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His family had apparently called in reinforcement. No doubt the latest mentions of the Duke of C had driven them into an apoplectic fit. She had been at his country estate in Dorset these last several months, not interested in visiting London for the season. His grandmother was even more proper and exacting than his mother, but it had always been easier speaking with her. What he would say to her was another matter? “I will be with her shortly. Have tea and cakes brought to us.”
The butler bowed again and withdrew.
A few moments later, he strolled toward his grandmother, his two wolfhounds—Astra and Samson—bounding playfully by his side. They had been gifts from his grandmother who would never admit her deep love for dogs. Even now she would barely pat their heads, for it was too unbecoming to lower to her haunches and greet them with hugs.
She stood as he approached, a woman not yet seventy who remarkably appeared several years younger, with barely a touch of gray in her rich dark mane of hair or wrinkles on her skin.
“Grandmother,” he greeted warmly, dipping to press a kiss to her cheek.
She eyed him critically, and he grinned. "Do I pass muster?"
A smile twitched at her lips, and she lowered herself to the stone bench. He sat beside her, ignoring her disdainful sniff when the dogs sprawled at their feet. They exchanged mild pleasantries before she got to the heart of what had driven her from the country.
“I’ve heard a most alarming rumor, and this news reached me in Dorset.”
“I am certain you exaggerate the importance of whatever you heard. Those country folks believe a lady smiling in the presence of a gentleman is news.”
“Do not act facetious with me, Carlyle.”
She insisted on calling him by his damn title, and nothing he said would deter her, for referring to him thus was proper. "And what shocking titbit have you heard?"
“You’ve danced only once this season…and it is with the most unsuitable girl.”
“Ah, it relates to Miss Pippa Cavanaugh. Important then.”
His grandmother shifted, glaring at him with silver eyes a perfect replica of his own. "This is true?"
As if his mother and sisters had not given her an earful. “It is,” he said with a slight dip of his head.
“Do you understand the speculations surrounding both of your names because you singled her out for your attention? My dear boy, the matter must be rectified immediately.”
"I will," he promised. "My intentions will become clear, and there will be no need for speculation by society."
She gasped before freezing in evident astonishment. “Your intentions?” she queried through bloodless lips as her eyes narrowed.
He smiled gently, wondering who in their right mind would want to marry into his overbearingly pompous family. “Yes,” he said fondly scratching behind Samson’s ear. “I plan to woo her…and make her my duchess if she will have me.”
His grandmother actually spluttered. “If she will have you? You, my dear boy, are Carlyle! If she will have you? What outrageousness is this? If I should ever condescend to approve the match, she will be a duchess, and you doubt she will have you? Who is this gel?"
He tipped his head to the bright sky squinting against the fiery ache of the sun, thinking through Miss Cavanaugh and her exciting complexities. "She does not see me as a duke, but as a man," he murmured. "I do not think she cares if I am wealthy or a pauper, but it does seem to matter to her that I am kind."
The memory of the admiration in her eyes when he’d given the boy the coat floated through him, along with the pain and condemnation when she thought he’d been dishonorable. “Her trust has been betrayed before, but it has not made her bitter or spiteful. She is refreshingly honest and seems to possess no skills for flirtation or artful flattery. Miss Cavanaugh is loyal to those she calls a friend even to her own detriment. A lifelong companion with such qualities is more precious than rubies. I will not allow our ships to sail past each other."
His grandmother gasped softly at his crudeness. “That bad business with that gypsy girl—”
He stroked along Samson’s back, allowing icy civility to creep into his tone. “I am no longer a boy of twenty. And that gypsy girl died trying to give birth to your grandchild. She had not been a mistake, but an experience I will never regret. I only wish her life had not been lost.”
“My dear boy—”
He leaned in and kissed her cheek before standing. “ I trust I can rely on you to convey your approval of my choice when I make it to mamma, Selina, and Amelia.”
She harrumphed, and he grinned. "Shall we retire inside so I may read Dickens’s latest masterpiece to you?"
With a sigh, she nodded, and he assisted her to her feet. The dogs bounded after them as they strolled along the cobbled path to the side entrance of the townhouse.
“Tell me more of this Miss Cavanaugh,” she invited.
And he did. Describing her lovely smile, the way she worried her bottom lips when she was anxious, and the fierceness with which her eyes sometimes flashed. Belatedly, he realized he spent an inordinate amount of time talking about her eyes. After a while, it occurred to him his grandmother meant for him to speak of Miss Cavanaugh’s family connections and her reputation. He fell in to silence quite perturbed by the poetry he'd been waxing. To feel so much for a lady who might not regard him even as a friend was distinctly uncomfortable.
