is indeed," he replied before bowing slightly. "Might you be Lady Amelia?"

The young woman's eyes rounded as she straightened from a curtsy. "I am, sir."

Michael stepped forward and took her hand to his lips. "Since there is no one to do the honors, allow me to introduce myself. I am?—"

"The Marquess of Fenwick," she breathed, staring at him in wonder. "Why, you look exactly as I expect Lord Crawford will look in twenty years," she said in awe.

Chuckling softly, Michael dipped his head. "Make that closer to thirty years, and you'll have the right of it," he said.

"Oh, that cannot be," she said with a brilliant grin.

He arched a blonde brow. "I think I shall adore having you as a daughter," he commented in a hoarse whisper. "An old man can always appreciate such compliments. As for you…" He paused, wondering how much he could tell her. Had Helena ever told her daughter about him? About their intentions to wed?

Perhaps Helena had forgotten about him. Perhaps his move to the country had kept him out of sight and out of mind. Or perhaps she had merely kept him a secret. A hopefully pleasant memory from half a lifetime ago.

"As for me?" she prompted.

Jerking from his reverie, Michael angled his head to one side. "You look very much like how I remember your mother."

Her eyes rounded again. "Is that… is that a good thing?"

His hearty laugh could probably be heard throughout the entire ground floor of Weston Hall. "Indeed. She was the most gorgeous woman I ever looked upon," he said, his attention turning to a tall woman making her way in their direction across the marble floor. He stepped around Amelia and added, "And she still is."

Amelia turned around, following his line of sight. She was about to thank him for his compliment, but instead stood and stared.

Helena, Duchess of Weston, strode up to the salon's open doorway and said, "My apologies for keeping you waiting, sir. What's this…?"

Michael watched as her eyes widened the same way her daughter's had. Watched when she quickly blinked twice. Watched as the rigid backbone found so frequently in duchesses seemed to give way and become one of jelly. Watched as her head began to fall backwards.

"Helena," he said at the same moment he stepped forward and reached out to keep her from falling to the floor. "Helena?"

"Oh, my goodness," Amelia said from somewhere behind him. "She's… she's fainted."

Michael hefted Helena into his arms, making sure the side of her head ended up against his shoulder. Despite the bell skirt of the green day gown she wore, he was able to get an arm behind her knees. "It would seem so," he whispered, never taking his eyes from Helena's face.

The thirty years since he had seen her had apparently been kind to his first love. Although there were faint lines at the edges of her eyes, she still displayed the peaches and cream complexion he remembered. Long, dark lashes rested on the tops of her cheeks, and lips made more red with cosmetics reminded him of their last, desperate kiss.

"My mother has never fainted a day in her entire life," Amelia claimed, motioning Michael toward the salon's Greek chaise lounge beneath the room's only window. "Why, I don't believe she even owns a vinaigrette."

He lowered Helena to the thick cushion and then sat, adjusting her so he cradled her head and shoulders in one arm. "She'll come 'round of her own accord," he said, leaning down to kiss Helena's forehead.

Amelia sighed as she sank into the adjacent upholstered chair. "That was so romantic," she said softly.

His attention torn from the duchess, Michael arched a brow. "Her fainting?"

Shaking her head, Amelia said, "Oh, no. The way you caught her. As if you knew she would faint." Her eyes widened. "Does that happen often to you? Women fainting upon meeting you, I mean?"

Torn between claiming that it did and allowing another hearty laugh, he simply shook his head. "Never in my experience, actually."

Amelia sighed. "You loved her once, didn't you?" she asked softly.

Michael didn't look up, determined to memorize every new feature he could find on the duchess' face. "I never stopped," he replied absently. He finally glanced in Amelia's direction. "One never forgets their first love." Amused at seeing the blush that colored her face—Amelia looked so much like how Helena had appeared at the same age—he allowed a long sigh.

"Is she why you came today?"

He shook his head. "I actually came to speak with Weston."

"Oh." Amelia straightened in the chair. "He's gone off to meet with his solicitor, I believe. First time he's left the house… well, except for the Everly soirée... in nearly a week, I think."

"Has he an aversion to being out of doors?" Michael asked, his brows furrowing. If the young duke rarely left the house, it would certainly explain his poor mood.

"Oh, no," Amelia replied. "Before he went off to university and then his Grand Tour, he used to ride horses every day. Went for walks in the park and to his club."

Michael regarded her with a questioning glance. "What happened to change him?"

She lifted a shoulder. "He inherited a dukedom. A burden that seems rather too heavy for him to bear alone, I think."

"I can imagine," Michael replied. "Surely he has a man of business, or a secretary?—"

"He hired a secretary yesterday," Amelia stated. "To help with the correspondence."

"What about an accomptant? A clerk?"

"He's crack at doing the ledgers, so he prefers to do those himself," she explained.

"Foremen for the farms? And the mines?"

She shook her head. "I'm not quite sure. He's never been very forthcoming about his duties with me," she said with a shrug. "May I ask what your business was with him?"

Michael inhaled deeply. "In the event Philip had gained an audience with him in order to ask that he be allowed to court you," he began, an eyebrow arching, "I was prepared to argue his case if he was denied—which is what he expected to happen. I came to see if I couldn't help smooth things over between the two of them."

"Oh!" Amelia breathed. "It's rather sporting of you to try."

"It's that, or you'll find yourself in a coach on your way to Scotland," he stated, his manner serious.

"My lord?" she asked in surprise.

"With me at the reins," he went on, a mischievous grin finally lighting his face. "Gretna Green for a quick wedding, and scandal be damned. Excuse my French."

Amelia giggled in delight. "Oh, my lord, for a moment, I thought you were playing me."

Michael sobered. "I was. I am," he claimed. "My son is in love with you, and I don't want him to suffer as I did." He glanced down at Helena, sure she had awakened at some point and was merely keeping her eyes closed. He leaned down and kissed her forehead again. "Life is too short to be denied the people that matter the most to us." He paused when he looked up and noticed Amelia's look of confusion. "You do love my son, do you not."

"Oh, very much, my lord," she claimed. "But I'm certain I have some influence over my brother. Perhaps I can help smooth things over betwixt the two of them. Save us all from certain scandal."

"You already sound like a marchioness," Michael remarked. He glanced down at Helena to discover her watching him, an expression of bemusement on her face. "Good morning, gorgeous."

"Hello, handsome," she whispered.

Amelia sighed, her hands clasping together as she beamed in delight.

Helena turned her head to regard her daughter with an arched brow. "I thought you were going to pay a call on your new friend. Lady Violet. Isn't that her name?"

Nodding, Amelia stood. "I am. Right now," she said, dipping a curtsy. "Please, do not stand up on my account, my lord," she added, directing her words to Michael.

He chuckled softly. "It was very good to meet you, Lady Amelia."

"And you as well, my lord."

Michael watched her practically run from the salon before turning his attention back to Helena. "I suppose you'll be wanting to sit up now?"

"I don't know why I would," Helena whispered. "It's rather comfortable right here, and you smell delicious."

"God, but I've missed you."

Helena blinked, apparently staving off tears. "I was afraid I would never see you again."

"I stayed away as long as I could, but when I received Philip's letter informing me of his intention to marry your daughter, I sorted the coast was clear."

"It was clear a few days ago when I was done with my mourning period," she said in a scolding voice. She made an attempt to sit up, but Michael tightened his hold on her.

"You fainted," he said.

"Well, it's no wonder. I am starving," she replied.

"It's nearly noon. As I recall, you're an early riser," he said. "Breakfast at nine?"

"If you must know, I've been up since before eight o'clock," she huffed. "I was actually on my way to the breakfast parlor when Pritchard told me I had a surprise caller. Truer words were never spoken."

Michael grinned and stood, turning to help her up. "Then let's get you to the breakfast parlor," he said. He led her out of the sitting room and then walked with her to a brightly lit room featuring a round oak table, an oak sideboard, and two footmen. Michael held a chair for her. "May I fill a plate for you?"

"Have a seat, Fenwick. That's what the footmen are for," she replied, settling into her chair. "Would you like coffee or tea?"

"Coffee, please," he replied, not surprised when both servants were suddenly in motion, one seeing to their food while the other saw to their drinks.

"Something must have been terribly important for you to delay coming downstairs for so long this morning," he remarked, his brows rising upon seeing plates filled with coddled eggs, rashers of bacon, and several toast points placed in front of both of them.

"I've been upstairs in my salon doing correspondence," she explained, lifting a toast point to her lips.

"For nearly four hours?" he questioned.

She nodded. "My stubborn son finally realized he could not handle the social responses with everything else he's supposed to be doing. I knew if I didn't wrest control of something from him, I would miss more entertainments, and I couldn't bear the thought of unintentionally snubbing another hostess." She took a bite of buttered toast and made a sound of appreciation.

Michael furrowed his brows. "Aren't invitations supposed to be handled by the lady of the house?" he asked, before tucking into the eggs. Although he had eaten breakfast a few hours earlier, the smell of the steaming hot bacon had his stomach growling.

She sighed. "You know that, and I know that, but for some reason Alfred seemed to think anything brought to his study on that silver salver of Pritchard's was his responsibility."

"Pritchard is your butler?"

"Yes."

"Hmm. Sounds as if Weston was never taught otherwise."

"He wasn't," she confirmed, a brow arching. "Weston... the late Weston... he thought he was going to live forever," she remarked, her eyes rolling in disgust. "He kept such tight reins on everything that when he died, it took months to determine what needed to be done."

"You offered to help?"

"Of course," she replied, giving him a quelling glance.

"Lady Amelia seems to think he's handling the accounting part of it all right," Michael offered.

"He is." She inhaled softly. "No worries there."

Michael noted her attention was no longer on her food. "What is it?"

She glanced in his direction. "In all my worries about Alfred, I sometimes forget about Amelia. She made her come-out last year, right before Weston died, and then we couldn't be seen attending entertainments once he did. This Season it's as if she's had to start over. And lately..." She grimaced.

"What?"

"I think she may be gambling."

Scoffing in disbelief, Michael had to suppress a chuckle at seeing Helena's serious expression. "Why ever in the world would you think such a thing?"

Helena rolled her eyes. "I don't have any proof, of course. I only have a suspicion."

"Go on."

She sighed and said, "Every week, at the same time, she goes to Hatchard's to shop for books. She's always gone exactly the same amount of time—takes her lady's maid with her, of course—and is always in a very good mood when she returns."

When she didn't offer anything else, Michael asked, "Does she come home with a book or two?"

"Oh, always. Usually a novel, although this latest trip had her bringing home A Lady's Guide to Keeping a Household, which is rather odd. And which has me even more suspicious. It's as if she didn't even try to shop for a book. As if she was in one of the reading rooms playing cards for an hour or more and then just grabbed the nearest book she came across on her way to the counter."

Michael leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Anything else?"

Scoffing softly, as if she thought he was teasing her, she said, "There have been card parlors at two of the balls we've attended. I saw her in one, although she wasn't seated. She was standing behind a young man, examining his cards, I think."

"Did she ask for money to play?"

Helena shook her head. "Of course not. She wouldn't need to, though. Alfred gives her an allowance. Pin money, merely, but it's enough to play for a time if her wagers are reasonable." She sighed and added, "She attended a soirée at the Everly's a couple of night's ago?—"

"Kate took my daughter to that soirée," he said. "My aunt is seeing to Violet's come-out," he quickly added, wondering if she would make the connection. Before Amelia had taken her leave of the sitting room, she had said she was on her way to pay a call on Violet. Now Michael wondered if perhaps she was really off to Fenwick House to see Philip.

Was the young lady pretending to play cards while she was really playing her mother by seeing his son in secret?

Helena paused a moment before allowing a shrug. "There was a card room set up at Rosemount House. Lady Everly told me she had to offer one for the older ladies, and I did see Amelia in there later in the evening. With Lady Violet."

"Did she attend last night's card party?" he asked. "Kate took Violet to that one. I believe they intended to play whist all night."

Inhaling to answer, Helena seemed on the verge of tears. "Oh, dear. I expected Amelia to be gone more now that the Season has started simply because we've received so many invitations, but now I think I must insist she stay at home."

Fairly sure Helena had her suspicions misplaced, Michael asked, "Are you aware your daughter is being courted?"

Helena's fork clattered to her plate as she turned to stare at him. "What's this?"

Michael blinked and realized he had some explaining to do. "First, you should know Violet is my daughter."

"I gathered that," she said slowly.

"She and Amelia have become fast friends. Violet only arrived in London a few weeks ago, so I was glad when she wrote to say she had a friend here."

"Amelia is very amiable," Helena agreed. "She makes friends easily."

"They didn't meet at an entertainment, however."

Stiffening in her chair, Helena stared at him. "Then… how were they introduced?"

Wincing, Michael said, "My son, Philip, Earl of Crawford, did the honors."

For a moment, Helena looked as if she might faint again. "Your son is in London?"

"Has been for over a year. He's taken over running the marquessate in my stead. Done rather well, actually, and I'm going to petition for him to receive a writ of acceleration. See if I can't get him into the House of Lords, since I doubt I'll ever attend."

She nodded her understanding. "So, he obviously met Amelia last year. Before Weston died."

"He did," Michael acknowledged. "He, uh... he fell in love with her. He's been courting her in secret for some time, and he hoped he could secure Weston's permission to marry her when he paid a call earlier today." He paused to gauge her reaction.

Helena blinked. "Are you saying she... Amelia hasn't been gambling?"

Not expecting the question, Michael chuckled softly. "I'm quite sure she hasn't been gambling."

Helena placed a hand on her chest and let out a breath of air. "This is such a relief," she whispered. "You've no idea what I've been imagining."

"Oh, I can imagine a lot. I have a daughter, too," he reminded her. After a pause, he said, "So... you're not terribly upset that she's been courted by Philip?"

Helena struggled for a moment, as if she was fighting an internal battle. "Like father, like son?" she finally countered. "If he's as charming and handsome as you, however could I blame her?"

He nodded. "The apples did not fall far from our trees," he remarked.

She narrowed her eyes. "When I got to the sitting room, you two were having a conversation."

"I was waiting for you, and she appeared. I introduced myself and told her I was looking forward to having her as my daughter."

Helena inhaled softly. "Now I think I am going to cry," she whispered.

Michael pulled a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and held it out for her. "Because you're happy, or because you're sad, or?—"

"Relieved, of course," she replied with a huff. "Do you realize what this means?"

Glancing to the side, he considered how to respond. "She's not gambling, and you're gaining another son?" he guessed.

"She's going to be married," Helena stated, as if she thought him thick.

"Indeed. I expect there might be an heir by this time next year," he said, joining in her joy.

Helena's face fell. "Oh, God," she whispered.

"What?" he asked in alarm.

She rolled her eyes. "If Amelia marries, Alfred won't be far behind, and then he'll have an heir. I'm going to be bestowed with that awful title," she murmured before shoving another toast point into her mouth.

"What awful title?"

She gave him a quelling glance. "Dowager Duchess of Weston," she stated, a groaning sound following her proclamation.

Michael glanced around the breakfast parlor and leaned towards her. "Or you could agree to be my wife and become the Marchioness of Fenwick."

Helena stared at him for a long time before she leaned back in her chair and let out the breath she had been holding.

She seemed about to give him an answer when Pritchard appeared at the door and said, "Your Grace, His Grace has returned from his appointment and is asking for you."

Michael managed to keep an impassive expression on his face as he reached over and placed a hand on Helena's. "Will you be at the ball tonight?"

She blinked and nodded. "Yes. Yes, of course."

"Save all the waltzes for me, my love." He stood, leaned over, and placed a kiss on her forehead before taking his leave of the breakfast parlor and of Weston Hall.

He didn't realize he was being watched once he passed the study.