The Dutiful Duke Read online

  "Of course not," Wyatt snapped impatiently. "But that—"

  "Then you must agree there is some doubt this Amanda is your niece," Mr. Elliott concluded masterfully, his dark eyes burning with triumph. "You have no real proof."

  Wyatt glared at him, hating him for his relentless logic. What if he was wrong? he thought running a weary hand over his burning eyes. He'd been bosky last night, and the light in the carriage had been poor at best. What if he'd only seen what he wanted to see in that miniature? Miss Pringle had told him the girl was his niece. Perhaps he'd seen a resemblance that wasn't there. Perhaps . . .

  No, he decided, lowering his hand to his side. Amanda was his niece. He knew it; deep inside of him, he knew it. And it had nothing to do with the way she looked. When he had seen the portrait, when he had brushed his fingers across the painted features, he had suddenly felt less alone in the world. He raised his eyes to meet Elliott's dark gaze.

  "I have already told you I have all the proof I require," he said, his voice coldly certain. "Have the necessary papers granting me legal custody drawn up at once."

  There was a brief silence before Mr. Elliott gave a slight nod. "As you wish, Your Grace," he said tonelessly. "You will be making her your heiress, I presume?"

  "Of course." Wyatt rose to his feet, gathering up the hat and gloves he'd placed on the desk. "Why do you ask?"

  Mr. Elliott's lips tightened. "No reason, Lord Tilton. No reason at all."

  Wyatt glanced up suspiciously, then shrugged his shoulders. It was almost ten o'clock, and he'd have to hurry if he meant to be at the academy on time. There was just one other matter he must deal with, and he waited until he was almost at the door before turning around.

  "Elliott?"

  "Yes, Your Grace?"

  "At the moment I am willing to accept that you believed you were acting in my best interests in keeping Amanda's existence from me," he said, the threat in his voice unmistakable. "But if I should learn differently, your services will no longer be required. I trust you understand me?"

  A nerve ticked in Mr. Elliott's cheek. "Yes, Lord Tilton," he said, executing a stiff bow. "I understand perfectly."

  Chapter 3

  "Amanda, will you please hold still?" Nia implored, her fingers awkward as she struggled with the stiff satin. "How am I to tie this if you keep hopping about?"

  "I am sorry, Miss Pringle." Amanda complied at once, shooting Nia an apologetic look over her shoulder. "I don't mean to move, but I think my feet are nervous. They won't stay still no matter how hard I try."

  Nia hid a smile at the ingenious explanation. "Then you must tell them they have nothing to fear," she said, concentrating on the bow. "There." She gave it a final tug and struggled to her feet. "I finally have the wretched thing straight. Mind you don't untie it again. Your uncle will be here any moment now, and you don't want him to think you a hoyden."

  The mention of her uncle brought a worried frown to Amanda's face. Much as she liked the notion of living in a duke's house, the thought of leaving Miss Pringle and the academy made her stomach feel wobbly, and she gave a loud sniff.

  Nia heard the suspicious sound and gently turned Amanda around. "Whatever is wrong, dearest?" she asked, seeing the tears pooling in Amanda's eyes. "You aren't frightened, are you?"

  In answer Amanda threw herself against Nia. "Oh, Miss Pringle, I don't want to leave!" she wailed, clinging to the only security and love she knew. "I want to stay with you!"

  "Oh, Amanda." Nia gave in to the tears she herself had been fighting all morning, and pressed a tender kiss on the girl's forehead. "I want to stay with you, too, but I can't."

  "Why?" Amanda drew back to gaze up at Nia. "Won't my uncle adopt you, too?"

  Nia gave a half-laugh at the thought of the fastidious duke making so unlikely an offer. "I'm afraid that's not possible, love," she said, brushing a blond curl from Amanda's cheek. "We aren't related, you see, and in any case, I am far too old to be adopted."

  "Then could you come and visit me?" Amanda asked hopefully. "We could have tea and cakes like real ladies."

  "That would be nice," Nia murmured, although she doubted the duke would permit such a thing once Amanda was in his care.

  Amanda gave another sniff, recognizing a prevarication when she heard one. She lowered her eyes to the front of Miss Pringle's dark blue gown. "I'll eat all my food," she promised in a small voice, her fingers playing with the lace fichu laying crookedly on the bodice. "I'll do all my sums and say my prayers every night. Maybe then they'll let you visit me."

  "Maybe." Nia could scarce speak for the pain in her heart. "But you must promise to be good regardless, dearest. You must make us proud of you."

  "I will," Amanda said, wiping at her tears with a chubby fist. Her eyes met Nia's. "I love you, Miss Pringle."

  The childish confession sent pain through Nia's heart. She thought losing her parents was the worst suffering she could endure, but even that paled in comparison to the anguish she was feeling now. It was several seconds before she could trust herself to speak. "I love you, too, Amanda," she said, giving the little girl a fierce hug. "And I always will, no matter what."

  They continued holding each other, so lost in their private grief they forgot they were in the drawing room where anyone might enter. They never heard the door open and then quietly close behind them.

  Wyatt stood in the hallway, unashamed of the painful lump in his throat. Blast! he thought, scowling at the memory of the affecting scene. How could he take his niece away from the woman she adored and who so obviously adored her? He knew what it was like to grow up alone and bereft of love, and he didn't want that for Christopher's child. But, on the other hand, he told himself sternly, he couldn't leave her in an orphanage. There had to be something . . . and then it came to him.

  "Ah, Mrs. Langston," he said, hiding his emotions as he turned to the older lady standing beside him, wringing her hands in obvious embarrassment. "I was wondering if you might do something for me."

  "Certainly, Your Grace," she replied, vigorously blowing her nose. "What is it?"

  "It occurs to me that Amanda will have need of a governess," he said, taking care to keep his voice languidly indifferent. "I know little of such matters myself, and I was hoping you might recommend someone for the position."

  Mrs. Langston paused in the act of dabbing her eyes. "A governess?"

  Wyatt gave a cool nod. "The females in my family have always been educated at home, and a school is out of the question. She'll need a well-bred lady to give her instruction in deportment, watercolors, that sort of thing."

  "Watercolors," Mrs. Langston repeated, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Yes, indeed, I can recommend just such a lady. One of our instructors, a Miss Pringle, is a gifted artist, and I am sure she is more than qualified to teach Amanda."

  "What of deportment?" Wyatt asked, remembering the hoyden who had dressed as a doxy and held him at gunpoint. "Is she qualified to teach that as well?"

  Mrs. Langston hesitated, reluctant to perjure herself to a peer of the realm. Then she remembered the tearful embrace they had just witnessed. She drew herself upright and met the duke's dark eyes. "There is no one more qualified," she said, praying the Almighty would understand.

  Wyatt's eyes lit with rare humor at the less than glowing endorsement. "She sounds a paragon among governesses," he drawled. "May I rely upon you to secure her services for me?"

  "It shall be my pleasure, Lord Tilton," she replied, beaming at him in delight. "In fact, I shall see to it while you're making Amanda's acquaintance. And Your Grace?"

  "Yes, Mrs. Langston?"

  "God bless you."

  Twenty minutes later Wyatt stood in the center of Mrs. Langston's private parlor waiting for Amanda to join him. Although he'd never considered himself a coward, he found he was trembling, and the thought of fleeing back to St. James was sweetly tempting. His eyes strayed to the dainty bottle of sherry his hostess had set out, and he considered sampling some Dutch
courage. After a moment's consideration, however, he rejected the notion. He didn't want to meet his niece for the first time with the smell of spirits on his breath.

  Thinking of Amanda brought a frown to his face. What did he know about children? he asked himself angrily, thrusting an impatient hand through his hair. This was madness; he had to have been jug-bitten even to have considered the matter. Elliott was right; he had no real proof the chit was Christopher's, and even if she was, why should he be saddled with her? She seemed content at the school. Wouldn't it make more sense to leave her where she was, and pay her whatever visits custom demanded?

  "Are you my uncle?"

  The shy question blasted Wyatt out of his dark reverie, and he whirled around to find a small girl staring up at him with solemn violet eyes. In that instant he lost his heart completely and irretrievably. She was the very image of Christopher as a lad, and he knew he'd do whatever it took to keep her with him.

  "I am the duke of Tilton," he said, finding his voice with difficulty. "I suppose that would make me your uncle."

  The little girl continued to regard him gravely. "Mrs. Langston said I am to call you 'Your Grace,' " she said in a wispy voice. "Must I? It sounds so formal."

  An all-but-forgotten memory brought a sad smile to his lips. He remembered a laughing Christopher saying much the same thing prior to his going into the army. "Be damned if I'll 'Your Grace' you, old boy," he'd teased, his violet-blue eyes dancing with mischief. "Though I must admit you've the arrogance to go with the title. You're even more pompous than the pater!"

  Wyatt shook off the bittersweet memory with difficulty, his heart aching as he gazed down at his brother's child. "You may call me Uncle, if you like," he said quietly, wishing he dared touch the blond curls surrounding her small face. "In fact, I'd rather prefer it if you would. We are family, after all. What else would you like to know?"

  She chewed her lip, another trait she shared with her father. "Am I to have a title?" she asked at last. "I know you are a lord, and I shall be staying with you. Does that make me a lady like when Miss Portham married the earl of Colford?"

  "You are already a lady," Wyatt replied, unable to resist the temptation of ruffling her silky hair. "Your grandfather was a duke, and your father held a minor title as well. You are Lady Amanda Perryvale. Do you like that?"

  She nodded, her lips curling in a gloating smile. "Oh, yes!" she assured him with a laugh. "Now Timothy Shanks shall have to bow to me. He will, won't he?" She shot him an anxious look.

  "A gentleman, regardless of the station he occupies in life, always bows to a lady," he assured her with a smile. "Now if you've no more questions, I fear we must be on our way. It's almost luncheon, and I'm sure you must be hungry."

  Amanda bit her lip again, her gaze dropping to the toes of her slippers. She knew she'd promised Miss Pringle to be brave and go with her uncle without making a scene, but she suddenly felt small and alone. She raised wary eyes to study her uncle's face.

  Wyatt sensed her unease, and without a thought for his immaculate trousers, dropped to his knee beside her. "What is it, poppet?" he asked, drawing her toward him. "You may ask me anything you like."

  Amanda decided to take him at his word. "Do you have a large house?" she asked, eyeing him hopefully.

  Wyatt thought of his huge and elegant home on Berkeley Square. "Large enough, I suppose," he replied, wondering what she was getting at. "Why do you ask?"

  Amanda drew a deep breath. "If it is very big, as big as this house, then you must have dozens of rooms, mustn't you? And if you have dozens of rooms, then perhaps you wouldn't mind lending one to Miss Pringle."

  Wyatt raised his eyebrows at her daring. He'd been about to tell her her beloved schoolteacher would be coming with them, but apparently she'd decided to take matters into her own hands. Perhaps having a forward hoyden like Miss Pringle as her governess wasn't such a good idea, after all, he mused with a whimsical smile. 'Twould seem his niece was already developing some of the minx's managing ways.

  "I suppose that could be arranged," he said slowly, pretending to consider the possibility. "Will she eat very much, do you think?"

  Amanda shook her head. "Oh no!" she assured him anxiously. "She hardly eats anything! And I would be happy to share my food with her. She'll be ever so good. I promise you won't even know she is there!"

  Wyatt remembered Miss Pringle's soft breasts and the delicacy of her perfume, and doubted he'd ever be unaware of her presence. Also, the idea of the student vouchsafing the conduct of the teacher struck him as decidedly humorous. It showed him how very close they were, and a faint jealousy stirred in him. He pushed it aside with a flash of shame.

  "Very well, Amanda," he said, giving her nose a gentle tweak. "We shall ask Miss Pringle to come with us. Just be sure the two of you are packed and ready to leave within the hour. I haven't all day, you know."

  He'd meant the last as a jest, never dreaming Amanda would take him at his word. A look of alarm flashed across her face before she turned and dashed toward the door. Her hands were on the handle when she paused and then ran back to where he was standing.

  "Thank you, Uncle Wyatt!" she cried, flinging her small arms about his waist and lifting her head to give him a blinding smile. "You're the best uncle in the whole world, and I know I shall love living with you!"

  Wyatt's home was located on the north side of Berkeley Square, its cream-colored bricks and Palladium-styled portico putting even its elegant neighbors to shame. The first time Nia had visited the house she'd been too busy trying to bully her way past the servants to pay her surroundings much mind, but gazing at it now filled her with unease. The thought of living amongst such cool perfection was lowering, and she prayed she wouldn't disgrace herself. How, she wondered glumly, was she ever to fit into this . . . this mausoleum?

  Beside her Wyatt noted her expression with annoyance. "Is something wrong, Miss Pringle?" he asked, unexpectedly stung that she should find fault with his home.

  Nia gave a guilty start, embarrassed she'd allow her emotions to show. "Certainly not, Your Grace," she lied, her chin coming up as she met his midnight-dark gaze. "It is quite lovely, in fact. Isn't it, dearest?" She turned her attention to the little girl standing quietly at her side.

  "It is a palace," Amanda replied, turning her head first one way and then another in an effort to take in everything at once. A sudden thought struck her, and she transferred her gaze to her uncle.

  "Does the prince live here?" she asked, thinking what great fun it would be to meet an actual prince.

  Wyatt smiled at her question. "I'm afraid not, my angel," he said with a regretful shake of his head. "He lives in Carlton House when he's in London, and I'll show it to you someday. Would you like that?"

  If the grin on her face was any indication, his suggestion had clearly found favor in his niece's eyes. "Oh yes, Uncle Wyatt!" she assured him with a vigorous nod. "That would be ever so wonderful! Timothy Shanks lords it over everyone just because he has seen the Tower of London."

  "Well, we shall see the Tower, too," Wyatt told her with a laugh, delighting in her bellicose tones. He cocked an eyebrow at Miss Pringle. "I gather she and Mr. Shanks are not on friendly terms?" he observed wryly. "This is the second time I've heard her mention his name in less than a complimentary fashion."

  "The two scrap like cats and dogs," Nia replied bluntly, then flushed with shame. Prior to Nia's departure, Mrs. Langston had taken her aside to read her a stern lecture about the proper behavior for a governess in so noble a household, mentioning rather forcefully the need to keep a civil tongue between her teeth. She'd promised the headmistress not to disgrace either the academy or herself, and it was a vow she was determined to keep. At least . . . for as long as possible, she admitted with a flash of wry honesty.

  The door to the house was suddenly flung open by a liveried footman, and they were ushered inside by no less a personage than the duke's butler, a distinguished individual whom Wyatt introduced simply as Johns
. "He has been with our family since I was your age," he told Amanda in an effort to make her feel at home. "Is that not so, Johns?"

  "As you say, Your Grace," Johns replied with a low bow. "And may I say, Lady Amanda, what a pleasure it is to welcome you home? You've the look of your father and grandfather about you, and we are most happy to have you here."

  Amanda, delighted at hearing herself addressed as Lady Amanda, gave the butler an angelic smile. "Thank you, Johns," she said, in perfect imitation of her uncle's cultured voice. "That is very kind of you. May I have some tea, please?"

  "Of course you may, my dear." A pink-cheeked woman in a spotless white apron bustled forward to beam down at Amanda. "I'm Mrs. Mayton, His Grace's housekeeper, my lady, and I shall be happy to fix you the finest tea you've ever had."

  "And cakes, too?" Amanda asked, her eyes shining with eager anticipation.

  "And cakes, too," Mrs. Mayton repeated with a chuckle, offering Amanda her hand. "This way, then."

  Nia made to follow, but the duke lay a restraining hand on her arm. "One moment, Miss Pringle, if you will," he said, his dark eyes unreadable as he gazed down at her. "There are a few things we need to discuss."

  "Certainly, Your Grace," Nia replied calmly, doing her best to hide her sudden nervousness. Aside from a brief discussion with Mrs. Langston present, this was the first time she'd spoken with him since last night, and the memory of what had passed between them on that occasion made her cheeks burn with hectic color. Heaven only knew what he must think of her, she thought, following him down a wide hallway and into a book-lined study.

  Memories of that encounter were also in Wyatt's mind as he took his seat on the red leather chair behind his massive desk. Even though she was now wearing a severe gown of uninspiring blue topped by a prim, white apron, he kept remembering how she had looked last night with her dark hair tumbling about her shoulders, and her soft, creamy breasts gleaming in the moonlight. The erotic memory made his body react with unmistakable passion, and he angrily banished the image to the back of his mind.