The duke and his daughters, their alarming housekeeper, and their newly-acquired three-legged dog, had departed the inn two days before. While waiting for his butler to turn up with money and clothes, Miles had plenty of time for reflection.
It really was some sort of miracle that he had not been forever lost at sea. And then, there was something to the duke being on hand at the beach at just the convenient moment that smacked of divine intervention.
Could it be so? Were the fates attempting to tell him something? If they had been all along trying to communicate, he supposed they’d finally thrown up their hands and decided to almost kill him to see if he would perceive the message that way.
Nothing in his life before that squall at sea had hinted at the precariousness of his existence so directly. He was extraordinarily lucky to have been born into a title; he’d always recognized that fact—there was not much difference between himself and a local farmer but for education and money. But even the extraordinarily lucky could be taken out of life in a moment.
He was well aware that there would be plenty of thetonwho would vehemently disagree over luck having anything to do with their position in life. They soothed what might be a twinge of conscience for having so much and others having little by the idea that there was a nobility in their blood that made it right.
It was all nonsense, of course. If one traveled far back in time to the first titles handed out, what did one find? A bunch of men at the right place at the right time who backed the right side.
As he was so lucky to have been born on the finest bed sheets, perhaps he ought to recognize that the luck carried responsibilities. He must have an heir. To fail to do so would put the earldom into Montclave’s hands. The thought was intolerable.
In any case, he was not at all opposed to wedding a lady. He’d just not spent any time thinking about it.
Now he did spend time thinking about it. He spent time thinking about what qualities he would seek. His mind kept circling back to Lady Grace—she really was rather terrific.
Her family was odd, to put it mildly, and led by the oddest of them all—the duke. He supposed that did not signify though. If anything, he was rather charmed that the duke did not put on airs, as any duke would be expected to do. He did not peer down his nose at all the world, but rather met it with good humor. He met it eccentrically, if one were to face facts. The whole idea that he did not require a butler was strange indeed. And then there was the brocabbage pie…
Miles suspected the duke did not think there was anything particularly special about his blood either. Certainly, his daughters did not put on the sort of airs one so often saw from ladies highly placed. They did not practice the reserve Miles found vaguely unpleasant. They were not persnickety, but in fact rather casual. They had not insisted on a puffball of a purebred dog, but had gone wild for a three-legged, half-blind cur.
It was too soon to come to any firm opinions, but he was invited to dinner on Tuesday next. He was also invited to personally return the duke’s clothes. He would take up both of those opportunities. He would not confine himself to only that either. Miles would rein in some of his activities to make room for the sort of social events one went to when one was interested in meeting a lady. Less fencing, boxing, and racing, more dancing, routs, and whatever else the matrons of society were up to these days.
His musings were unceremoniously interrupted by his valet. Miles did not suppose it would be a pleasant interruption, as Moreau was looking very red in the face and perspiring.
“Moreau has walked miles to a laundress, as we are in the middle of nowhere and no civilized transportation is to be had. Then, Moreau waited hours for our clothes to be laundered and pressed, and then he staggered back again. This, all under the English sun which never comes out unless Moreau must exert himself.
“As you might imagine,” Moreau went on, “the company of the laundress and her two unfortunate-looking daughters was a delight. It seems those genial ladies are in the habit of trading in the business of local news. How I was regaled with interesting facts! It seems a young farrier has run off with a shopkeeper’s daughter! Where was this shop, I wonder, as I have not seen any shops! But that is a small matter, as I was fortunate enough to be told the entire tedious story.”
Miles dearly hoped he was not to hear the story too, though he supposed his wish would not be granted.
“I am not certain I could have carried on with life if I had been forced to struggle forward without the details of that fascinating interlude. Apparently, the shopkeeper’s daughter was always known as a flirt and may have flashed an ankle at the young farrier. There was even speculation that she paints her face to give herself a blush. Ah, but now my head is filled with this important information, and I can sleep peacefully at night. Also, that butler of yours has just pulled into the yard with your carriage.”
Miles leapt to his feet. It was really very typical of Moreau to list out all his complaints before getting to the real point. His carriage and clothes and money, along with his far more sensible servant, Wainwright, had arrived.
For the past two days he had been stagnant and waiting, but now it was time for action. He would see toThe Marquessa, make arrangements to get her back to Hull, and then he would set off for Town.
Somewhere in London, his future was waiting for him. His duty was waiting for him. He had been given back his life, and it was time he got on with the business of it.
*
THOUGH THERE WEREtimes when Grace found the endless hours of travel tedious, she had not been bored at all after they’d left Lord Dashlend at The Dolphin and the Dove. There had been so much to think about.
Naturally, Lord Dashlend had been much in her thoughts. Grace was a rather sensible creature at heart, at least she thought so. Therefore, she did remind herself that she had only met one gentleman, briefly. She ought not get carried away with imaginings. The season was yet to come.
And then, Nelson had provided interest along the way. They made the occasional stop so the dog might relieve himself at the roadside and it was fascinating to watch her sisters care for him.
He was leashed with a silk shawl, his collar made from a pearl necklace. Serenity, Patience, Winsome, and Verity all stood round him to make certain he did not run off and be left behind.
At the various inns where they stopped for the night, Nelson was at table for dinner. The duke did at first question it, but he was roundly scolded by his daughters. He had told them all that if they lost track of Nelson he would be left behind, therefore he must never be out of sight of someone in the family.
Serenity had even posited that Nelson might be in danger of being stolen. He was so unique that someone spotting him alone in a garden might wish him for their own.
Grace thought that rather a stretch of Serenity’s emotional imagination. As fond of him as they’d grown, she could not quite envision a person becoming consumed with envy over a three-legged dog who routinely bumped into things because he only had one good eye. Even had Nelson not experienced those two setbacks in life, he was unprepossessing to begin. He was very small, but he had not the charming looks of a lapdog. His eyes were of the bulging variety, forever giving him a look of faint surprise. His coat was rough, it was not quite curly but not altogether straight. He had an unfortunate underbite and his tongue seemed somehow longer than it ought to be. Her good sense told her that the luckiest day of Nelson’s life had been the day soft-hearted Serenity Nicolet had spotted him.
Of course, there was a certain charm to Nelson’s oddities that could not be denied. Even Winsome was defeated by them and Grace had caught her father having a confidential conversation with Nelson at breakfast one morning. She could not say how much of the conversation Nelson had taken in, as he seemed to be wholly engrossed by the platter of bacon on the table.
Finally, though, their caravan had arrived to Grosvenor Square.
