Least Likely To Marry A Duke. Louise Allen
Your Grace.’
‘So I see. As we are in mourning I will not be entertaining on any scale, nor attending balls or parties,’ Will said. ‘I hope I may rely on you to depress any hopes that the Manor will be hosting any social events, as would normally be the case.’
‘Of course. I am sure there will be ample opportunities for you to meet anyone of consequence in the area without any fear of...er...’
‘Raising expectations?’ he asked with a smile that felt somewhat twisted. It had not occurred to him that he would be hunted, which was foolish of him. In truth, it was how he felt at that moment, with a flock of young ladies in what looked like their finest day dresses and best bonnets all focused on him. He was hardly likely to find a duchess in a sleepy Dorset parish, but that would not depress the hopes of the parents of marriageable daughters, he knew. Unmarried dukes under the age of sixty were gold dust on the Marriage Mart. In a way Miss Wingate’s hostility was a refreshing relief.
‘While my father lived I was at a remove from the succession,’ he confided, low-voiced. ‘The title appears to have excited rather more interest than I have been used to.’
Mrs Trent produced an unexpectedly wicked smile. ‘My advice is not to run, Your Grace—that only excites them to chase. Think of kittens and a ball of wool. Now, if you will excuse me, I will see what I can do to rescue my poor husband from the throng.’
‘I suspect I can help matters simply by leaving. Good day, ma’am. Come along, everyone.’ He shepherded his small flock out, with the tutor and governess bringing up the rear to catch the stragglers. Will bowed to left and right, exchanged greetings and kept on walking, trying not to imagine himself as a ball of wool. Somehow this was not quite how he had imagined life as a duke would be. There was considerably less of ermine-trimmed robes and speeches in the House of Lords and rather more worrying about drainage ditches and the lack of application to their Classics lessons on behalf of his small brothers.
And dukes really should not stride down church paths as though they had a pack of petticoat-clad hounds on their tail. Will could not help but think gloomily that his grandfather would have managed things better, but he could not bring himself to administer icy snubs as the old man would have done. Nor did it help his temper to observe Miss Wingate at the lych gate speaking to what, he assumed, must be the driver of the Bishop’s carriage.
She gave him a cool nod, waved cheerfully to the rest of his party as they passed and then directed a look brim-full of mischief and amusement at the path behind him. Clearly, he was being followed by the flotilla of hopeful matrons, their daughters around them like so many frigates, their husbands in tow.
Must stop mixing metaphors. Kittens, hounds and now battleships...
Will did not make the mistake of looking over his shoulder. When they reached his carriage he saw they were boxed in by the Bishop’s coach behind and a cluster of gigs, barouches and dog carts in front.
As the footman swung open the door Will saw the reflection of the pursuers behind him in the window glass. ‘Basil, sit up with the coachman. Miss Preston, Mr Catford, please take seats in the carriage, should you wish. I intend to walk.’
He strode off without a backwards glance, ignoring Basil’s crow of triumph at being allowed up on the box. There was a stile ahead and a field of cattle on the other side of the fence. No lady was going to pursue him through that, not in her best churchgoing shoes. A strategic retreat, that was what this was. A gentleman could, with propriety, take a dignified country walk on a Sunday morning after church, he told himself. And he would take care to instruct the coachman to have the carriage free and clear to drive off immediately on the next occasion they attended St Mathew’s.
The herd scattered away as he walked diagonally across the pasture and Will tried to bring the map of the parish to mind and to work out whose field this was. His or the Bishop’s? Or perhaps it was part of the Vicar’s glebe lands. No, those lay to the south. There was a gate on the far side and he went through, closing it firmly on the cows who were following him with the usual curiosity of their kind. Beyond, a track meandered away and then cut left through a copse of trees, the green shade and faint damp smell soothing after his earlier irritation. He was heading in the right direction, he thought, glancing up at the sun filtering through the branches, although he could not recall this patch of woodland.
Will emerged after ten minutes, not on to another field as he expected, but into a wide clearing with a pond in the centre. A tree had fallen parallel to the edge and he sat down on it, taking in the clumps of rushes, the lily pads, the dart and hover of dragonflies. It was a lovely spot, crying out for a small summer house for picnics. If it was his he would see about having one built. Nothing intrusive, not some Classical temple, just a simple shelter, he thought, leaning back on the stump of the tree that formed a convenient support.
It was warm now, or perhaps he was overheated after his impulsive escape from the churchyard.
Ridiculous, running from a pack of women. You should learn how to depress pretention with a cool stare, Will told himself.
He closed his eyes against the sun dazzle on the water.
And that smile on Miss Wingate’s face as she watched... She found it amusing, the wicked creature... She has a dimple when she smiles... I wonder whether she ever models for her friend. She...
* * *
It was very wrong to find amusement in the Duke’s discomfiture, Verity told herself as the carriage finally extricated itself from the tangle of vehicles at the church gate. Her father’s hands moved, catching her attention, and she focused on what he was saying.
‘What are you smiling about, my dear?’ he signed slowly. ‘Something has amused you?’
‘Nothing in particular, Papa.’ And that is a fib, on a Sunday, too. ‘Such a lovely day, isn’t it? Would you like to take luncheon in the garden?’
‘I think so, yes. I will have a short rest first.’
‘And I will take a walk.’ Essentially she wanted to get away from the Old Palace so she could laugh in private over the hunting of the Duke. At least she could acquit him of being rude to anyone. An aristocrat of high rank could turn and wither the pretensions of the local gentry with just a few well-chosen words, or even a look, and it was to his credit that he had not yielded to the temptation to hit back. And not by a flicker of an eyelash had he revealed that he had met her friends before or had identified poor Prue.
* * *
Really, the Duke of Aylsham might be a very pleasant gentleman if he was not so starched-up and conscious of his position, she concluded ten minutes later as she made her way out of the gardens and into the water meadows.
He was certainly a very fine specimen of manhood to look at, which was not a thought she should be entertaining on a Sunday.
You see, William Calthorpe, you are leading me astray. Fibs and warm thoughts on the Sabbath indeed!
She would call him William in her head, she decided. Too much dwelling on his title would make him assume an importance in her mind he did not deserve. But it was a long time since she had felt the slightest flicker of interest when she looked at a man and the feeling was not, to her surprise, unpleasant.
The ground under her feet gave a warning squelch, a reminder of last week’s rain, but the woodland walk would be dry underfoot and there was the hope that she might spot the peregrine falcon that she had strictly forbidden the keepers to shoot.
Her favourite log was a good spot to sit and the sunlight would be on the clearing at this time of day. If she stayed quite still for a few moments she could see what came down to the pond to drink and Verity walked quietly into the glade to avoid frightening any wild creature.
There. A movement behind the trees, a roe deer coming to the water. With her eyes on the animal Verity edged sideways towards her usual perch. She could just see the tree trunk out of the corner of her eye. Almost there, almost. Still watching the shy deer emerging from