The Dutiful Duke

  The Dutiful Duke

  Joan Overfield

  The Dutiful Duke

  Joan Overfield

  Copyright © 1994, 2014 by Joan Overfield

  For Leona

  The Dutiful Duke

  "Usually when I am alone with an attractive woman I am singing praises to her glorious hazel eyes, not discussing impressionable young minds," Wyatt said.

  Nia felt her cheeks glowing with embarrassment. "Nonsense, my lord, I am a governess, not an . . . an attractive woman."

  Her answer amused Wyatt. "I was not aware that being a governess precluded being attractive," he drawled.

  Nia rose to her feet. "With your permission, sir, I will be retiring to my rooms."

  A half-smile played about his lips as he watched her cross the room.

  "Miss Pringle?"

  "Yes, Your Grace?"

  "Your hazel eyes are glorious."

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  London, 1816

  "That beast! That hateful, monstrous, selfish beast!" Miss Thomasina Pringle's hazel eyes glittered behind the smudged lenses of her spectacles as she stood in the center of the neat, book-lined study. "Well, he needn't think he will get away with this, because if it's the last thing I do, I vow I shall make him pay!"

  Mrs. Alvira Langston, headmistress of the Portham Academy, glanced up from her books, her face paling at the dramatic pronouncement. Not again, she thought, sliding open the top drawer of her desk and fumbling for the bottle of smelling salts she kept tucked inside. "Who won't get away with what?" she asked, praying her youngest and most difficult teacher didn't mean what she feared she did. "To whom are you referring?"

  Nia, as her late father had dubbed her, gave her employer an impatient look before casting herself upon the nearest chair. "The duke of Tilton, of course," she responded, scowling as she stuffed a strand of mahogany-colored hair beneath her prim linen cap. "What other hateful, monstrous, selfish beast have I the misfortune of knowing?"

  Mrs. Langston closed her eyes, her worst fears confirmed. "Oh, Nia," she wailed, raising the salts for a restorative sniff. "You promised!"

  Nia shifted uneasily, her conscience pricking at the despair in her employer's voice. She'd been raised believing her word was her bond, and she could not like the knowledge that she may have compromised that belief. Shoving her spectacles back with a slender finger, she searched her agile mind for some acceptable justification of her actions. "I promised Miss Portham I wouldn't contact the duke by post," she said at last, knowing her defense was shaky at best. "And you needn't think I've gone back on my word, because I haven't. I'm not the one who wrote the wretch a letter."

  All too familiar with Nia's tendency to manipulate the truth, Mrs. Langston allowed herself another sniff before pressing for more information. "Then who did write His Grace?" she asked, steeling herself for the answer.

  Nia shifted again, toying with the idea of lying before deciding to make a clean breast of the incident. It was only a matter of time before the headmistress knew the whole of it, and she thought it might be best if she learned the details from her. "Amanda," she admitted at last, her eyes dropping to the toes of her scuffed slippers. "She wrote him a letter asking him to visit her for her birthday."

  "Amanda!" Mrs. Langston's fingers closed about the bottle. "But she is only a child!"

  "She will be seven in a few months," Nia corrected, leaping spiritedly to the defense of her favorite pupil. "And she has the loveliest hand of any pupil in the school. Why, only yesterday Miss Leeds was praising her letters, and Miss Cummings said her grammar was quite superior for a child her age."

  "I wasn't questioning Amanda's scholastic abilities, Miss Pringle. I was questioning why you encouraged her to contact the duke when he has made it more than obvious that he desires no such contact." Mrs. Langston spoke coldly, deciding it was past time she took a firmer hand with Nia and the situation involving Amanda Perryvale. In the past she'd allowed Miss Pringle far too much leniency with the child, but she could see that would have to change. The last thing the academy needed was to make an enemy of the powerful and haughty lord.

  "But Amanda is his niece!" Nia protested, her feeling of righteous indignation flaring back to life. "It is his duty to care for her!"

  "That may as be," Mrs. Langston conceded, for privately she shared Miss Pringle's opinion of the duke's appalling neglect of the lonely little girl, "but as I have already explained, one cannot force another person to do that which he has no intention of doing. By persisting in this folly you have endangered not only your position at this school, but the rest of us as well. Or have you forgotten His Grace's threat to bring action against us if you contacted him again?"

  Nia's cheeks pinked with color as she recalled the cold missive from the duke. She'd written him out of desperation, hinting rather broadly that his reputation could suffer if it became known that he'd abandoned the only child of his late brother to what was in reality an orphanage.

  The duke's response had been a blunt threat that if she even attempted to go to the newspapers, he would see the school brought up on charges of blackmail. The entire fiasco brought the founder of the academy, Miss Arabelle Portham, to the school, and she had made Nia promise not to write His Grace again. At the time Nia had truly meant to keep her vow, but then last week Amanda had come to her crying because the other children had been teasing her.

  "But they say if he was really and truly my uncle he would at least visit me!" the girl had sobbed, her violet eyes bright with tears as she gazed up at Nia. "Why won't he come, Miss Pringle? Doesn't he like me?''

  The memory of the painful scene made Nia's throat tighten even now, and she cleared it uncomfortably. "I am well aware of his lordship's blustering threats," she said crossly, "but it was Amanda's desire to write her uncle and invite him to visit her for her birthday. I know I probably should have put her off with some foolish story, but I thought perhaps if he heard from Amanda directly he would change his mind."

  "And I take it he did not?"

  "The only answer came from his solicitor." Nia removed the crumpled letter from the pocket of her apron and handed it to the older woman. "I haven't had the heart to show it to her."

  Mrs. Langston smoothed out the sheet of paper, her eyes widening in horror at what she read. "Oh, my heavens, he . . . he is saying she is a . . . a . . ."

  "A bastard." Nia said the hateful word stonily, her full lips tightening with fury. "He states quite clearly that there is some legal question regarding her parents' marriage, and until such time as the matter can be resolved, she cannot be considered a legitimate member of His Grace's family. He even hints that she is breaking some obscure law by using the Perryvale name."

  "What are you going to do?" Mrs. Langston asked, eyeing Nia with concern. Ordinarily she would have sent for Miss Portham, but the lovely heiress had recently married the earl of Colford and was rusticating at her husband's country estate.

  "I don't know." The admission all but choked Nia. "But I do know I can't let Amanda know. It would shatter her, and God knows the poor child has suffered enough."

  "But won't she wonder when there is no reply?"

  "I could tell her His Grace is out of town," Nia suggested, wincing at the thought of lying to the girl she adored as if she were her own child. "She'll be disappointed, of course, but it's far kinder than telling h
er the truth."

  "Yes, that is so, but . . ."

  "But what?" Nia pressed when her voice trailed off.

  "But I cannot help wondering if perhaps it would be best if you told her the truth . . . or at least most of the truth," Mrs. Langston amended, shuddering at the memory of the solicitor's cruel words. "By encouraging her to hope for some future reconciliation with the duke, you are only setting her up for further heartache."

  Nia paled at that. "I am?"

  "Yes, you most certainly are," Mrs. Langston said firmly, grateful to see she had finally managed to penetrate Nia's unshakable resolve. "Amanda is young yet, and with patience and love she will forget her uncle. You can see how attached she has become to you, and with time she will accept her lot. Now admit it," she added, lifting a warning finger when Nia would have protested, "she scarce spoke of her uncle until you began prattling on about his duty toward her. Isn't that so?"

  Nia's expression grew bleak at the headmistress's words. She recalled the many times she had mentioned His Grace in the girl's presence, and Amanda's curious questions. She'd never meant to hurt her, but the duke's irresponsible behavior had made her so angry . . .

  "You're right," she admitted quietly, her shoulders slumping in defeat. "Amanda barely knew of His Grace's existence."

  "Then you can see the folly of encouraging her to hope for a reconciliation?" Mrs. Langston asked, pressing home her advantage despite the look of misery on Nia's face. "You won't allow her to write His Grace again?"

  "I won't."

  "And you won't write him yourself or attempt to force your way into his home?" Mrs. Langston added, recalling an earlier incident. "You give me your word?"

  Nia considered for a long while before slowly nodding. "I won't write His Grace or attempt to gain entry to his home," she intoned solemnly. "And I promise I shall never speak his name to Amanda without your permission."

  "Then you may go," Mrs. Langston said, relief washing through her at the easy victory. "And if you will pardon my saying so, I trust this has taught you a lesson. No good ever comes from interfering in people's lives; I hope you will remember that."

  After leaving Mrs. Langston's study, Nia stopped to check on her students before slipping up to her room for a moment of quiet reflection. The other teachers all shared quarters, but because one of the instructors had left to take another position, Nia had the small room tucked beneath the eaves all to herself. It was a situation she had never appreciated more than at this moment. Drat and bother, she brooded, staring out her casement window with a scowl, what the devil was she going to do now?

  The pledge Mrs. Langston had wrenched from her placed her in the awkward position of being unable to keep her word to Amanda that her uncle would visit her for her birthday. She knew it had been foolish of her to make such a promise, but she'd been unable to bear the tears shimmering in the little girl's eyes.

  Nia's father had been a physician in the army, and she'd been raised to believe that duty was sacred above all things. It was the duke's duty to care for his niece, and she was certain he could be compelled to do the right thing if only she could convince him. But how could she convince him of anything when she couldn't so much as write him a letter?

  It was a pity she wasn't a member of the ton, she thought, idly tracing a pattern in the fog lacing her window. Then at least she might be able to corner him at a soiree and argue him into submission. Or she could threaten a scene; men hated scenes, she knew, and surely he would promise anything to be spared a fit of the vapors. She'd seen several officers' wives employ such tactics, and she reasoned if they could keep battle-hardened soldiers in line, they should prove equally as effective with a spoiled and pampered lord. But the fact remained she was not a member of the ton, and if she wished to contact His Grace, she would have to think of something else.

  She could infiltrate his household disguised as a serving maid, she supposed, but that would mean breaking her word to Mrs. Langston. Or she could hang about his doorstep hoping for a chance to confront him as he climbed in his carriage, but that was dubious at best and she would have the watch to worry about as well. Still, there had to be something she could do, she thought, and then it came to her.

  There was another sort of female who might have contact with a duke; one whose presence, while it might raise a few eyebrows, would never be questioned. She's seen several of these sad creatures in her travels with her father, and their bold and to her mind desperate actions were more or less ignored. Men would be men, after all, and who would think to stop a doxy from climbing into a man's carriage for an assignation? It was the perfect solution.

  She froze as the thought took hold. It was outrageous, her logical mind argued. Unthinkable. She would lose her position at the school and her reputation would be forever tarnished, were she caught. She didn't even know if His Grace was the sort of man who went to such women. And yet . . . She bit her lip. And yet, what choice did she have?

  Desperate times called for desperate measures; she'd heard the general in command of her father's regiment say that. Of course he had been talking of war, but Amanda's happiness was every bit as important to her as the outcome of any battle. If the men who fought and died for England had been willing to sacrifice all, could she do any less for Amanda? The answer, of course, was no, and with that in mind Nia turned from the window, her small chin set in resolve.

  "Hell and damnation, Royston, what the devil do you mean I've had enough?" Wyatt Perryvale, the duke of Tilton, demanded with an outraged roar, his midnight-dark eyes narrowing as he glared at the elegant man standing before him. "Who do you think you are? My nursemaid?"

  "Your friend, your very good friend as a matter of fact, and I'm not about to let you make a fool of yourself with half the ton looking on." Ambrose Royston replied calmly, his blue eyes cool as he met the duke's furious gaze. "I know you miss Christopher, Wyatt, but you'll not find him in the bottom of a brandy bottle however hard you may try."

  The mention of his younger brother sent a fresh shaft of pain stabbing through Wyatt. It had been over a year since he'd received news of his brother's death at the futile and tragic battle for New Orleans, and yet the pain was as tresh and raw as if it was yesterday. He glanced away from Royston, struggling against the grief that was his constant companion.

  "I don't know what you're talking about," he denied thickly, his hand clenching his glass. "My wanting a drink has naught to do with Christopher. I merely felt like having a bit of fun. And for your information, sir, I've had but four glasses!" This last was added with a defiant scowl.

  "Which is two more than is your habit," Ambrose answered, his manner as composed as ever. He and Wyatt had known each other since their days at Eton, and he knew his friend almost as well as he knew himself. He'd spent the last year watching Wyatt's silent anguish, but tonight was the last straw. Even if he had to break a table over the duke's hard head, he would not allow him to make a public spectacle of himself.

  "Then perhaps 'tis time I was acquiring new habits," Wyatt replied with a sneer, lifting his glass in a mocking salute. "All true Perryvales are known for their prodigious thirsts, Royston. Didn't you know that?"

  "Wyatt . . ."

  Wyatt muttered another oath, annoyed by his friend's persistence. He knew he was behaving like a foolish schoolboy, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He didn't even like the taste of brandy, but tonight he'd felt the need to lose himself in the sweet mists of oblivion. Unfortunately the fiery liquor wasn't providing him with the escape he so desperately craved, and he could see no sense in continuing the useless endeavor. Perhaps a different sort of oblivion was what he needed, he decided, his dark eyes growing speculative.

  "Very well, Royston," he said, setting his glass on a table with exaggerated care, "perhaps you are right. Getting bosky in such august company would never do. If you will excuse me, I believe I shall be taking myself off."

  "Where are you going?" Ambrose demanded, deciding he didn't care for the wild glitt
er in Wyatt's eyes.

  "Why, to find a different sort of company, of course," Wyatt drawled, giving him a wolfish smile. "And if you are thinking of coming with me, I shouldn't bother. Three in a bed is one too many, to my way of thinking."

  After making his excuses to his hostess, Wyatt retrieved his hat and cloak from the butler and went out into the cool, damp night. There was a long line of carriages waiting in front of the Pettingtons' elegant townhouse, and it took him several minutes to find his own coach. The delay hardly improved his already black temper, and his jaw was clenched with displeasure as he climbed into his conveyance.

  "You might at least have made yourself known," he grumbled to the footman holding his door. "It would have been damned embarrassing if I'd entered the wrong carriage!"

  "More embarrassin' to some than to others, I reckon," the footman replied with a cheekiness that would have startled Wyatt had he been in a frame of mind to notice. With the exception of his valet and housekeeper, his staff usually treated him with almost painful formality.

  "Just see it doesn't happen again," Wyatt retorted, still scowling as he settled onto the plush seat. "Tell Coachman to take me to Cleveland Street. He knows the address."

  "Right you are, Yer Grace!" The footman was smirking as he gave a mocking bow. "You'll be wantin' us to go the long route, I takes it?"

  "Have him take whatever route he pleases," Wyatt snapped impatiently, the servant's odd behavior finally registering. "Just get me there."

  The footman bowed again, slamming the door and leaping onto the top of the highly sprung carriage with a chuckle. The whip cracked and the carriage started with a lurch that sent Wyatt flying forward. He managed to catch himself and sat back in his seat with a muttered oath. That was when he saw the woman.

  "What the devil . . . Who are you?" he demanded incredulously. "How did you get into my carriage?"

  "Your footman let me in," the woman replied in a voice that was surprisingly cultured. "I wish to speak with you."