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Caroline said nothing for a moment, stilled in the fear of the direction this conversation was taking. “Shall we have tea,” she said, hastening towards the house.
He caught her arm, and her reaction was instantaneous, the reaction any young woman of quality might have when touched by a man, especially if that touch was unwanted. “Unhand me,” she hissed, and his reaction was almost as automatic as her own. He released her but a moment later, his hand still rested upon her arm. “I have a better solution,” he said leaning close. “Accept my offer.” The acrid scent of stale cigar smoke permeated the man’s breath and clothing.
Caroline felt at once that she would retch. “What offer is that?” she said playing dumb and hoping to gain a moment’s time. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, which could entice her to marry the Duke of Manchester. Even if he weren’t the most loathsome creature she had ever met, even if her own father had not warned her against him, he had all but told her she was nothing more than a sword to be wielded at his whim. Or, at the very least, a solution to whatever upset he had just been dealt. Still, she could not insult him. He was a duke. The repercussions against her father could be great. A duke would have the ear of the throne, distant relation or no, and one did not incur the wrath of a duke or the throne lightly.
“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace,” she said with a deep curtsy before extricating herself and making to step around him and race toward the manor. If only she might pretend, she had not heard. “I’m afraid I forgot…”
“You didn’t forget a god’s damned thing,” he snarled and grabbed her forearm, none too gently this time. Anything light about his tone melted away to cold and steel. “I asked you to marry me and any lady in her right mind would know to accept.”
“Then my mind must surely be addled!” she shot back. She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and stared at him with open fury. Be damned what her father had warned her, for the duke had seen through the play either way. “For I would not marry you for all the stars in the heavens.” She felt at once that her words were quite the most extravagant thing she could have said and yet, she meant them to her very core. The duke snarled at her, baring his teeth as if to say that he could not possibly care less about her opinion. Only his opinion mattered to him.
“I’ve lost an heir, Miss Caroline, the only one worth his salt. The other is a womanizer and worthless.”
Caroline bit her lip to keep from shouting, then the apple does not fall far from the tree. Instead, she held her tongue.
“I tell you this now. I will have a wife and it will be you!” He spun on his heel and made for the stables. Even though Caroline watched him mount his steed and race off at full speed, she could not bring herself to move. Rather, she stood there trembling for several long moments before finally going indoors. A wife? No, she thought. He didn’t want a wife. He wanted a brood mare and one that could hold her own against the bite of London. The loss of an heir could be devastating to a bloodline in uncertain times but that was not her problem to solve.
Manchester had a spare; she had heard him speak of both of his sons. The eldest may have passed, but the other remained alive and in good health for all she could tell. Sure, he might be a rake but that wasn’t all that uncommon. He would simply have to marry. Then the Duke would have no issue ensuring the continuation of the line unless some other fell happening took place. The odds of the loss of both sons by separate means were unfortunate but unlikely. Why the duke held such fascination for having two in line at all times was beyond Caroline’s comprehension. His wife had borne two sons, two male heirs without even the complication of a daughter. How many women throughout the ages had failed to provide such an assurance? True, one had died, but one remained. Was that not the sole purpose of having had the second? The duke’s lineage would be considered well protected by any reasonable onlooker; an addition to the line would only be a drain on resources. Wouldn’t the duke be better off just passing his lot to his son and be done with it? He seemed adamant in his conviction, but Caroline still felt his urgency to be flawed. It was not as if he had loved his eldest. Sure, he thought him the prime example of what a successor ought to be, but even so, neither son had seemed to hold much of the duke’s affection so why should he now prefer one so much above the other? Could the younger really be that incompetent? She doubted it. Moreover, why should she care? Rather than dwell on the strange workings of the duke’s mind and motivation, she went straight up to her rooms, locked her door and settled on her bed with her book. Inexplicably, she began to cry. Tears streamed down her face unbidden.
CHAPTER4
Only once before had she felt such a certain, impending sense of uncontrollable doom. That had been the day her mother had died. Then, she had known, had felt, that nothing would ever be the same again. This moment was no different. She had seen it in the duke’s eyes. He had made up his mind. She might have refused him, but he would stop at nothing to have his way. He was a duke. He was right. She would not refuse him. She could not. She could only hope that her father would second her refusal. He had to. He must. And hopefully, the duke would relent. Else, where could she run?
Miss Caroline was in no mood for a celebration when the hunting party returned. The wives of their neighbors, noblemen who had joined the hunt, those bound to this side of the flooding, appeared just before nightfall. The boar would be roasted through the night by the servants who had erected a spit out of doors. Tonight, they would feast on the overabundance of the cellar and larder to make room for the fresh meat. It had been a bountiful year, especially after the last spare years when the influenza had wracked the land.
Despite the cheerful banter of their guests, she had little to entice her into conversation. Her father’s friends were all nearly twice her age and their children, whom she had interacted with often in earlier years were all married off or away on some visit or other. She was alone in a room full of people. Yet, as she must, she fulfilled her duty by appearing at her father’s side while the massive meal was laid in the ornate dining hall. She knew that her father could sense that something was amiss, but she had no way to tell him what had transpired between herself and the duke while they were surrounded by boisterous guests excited to tell the story of the hunt.
After dinner, they withdrew to the music hall where one of her father’s closest friends, Sir Adam Jennings, pulled out his lute, as he was like to do on such evenings, so that the ladies might dance. He implored Miss Caroline to pluck the pianoforte at his side, but she refused. The duke watched her with a wry grin. He seemed to add another tally to the list of things she had hid from him, and he was not wrong in that assumption. Miss Caroline had always enjoyed watching others dance. She even joined the merriment on occasion when her father would allow it, but for the most part, he preferred not to see her laugh and spin as her mother had so loved to do. Part of her longed for that freedom. She missed the feeling of being lost in the movement. More so now on this night when the threat of being torn from her own little paradise hung heavily in the air. Tonight, however, she would remain an observer for her mind was elsewhere.
She had long thought that this would be her life. The simplicity of the country surrounded by people that she knew and loved. Quiet, serenity, and joy without artifice or malice. There was something perfect about life here in Northwickshire. Something that she never wanted to change. Something that she had been certain never would.
She had no recollection of how long she stared at the joyful dancers. It was only when her father’s hand settled upon her shoulder that she was startled back into the present. She had not even noticed that he had gotten up from the chair beside her. Nor had she any idea how long he had been gone. She glanced over at Sir Jennings who at some point had switched from a lively jig to the best rendition of a cotillion he could manage without other musicians. How many songs had been played between, she wondered? It seemed that she had been lost in her own thoughts for hours.
“A word,” her father said with a nod toward the hall. Miss Caroline’s heart leapt into her throat. He was looking at her, truly looking, with eyes full of hurt and sadness. His hand upon her shoulder, so unfamiliar and yet the memory of how he had used to comfort her with such a gesture when she had been a small girl made the moment all that more real.
“What is it, Father?” she asked with concern.
“Not here,” he murmured. His eyes flickered to something behind her and she turned just enough to see the Duke of Manchester drinking heartily straight from a pitcher that he had pilfered from a passing servant. Miss Caroline felt ill. The duke looked far too celebratory for her liking. It was unseemly. He clapped a companion on the shoulder, clanged their drinks together, and threw back the last of the ale.
“Father…” she began.
“Not here,” the baron repeated. His tone brooked no argument. She could see from the set of his jaw and the pitying way he looked down upon her that he had already made up his mind and determined that she would not like it. That could only mean one thing. Miss Caroline did not care what the duke had said to sway her father. She would fight tooth and nail to change his mind. It was, after all, a decision which would change her life.
Miss Caroline set her shoulders and steeled her iron will. She would speak to her father in private and they were both well aware that she was not like to hide the barbs on her tongue in closed quarters so well as she did under the watchful eyes of others.
Her father took a deep breath and stepped in front of her to lead the way.
So, it was to be a battle of wills, she thought. She bit her lip and kept her mouth closed with some effort.
“I won’t do it,” she snapped as soon as the door to the study had closed behind her. “I won’t marry him. There is nothing that you can say to alter my decision.”
“We haven’t any choice,” the baron murmured as he ran his hand down his face.
“I have every choice,” she spat. “Mother made sure that I would always have the choice.”
“Do you think so little of me?” he murmured. “We both, your mother and I, thought to give you the freedom to follow your heart. Something that I understand dearly now that I am unable to do so.”
“Then why would you force this upon me now?” she asked. How could he have such a change of heart if it was not due to the fact that he had ceased to love her ever since her mother had died?
