The Dutiful Duke Read online

  "Pray be seated, Miss Pringle," he said, his tone clipped as he indicated one of the chairs with an impatient wave of his hand. "I know you are eager to see Amanda settled, but first I feel we should discuss your duties as governess."

  "My duties, sir?" Nia repeated in a bid for time to compose herself. When Mrs. Langston told her the duke wished to secure her services as Amanda's governess, she'd been too relieved to question the matter, but now she wondered if she hadn't been a trifle hasty. She had the distinct impression he didn't approve of her, and given her extraordinary behavior of last night she supposed she couldn't blame him. What if he'd only pretended to hire her, and would dismiss her now that she was in his power? The possibility had her nervously fiddling with her spectacles until her pride reasserted itself.

  What nonsense, she told herself sternly. The duke might well be her employer, but that didn't mean she was in his power. And who was he to sit in judgement of her actions? She wasn't the one who attacked a defenseless woman while in her cups! Just let him attempt to ring a peal over her head, she vowed, her eyes sparkling with temper. She'd soon set the arrogant beast straight.

  Wyatt watched her struggle for composure with cool amusement. He wondered if the minx knew how much her face revealed, and then decided she did not. He doubted she would be so free with her emotions if she was aware how obvious those emotions were to those with the wit to see. The thought was most intriguing, but at the moment there were more immediate concerns to be dealt with. He leaned back in his chair as he met her watchful gaze.

  "As you know, I am a bachelor whose experience with children is nonexistent," he began, cutting to the heart of the matter without preamble. "I am relying on you to see that Amanda is well cared for and lacks for nothing. Is that understood?"

  Nia, who'd been preparing to mount a spirited defense of her actions, was taken aback. "My lord?"

  "I am placing my niece completely in your hands," Wyatt rephrased, pleased to see he had caught her by surprise. "In addition to your duties as her teacher, I wish you to see to her other needs. Wardrobe, toys, that sort of thing. Naturally you'll be compensated for these additional duties," he added when she didn't respond at once.

  Nia straightened in her chair, her pride flaring at the hint she should be so avaricious. "Such compensation is unnecessary, Your Grace," she informed him tartly. "I would be delighted to see to all of Amanda's needs."

  "I should also like to be kept apprised of Amanda's progress on a weekly basis," he continued, ignoring the temptation of her flashing eyes. "You will report any problems to me at once, and if you wish to take Amanda anywhere you must first have my approval. Agreed?"

  These seemed reasonable requests to Nia, and she inclined her head in agreement. "Very well, Your Grace," she replied, matching his cool tones. "Will there be anything further?"

  "There is, actually." He studied her over his steepled fingers. "Matters progressed so quickly I fear we've overlooked the matter of your salary. Shall we say fifty pounds per annum?"

  Despite her mental vow to appear sanguine, Nia felt her jaw drop. "Fifty pounds?"

  "If that isn't sufficient, I should be happy to—"

  "Oh, no!" Nia interrupted, giddy at the thought of such largess. "It is enough . . . more than enough, in fact. 'Tis far more than I was paid at the academy."

  "Then we are agreed." Wyatt gave her a polite smile. "And of course I shall pay for all expenses you may encounter, as is, I believe, customary in these matters?" He raised an eyebrow as if seeking agreement.

  "Of course, sir," she replied, not about to reveal her ignorance of such things. Prior to her job at the academy, her positions had all been in far less exalted households, and she was as ignorant as he how such affairs were managed in the ton. Not that she intended telling him that, of course.

  "Very well, we are in agreement," he said, rising to his feet. "You might have Mrs. Mayton give you a tour of the house once you and Amanda are settled. With the exception of my private rooms, I've arranged for the second floor of the house to be set aside for your use. I hope you will be comfortable here."

  "I'm sure we shall, sir. That is most gracious of you," Nia said, surprised at his generosity. In one of her last posts she and her charge had been confined to three drafty rooms in the upper regions of the house.

  To her astonishment the duke's expression became closed. "Not at all," he said, his voice cold. "She is Christopher's daughter, and this is her true heritage. I want her to feel welcome. It is the least I can do."

  Nia digested that in thoughtful silence, wondering yet again why a man so apparently devoted to his late brother could have allowed his daughter to languish in an orphanage. She considered voicing her questions to His Grace, but the withdrawn look in his eyes made her think better of it. His reasons, whatever they might be, were his affair, not hers. All that mattered was Amanda, and with that conviction uppermost in her mind she excused herself and started toward the door. She almost reached it when the duke called out to her.

  "Miss Pringle, wait."

  "Yes, Lord Tilton?" She sent him a curious glance over her shoulder.

  Wyatt hesitated, hating the necessity for apologizing, but knowing he had no other choice. Whatever the truth of his parentage, he had been raised a gentleman, and no man could behave as he had without begging for forgiveness. He straightened his shoulders and met her curious gaze with equanimity.

  "I should like to apologize for my unspeakable behavior last night," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I admit I was in my cups, but that is no excuse for what I did. I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me, although I admit I do not deserve such courtesy."

  Nia gaped at him in shock. The last thing she expected was an apology, especially one so obviously heartfelt, and she was at a loss as to how she should respond. The important thing, she supposed, was that he had apologized, and given that, the least she could do was accept it. She swallowed the last of her anger and gave him a cool smile.

  "That is quite all right, Your Grace," she began. "I— "

  "No," he interrupted with a shake of his head. "It is not all right. It is never all right for a man to use his superior strength against a woman. Even if you had been the doxy I took you for, I was wrong to grab you as I did." His lips twisted in a self-deprecatory smile. "I don't blame you for pulling that pistol on me, ma'am. God knows I deserved it."

  His candor pleased Nia, and as she was never one to hold a grudge, her smile was genuine. "Easy for you to say, Your Grace, when you know the pistol was unloaded," she said, her eyes sparkling with humor. "Had I thought to put bullets in it, you might not be so sanguine."

  He expelled the breath he'd been unconsciously holding, relieved she was accepting his apology with such grace. Things would have been awkward if she'd flown up into the boughs, or worse, gone creeping about the house in terror of what he might do next. He enjoyed women, and the thought one might fear him made him feel less than a man.

  "Yes, I'd forgotten about that," he said, easily matching her light tone, "and again, Miss Pringle, your daring leaves me breathless. In future, however, might I suggest that the next time you level a gun at a man you take care to see it is loaded? Another man may not be as forgiving, especially in light of the trick you pulled prior to sticking the gun in my face."

  Nia's own face flamed scarlet at his words as she remembered the feel of his hard, strong body against hers. "Well, it's no less than you deserved," she muttered, looking anywhere but at him. "Your actions left me no other choice."

  "On that I believe we are agreed," Wyatt replied, inclining his head. "I'm not complaining, mind. Your maneuver was most effective. I would appreciate it if you would also teach it to my niece. It will relieve my mind to know she can handle her over-ardent beaus so"—he paused delicately—"efficaciously. Good day, Miss Pringle, that will be all."

  Following tea, Nia and Amanda accompanied Mrs. Mayton on a quick tour of the house. The little girl was greatly taken with the glitterin
g gold and white ballroom, while Nia fell quietly in love with the violet- and cream-colored drawing room which the housekeeper identified as the duchess's room.

  "Not that it gets much use these days, mind," the older woman sighed, casting a regretful look about her. "And a terrible waste I think it, too. A room like this cries out for people."

  "I quite agree, Mrs. Mayton," Nia said, running an admiring hand across the back of a carved settee. "But what do you mean, the room is seldom used? Does His Grace not entertain?"

  "Oh, to be sure, Miss Pringle," Mrs. Mayton replied, using the corner of her apron to wipe a speck of dust from the top of a side table. "But . . . well, this is such a feminine room, don't you think? And His Grace, being a man, prefers the front drawing room when he entertains. I don't imagine this room has been used more than half a dozen times since Her Grace passed away, God bless her soul. That is her portrait there." She indicated the painting hanging above the gilded fireplace.

  The woman was elegantly attired in a fashion that was all the rage some twenty years earlier. Her hair was a deep chestnut and arranged in a classic knot, with several tendrils falling loose to lay upon her creamy shoulders in a manner that was both demure and wanton. There was a sensuous pout on her rosy lips and a sly, knowing look in her light blue eyes that made Nia stiffen in dislike, and she turned away to give the housekeeper a polite smile.

  "She was quite lovely," she said, wondering what it was about the late duchess that had set her teeth on edge. "Have you a portrait of the duke's father? I am sure Amanda would like to see a painting of her grandpapa. Wouldn't you, sweet?"

  "Yes, Miss Pringle," Amanda agreed, shifting from one foot to the other. They had been in the pretty room for the longest time, and she was anxious for them to be on their way. The footman who had served her tea had told her there were over twenty rooms in the huge house, and she wanted to explore them all before Miss Pringle remembered it was a school day and made her do lessons.

  The housekeeper escorted them to the front drawing room, proudly indicating the painting which was hung above the Egyptian-styled settee. "The fifth duke of Tilton," she said, as if performing a formal introduction. "As you can see, Lady Amanda, you have his hair and eyes, just as your papa did."

  While Amanda sighed with appreciation, Nia studied the portrait carefully, searching for some resemblance between the golden-haired, violet-eyed duke and the dark, taciturn man she had left less than an hour ago. "This is His Grace's father?" she asked in surprise, although she thought she recognized the duke's firm mouth and aquiline nose in the painted features.

  "Yes, Miss Pringle," Mrs. Mayton replied. And then as if divining Nia's thoughts, she added, "The present duke takes after his maternal grandfather, he does. All black hair and dark eyes, just like a gypsy lad when he was younger. It caused no end of talk, I don't mind telling you. Why, there's some as say . . ." She broke off abruptly, a horrified look stealing over her face.

  "Shall I show you and her ladyship to your rooms?" she asked, her eyes sliding away from Nia's as she nervously fingered her chatelaine's keys. "I hate to be hurrying you, but I've my other duties to see to, and the day is getting on."

  "Of course, Mrs. Mayton," Nia said, understanding that the housekeeper had said more than was perhaps wise. Ah well, she gave a mental shrug, she had no use for servants' gossip.

  The housekeeper rushed them through the rest of the tour, barely giving them time to glance in at one room before bustling them on to another. The whirlwind tour concluded on the second floor, and after showing them their bedrooms and introducing them to Nancy, the young girl who'd been chosen to act as Amanda's nursemaid, the housekeeper dashed off again, leaving a bemused Nia to stare after her.

  She had little time to consider the other woman's singular behavior, however, as Amanda soon distracted her with demands that she see her new bedroom.

  "Did you ever see anything so pretty?" the excited girl demanded, bouncing up and down on the blue silk counterpane. "It is a princess's room!"

  "So it is," Nia agreed, trying not to wince as she studied the delicate Sevres vase on the dressing table. It was obvious that the duke had been entirely truthful when he said he had little experience with children, but he hadn't mentioned that his household shared a similar deficiency. No one with an ounce of sense would have put a six-year-old child in a room filled with costly antiques, and the first thing she meant to do was to move anything breakable out of harm's way.

  These next few days would be difficult enough without any avoidable disasters to mar the peace.

  Chapter 4

  "Tilton! Wait!"

  The sound of his name being called made Wyatt look up, and he saw Ambrose Royston waving at him from across St. James Street. He raised his own hand in acknowledgement, waiting impatiently as the other man dashed across the street, avoiding carriages and other obstacles with varying degrees of success.

  "Blast," he said, grimacing as he joined Wyatt on the corner, "and these boots were new, too. My man shall doubtlessly give notice when he sees what I've done to them."

  "That is why the good Lord invented bootscrapers," Wyatt replied easily, indicating one of the handy objects on the stone steps of the nearest building. "Just mind you do a thorough job of it. I much doubt the major domo at White's will appreciate your tracking that into the club."

  Ambrose complied with Wyatt's suggestion, grumbling all the while. "I don't see why these things always happen to me," he complained, shooting Wyatt an accusing look. "You could walk barefoot across a bloody pasture and manage not to step in anything. Unnatural, that's what it is."

  "Do you think so?" Wyatt was amused. "I prefer to think of it as luck . . . and ability, of course. One must develop a light step if one means to walk about the streets of London."

  "Rot." Ambrose gave a light laugh, his usual sunny spirits restored. "There's not a piece of dirt in the kingdom that would dare adhere itself to the exalted personage of the duke of Tilton. Breeding, old fellow, it always serves one in the end."

  Wyatt lost his easy smile. "If you say so."

  "I do," Ambrose said, as they made their way up the steps to their club. "Take me, for example; the younger son of a mere baron. Mud and filth feel perfectly free to attach themselves to me whenever they like, and there's naught I can do about it. Rather like that last scandal I was involved with, and the worse thing about scandal is that it is a great deal like mud. Once it is flung, it has the depressing tendency to stick."

  Wyatt gave Ambrose a thoughtful frown. "That sounds rather ominous," he said slowly, his eyes meeting his friend's. "Would you care to explain yourself?"

  "In a moment," Ambrose said, indicating the liveried servant who had opened the door. "There is some talk being bandied about town, and I thought you should know as it concerns you."

  Wyatt raised an eyebrow, his expression guarded as he surrendered his hat and gloves to the waiting servant. Several minutes later they were sitting in the far corner of the red drawing room, ignoring the brandy that had been poured for them.

  "Well?" he demanded, leaning his shoulders against the plush leather. "What is this all about? What did you mean by that cryptic remark about mud and scandal?"

  Ambrose was too well acquainted with Wyatt's forceful nature to waste time in prevarication. "There is some unpleasant talk in the clubs," he said bluntly, meeting Wyatt's hooded gaze. "They are saying you have a love child, and that you have moved her into your townhouse."

  "What?"

  "I know, I was shocked when I heard it, but—"

  "How the devil could any of this have got out?" Wyatt demanded harshly, controlling the level of his voice with difficulty. "My God, Amanda only moved in this morning!"

  Ambrose's blue eyes grew wide. "Good God, do you mean to say it's true?"

  "Of course it isn't true!"

  "Then who is Amanda? You haven't moved your cherie amie into the house, have you? That would cause even greater tattle than taking your bastard child under your wing
."

  Wyatt's eyes narrowed with rage. "In the first place," he began, his soft tone making Ambrose pale, "I never want to hear you refer to any child in so slighting a manner. In the second, who I have in my home is my concern, and no one else's. I will thank you to remember that. However, if it will relieve your mind, Amanda is neither my mistress nor my child. She is Christopher's daughter, his legitimate daughter. I have adopted her."

  "Christopher's daughter? Are you quite sure?"

  "I am quite sure," Wyatt said, his voice clipped.

  "I meant no offense, Wyatt," Ambrose hastened to assure him. "It is just . . . well . . ."

  "What?" Wyatt pressed when Royston did not continue. He knew he was behaving outrageously and made an effort to control his temper. "Don't be afraid to speak your mind, Ambrose. I shan't take your head off."

  Ambrose's eyebrows arched in sudden amusement. "Have I your word on that?" he teased. "No, what I was about to say is that given the fact you and Christopher were estranged at the time of his death, it is rather difficult for you to be certain about anything . . . isn't it?"

  Wyatt picked up his glass, studying its amber contents with a thoughtful frown. "Perhaps," he conceded reluctantly. "My solicitor asked much the same question this morning, and as I told him, Amanda has the Perryvale looks. There is no doubt in my mind that she is Christopher's daughter."

  "Well, so long as you are convinced, that is all that matters," Ambrose said, relieved the awkward moment had passed. "How old is . . . Amanda, did you say?"

  "Yes, and she is six . . . almost seven," Wyatt said, his harsh expression softening at the thought of his niece. "She is quite the little charmer, and I shall doubtlessly have my hands full when she makes her bows. The beaus will be buzzing about her like bees about a rose."

  Ambrose gave another chuckle as he raised his glass in a mock toast. " 'Tis a pity I never paid our Latin tutor any mind, else I daresay I could think of a dozen or so phrases that would be more than appropriate for the occasion. But as I cannot, I shall simply have to resort to plain old Anglo-Saxon." He took a sip of brandy and poked a teasing finger at Wyatt. "You, my friend, have been served up with your own sauce, and only fair, I would call it. Considering all the feminine hearts you broke in your salad days, 'tis only fitting that you should now be thrust into the role of anxious papa. I'll wager you'll scarce let her out of your sight. That's always the way it is with you reformed rakes."