AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Egads, if he were Catholic, he’d consider packing Celeste off to a nunnery until her twenty-first birthday.
After Dominic replenished his brandy, he looked up and caught a glimpse of his reflection in the gilt-edged mirror above the sideboard. There were fine lines radiating from the corners of his eyes and a peppering of silver in the black hair at his temples. Dear God, his daughter was sending him gray.
What heneededto do was take Celeste in hand. And even though he was as busy as hell, he must endeavor to spend more time with her. He certainly didn’t want to send her away to his country estate unless he absolutely had to. She’d already spent far too much time at that isolated place on the edge of desolate Dartmoor. She was crying out for attention, and it pained him to realize that his daughter wasn’t simply bored.
She was lonely. And he was to blame.
Trying to ignore the canker of guilt and regret sitting uncomfortably in his belly, Dominic wandered over to his desk and picked up one of the books Miss Sharp had confiscated.Lady Violetta and the Vengeful Vampyre.
He released a derisive huff, and his thoughts immediately returned to the prickly but strangely beguiling bluestocking he’d bumped into. What was the dashed appeal of these books? Of course, he knew about Gothic horror novels. Why, he’d read Mary Shelley’sFrankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheusand Polidori’sThe Vampyreyears ago to see what all the fuss was about. While they weren’t his cup of tea and he didn’t regard them as literary classics, he respected that not everyone had the same reading preferences.
But the books Celeste—and apparently Miss Flame-haired Bluestocking—enjoyed reading appeared to belong to an entirely different category. On skimming through the pages earlier on, he’d been shocked to discover that these particular Gothic romances contained quite suggestive love scenes. Miss Sharp had actually likened the books to “cheap, poorly written penny-bloods that one could buy on any street corner” and not worthy of anyone’s coin, let alone time. While Dominic didn’t have a problem with someone Miss Bluestocking’s age reading whatever she liked, these books were certainly not appropriate reading material for his daughter. And they were all penned by the same author using the pseudonym, Lydia Lovelace.
Lydia Lovelace.Ha!Dominic smirked. Miss Lovelace was probably some dissolute, crusty old hack of a writer who smoked a pipe and chuckled over his porter as he invented his ridiculous alliterative titles.Dominic picked up another slim volume.Lady Fanny and the Fantastical Phantasm.Lady Wilhelmina and the Wicked Werewolf.
And then there were the entirely outrageous euphemisms he’d spied in the thinly disguised lovemaking scenes. “His masculine rod.” “His colossal column.” “Her quivering bosom” and “vermilion velvet purse.” Oh, and how would he ever be able to forget the term “Lucifer’s love truncheon”? He recalled Miss Bluestocking had uttered something that was shockingly similar when she’d dropped her carpetbag.
While he was no prude and he couldn’t deny part of him was both titillated and amused by the ribald language—so much so he was tempted to read more just for the entertainment value—it wasn’t funny at all that Celeste had been reading such risqué material.
Dominic tossed the books aside and reclaimed his seat. While Miss Sharp appeared to be doing an adequate job—she’d been with Celeste for three years now—she also seemed… He frowned. A little too staid and serious perhaps? But then Dominic had initially hired her because he’d felt Celeste needed someone who was no-nonsense and set clear boundaries. Miss Sharp wasn’t paid to be Celeste’s friend, and of course, she could never fill the shoes of a female relative. Let alone a mother.
Guilt shredded Dominic’s gut, and he took a large swig of brandy to blunt a surge of pain. Celeste’s mother—his wife, Juliet—had passed away nine years ago in the most tragic of circumstances. Rumors abounded that Dominic had had a hand in her demise, despite a coroner’s clear ruling to the contrary.
Steadfastly locking away his bittersweet memories of Juliet and a tumultuous past he’d rather not revisit, he fell to contemplating what he could do to rectify the lack of a suitable female role model in Celeste’s life. He could call upon Horatia, his sister, but Celeste had never really warmed to her aunt. His own mother had passed away many years ago, and any other female relatives on his side of the family were elderly and infirm.
Considering Juliet’s family blamed Dominic for his wife’s death—particularly Juliet’s brother, Guy de Burgh, Lord Gascoyne—they wanted nothing to do with him. They’d made noises about taking Celeste away from Dominic when she was young, but he was a duke and there was no legal basis for them to do so. Besides, he loved Celeste beyond reason and there was no way in hell he’d let anyone else raise his child. Even though he seemed to be making a right royal hash of the job now…
Devil take him. Dominic tipped his head back and studied the plasterwork riot of rosettes and ribbons and cavorting cupids on the ceiling. The most obvious solution to his problem was the one he’d been avoiding for years. Even though he didn’t want to, logic dictated that he needed to take another wife. But she had to be therightsort of wife. Someone who would take Celeste under her wing and guide her. Someone she could look up to and admire.
Someone with an impeccable lineage and reputation.
A woman he’d be happy to share his bed with to beget an heir. He certainly wasn’t getting any younger, and he had a responsibility to the dukedom to ensure a smooth line of succession.
The problem was, any woman who was remotely respectable would probably avoid him like the plague. He was the Dastardly Duke of Dartmoor after all.
A knock at the door pulled him from his morose bout of brooding. It was his personal secretary, Morton. A large stack of papers was tucked beneath one arm and in his hand, he brandished several messages.
“Your Grace, I have a telegram from your man of business in Liverpool, which I’m sure you’ll wish to see straightaway,” he said, approaching the desk with sure, swift steps. “And there’s a letter from your solicitor, with an attached contract for you to review. Oh, and Disraeli and the Prime Minister kindly request your presence at Westminster at noon tomorrow. They’re keen for an update on the Great Western Railway’s position on the line to Falmouth. Disraeli is considering the establishment of a joint committee of management, so the proposed bill for the line doesn’t stumble in the House of Lords yet again.”
Dominic accepted the missives, glanced through them, then issued a few instructions. But then he halted Morton as he prepared to leave. “Just one more thing.”
The secretary tilted his lean frame into a small bow. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“On top of everything else that you do for me, I don’t suppose you keep abreast of the latest gossip about Town?”
Morton’s already lined forehead crinkled farther. “I’m afraid I only know as much as the social pages in London’s newspapers tell me, Your Grace. Although I’d be happy to keep my ears open. Is there anyone in particular you wish to glean intelligence on?”
“No, and that’s half the problem.” Dominic sighed. Since Juliet had died, he’d effectively placed himself in self-imposed social exile. Burying himself in work seemed far easier than having to face the unpleasant rumors constantly swirling around him every time he set foot in a ballroom. His presence might be tolerated in gentleman’s clubs and the House of Lords—no one could deny him a seat that was his by birthright—but the Dastardly Duke was not the sort of man you’d invite to dinner to meet your wife and daughters.
Indeed, Dominic had been avoiding social events for so long, he had no idea who would make a suitable duchess these days. Any gossip going round White’s tended to focus on the most salacious scandals involving wives and widows who were free with their favors, or which “prime articles” of recently debuted womanhood were worth ogling with a view to debauching or courting if the chit possessed a decent dowry.
He drummed his fingers on the blotter, annoyed that he was very much in the dark on this particular topic when he was aware of everything else of significance that was going on in the British Isles and even on the Continent.
There was nothing for it. He was going to have to swallow his cursed pride and seek his sister’s counsel. Given the fact Horatia had been harping on for the past year that he should remarry, he could almost hear her crowing with delight.
He dashed off a quick note inviting Horatia and her husband, the Earl of Northam, to lunch or dinner sometime in the next week, handed it to Morton to deal with, then focused his attention on the documents his secretary had furnished.
Better that than continuing to dwell on the trials and tribulations of fatherhood and his imminent foray into the cutthroat marriage mart. If his head of mostly jet-black hair had turned completely gray by the end of the Season, Dominic wouldn’t be the least bit surprised.
