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Now, what to do about it? Surely, after never feeling such curiosity or admiration for another on such a fleeting encounter, it bore study? He smiled at his whimsy. He navigated the dangerous waters of high society with effortless finesse born from years of practice. Christopher had avoided the mouse traps set by many maters of the ton. It wasn’t that he had no wish to marry. Far from it. A duchess and children were inevitable. He knew his duty. It was the same of all previous dukes in his family. To continue their rich legacy, secure an heir, keep the family fortunes in tack, and keep their name scandal-free.
These lessons had been imprinted in his mind and heart from when he was a lad of four years, sitting atop his father's shoulders as they strode through the apple orchards. From an early age, he'd understood the pride and prestige of his line and appreciated all that would be required of him once he became of age.
He’d been the 9th duke of Carlyle for the last four years, and he had done his most damn to uphold all the expectations of his prestigious title. Except for one. He hadn't married. All previous dukes had been wedded by six and twenty, and their heir and spare had been in the nursery by eight and twenty. The expectation was that he would marry a genteel, privileged lady without a hint of scandal to her name—a proper duchess who would set examples for the other ladies of society on proper etiquette and decorum.
At thirty years of age, he was still a bachelor with no prospect for a duchess on the horizon. His mother was beside herself, his sisters were adamant to fix this discrepancy, and he was…well contented with the situation. Only because he hadn’t found her. Once he’d said that to his good friend Edward, the Marquess of Bancroft and the man had stared at him stupidly and declared all women were the same. Soft thighs and bosom to cradle a man and offer him sweet intimacy. All liked needlework, balls, and gossips. And if he spoke to one lady, he conversed with them all.
Christopher disagreed. Yet he wasn't altogether sure exactly what he looked for in his future duchess. The idea of someone as strict and proper as the previous duchesses was unappealing to him. While he was honor bound not to embarrass his title, he wanted someone he would like…admire…feel desire for, not a paragon of icy civilities like his mother and grandmother. Dear God, he loved them dearly, but no. And he wanted something more than admiration and lust, a rigidness to duty and decorum, but since he’d never experienced it before, it was undefinable. He believed when he found her, he would know.
His friends thought him an idiot for having such a belief. And after years of avoiding the marriage-minded maters, for the briefest while, a few moments past when he’d stared at the stranger’s blotched tear-stained face. Something unknown had quickened in him and had silently asked the question…is it you?
The ball and the revelry behind him, he turned onto St. James’s Street making his way to his townhouse on Grosvenor street. For the first time in his life, the question had stirred, and it was for a woman his mother and family would never approve for him. He smiled, genuinely wondering.
Is it you Miss Pippa Cavanaugh?
Chapter 3
“I fear we are ruined, my dear,” Lady Lavinia Cavanaugh said with a deep melancholy sigh. “Nigel was your only chance.” Before leaning forward to pick up her quill and sheaf of paper, the Baroness patted her elegantly coiffed hair to ensure nary a strand was out of place and smoothed down her ivory silk day dress at the front. Her mother always hid her hurt well by ensuring her mode of dress was impeccable.
“You are beautiful, mamma,” Pippa said with a soft smile.
Her mother nodded, and a pleased flush had lent some color to her cheeks. For the last three days, she had been wan and listless.
“Our only hope now is to write to your father’s heir, Mr. Winston Bellamy. He is unwed, and a pleasant young man. He’s a second cousin so an attachment between you two would not be frowned upon. I’m certain I can direct his interest toward your charms.”
Pippa lowered the book she’d been reading onto her lap. “Mamma, please. We have each other, and if we keep practicing sound economy, we shall be quite fine.”
Light gray eyes a replica of her own settled on her. “Nigel courted you for several months, Pippa. He made promises to you…to me, and now this is what we are greeted with today." She slapped the newspaper on the small walnut table between them. "How are we to ever recover from this? How can I not do everything to prepare for your future when you are ruined?”
“There was no public announcement of an attachment between us, mamma,” Pippa said patiently though her mother was fully awar
e. “There will be no scandal. Only disappointment and dashed hopes on our part.” She thought of the stranger, the only other person who knew that there had been some expectations. Surely, he would not tell a soul. The man had not seemed a person prone to gossip and speculation. “But we will rally and press onward. I am certain the way is not to write to papa’s heir.”
Another heavy sigh from her mother settled in the room. Then she said, “Another letter came for you.”
Pain and joy in equal measure rolled through Pippa. “May I have it?” she asked quietly.
Her mother plucked a letter from the stack of correspondence before her and handed it to Pippa. She quickly grabbed a letter cutter and sliced open the seal.
Dearest Pippa,
How I grieve to learn of the difficult circumstances of the estates. Unfortunately, I am not in a position to send funds at this moment. My dear Anna is with child again—
Pippa flinched, her fingers clenching and crumpling the paper. Unable to read anymore, she folded it and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
“What does it say?”
She snapped her gaze to her mother. In all the letters she’d ever received, not once had her mother queried their content. Pippa had been the stubborn one to impart specific news of her father. "Mamma—”
"I know you, my dear. You made a request for money…money that he can only get from his harlot.” A fretful pause ensued, and her mother resolutely held her regard. “What does your father say?”
Pippa flushed. “He regrets that he cannot help.”
Her mother flinched before bravely lifting her chin. “I will find a solution—”
“No mamma! I will find a way for us. Please let me share the burden. Will you attend Viscountess Shaw’s ball tonight?” she asked hoping to divert her mother away from today's woes. Though Pippa feared they would be the woes of tomorrow and years to come.
Her father did not share their burden and completely absolved himself of all responsibilities toward his wife and daughter in England. He only cared about his dearest Anna and their children, and it had never been more evident. She'd written a heartfelt plea, outlining their dire circumstance without whitewashing anything, and he'd still refused. Her heart ached with a fierceness that almost made her cry.
