Page 17 of A Tale of Two Dukes
His cousin’s new wife was a remarkably attractive woman, Richard thought as he sat with Edward in the library, sharing what would once have been, but now no longer was, companionable silence, the fire crackling between them and masking their new lack of easy conversation.
And then, hearing the echo of his own unspoken words in his head – he’d perhaps had too much of Winterflood’s fine old brandy, which was fatally smooth – he smiled wryly at his own pomposity.
She was a lovely girl. Imagine how beautiful she’d be if she were happy.
Richard had been out of the country last summer, in America, when the Duke had married for the third time.
He’d had a diffident letter from his cousin informing him of the fact, which only reached him months later because he was moving from place to place so much.
It held a perceptible and rather affecting undertone of anxiety that he might disapprove of the match.
He hadn’t; it was obvious why Winterflood was doing it, poor old fellow, and no doubt, he’d thought, with a youthful cynicism that he was a little ashamed of now, it was a fair enough bargain.
Her body, whoever she was, and her youth, in exchange for the title of Duchess of Winterflood and all the wealth, status and security that brought with it.
Security for life, which was much more than most people of any rank had, and something he struggled to imagine ever having for himself.
It was the sort of unequal union that happened every day, and nobody questioned any part of it.
On the contrary, he supposed that almost everyone believed the young woman in question, who would be considered a mere nobody without title or connections, was lucky to have snared herself such a rich prize, the richest. A duke!
Back in London, his dangerous mission done with, he’d written to tell Edward of his return – though not of his recent activities, of course – and to reiterate his congratulations in case his previous letter of reply had gone astray, as seemed quite likely, given where he’d been over the past few months.
Winterflood had written back with alacrity, flatteringly glad to hear from him, and invited him to come and stay immediately, for as long as he liked.
Richard had just endured a long and perilous winter sea voyage on top of months of hard overland travelling and bursts of acute physical danger, and was delighted to accept.
A few relaxing weeks in the country, riding, shooting and talking idly with his cousin and good friend, always the most undemanding of company, were exactly what he needed.
And now here he was, enjoying his cousin’s lavish hospitality and the much-needed opportunity to relax for a while.
Except he wasn’t enjoying it, and for this, the presence of the new Duchess was responsible.
It wasn’t in any sense because she was a terrible hostess.
Considering that she could have had no experience of overseeing a house of this size, things ran as smoothly as they ever had when her predecessor Elizabeth was alive.
Perhaps it was the servants who knew exactly what they were about, and she had little to do with it; but even so, they seemed to defer to her and treat her with respect, as far as he could tell.
And it wasn’t her personality – she wasn’t rude or standoffish, nor was she over-friendly, she was neither too loud nor too quiet for his taste, and her touching anxiety that he should be perfectly comfortable was not in any way overpowering.
But he wasn’t comfortable. He realised that now as he sat brooding by the fire and Edward nodded sleepily over a book opposite him, like a man of sixty.
It had been all very well to imagine, insofar as he had bothered to imagine it, his cousin marrying some faceless young woman who might just possibly give him the heir he so desperately needed at last. Richard had had no quarrel with that; he wanted the old fellow to be happy again, as he had not been since Elizabeth’s death, and he was entirely in agreement with him that his own older brother was the last man in England who should ever get his grubby hands on the power and influence a dukedom brought.
Winterflood had always been a tranquil place, but it wouldn’t remain so for long if it fell into the grasp of a bully and spendthrift such as Tarquin Armstrong.
He’d recently encountered his brother by chance in a London tavern, and instead of greeting him with foul and unprovoked insults as he usually did, Tarquin had been almost friendly, for the first time that he could recall.
Richard had soon realised that this novel behaviour did not reflect any welcome change in Tarquin’s character or feelings towards him.
No, it had come about only because his sibling was so incensed still at the thought of Edward’s unexpected third marriage that he could not refrain from ranting about it to anybody within earshot, and all the better if the person forced to listen to his ravings actually knew the Duke.
This vitriol seemed extraordinary, since Mr Armstrong had had many months to get used to the idea.
But his fury, and his fear of being cut out when he’d thought himself secure, seemed to have grown stronger rather than waned.
Clearly, he’d been brooding unhealthily on the subject; one might almost call it an obsession.
He’d also been foxed, as usual, and after a while, Richard had tired of his drunken ramblings and – surely – idle threats towards Edward and his bride, and slipped away, with all kinds of slurs that encompassed the young Duchess’s character and Winterflood’s virility, or presumed lack of it, ringing unpleasantly in his ears.
And though five or six and forty wasn’t any great age, even from the perspective of one and twenty, Edward was looking worn and anxious these days, and much older than his years, as Tarquin had implied.
He claimed to be well, but he didn’t look it.
So the matter of an heir was sufficiently urgent, Richard could see that.
But the new Duchess wasn’t a faceless young woman any longer – a mere cipher.
She was an individual: Viola Constantine.
She didn’t smile very often, but when she did, it was like the sun breaking suddenly through a cloud and lighting up the scene.
She was just eighteen, had been seventeen when she’d married Edward last year.
Looked at objectively, that was surely wrong, the age gap verging on the grotesque, he thought now.
His insufficiently considered views about the whole matter – about many matters – had undergone a radical shift since he had met her.
He’d heard fragments of gossip about the ill-assorted match in London, where people were still tittering cruelly and crudely over Winterflood’s fresh burst of desperation to get himself a son after so many fruitless years.
Remarks Viola had let fall in conversation had confirmed what he’d heard about her background: her family was not a wealthy one, she had five sisters and no brothers, her father was in poor health, and his modest estate was entailed.
Her older sister had been married for a couple of years to a wealthy man of no particular standing, and had given him a boy already, with another child on the way by now.
If Edward felt he must throw the dice one last time and wasn’t overly concerned with the social status of his bride, no better candidate could be imagined for his purposes.
Of fertile stock, poor, and therefore likely to be grateful and compliant.
Compliant – Jesus. He winced now when he thought of his earlier careless, heartless reaction.
Richard would not have found his conscience so suddenly tender if she’d turned out to be an obvious fortune-hunter, happy to sell herself for the highest rank any debutante could aspire to.
If the bargain such a person entered into turned out not to be the one she had expected, if the reality of a husband old enough to be her father did not in the end please her, one could only shrug and be a little sorry for the way the world was ordered.
But she was not in the least like that. She did not appear to take any great pleasure in hearing herself called Duchess, nor was she revelling in spending Edward’s money on herself, or on anything, as far as he could see.
Her gowns were simple, and she seemed happiest when riding out across the estate or playing with the dogs; if she was pining for London, it was her close family she missed – she’d admitted as much in an unguarded moment.
Her new responsibilities seemed to cause her nothing more than anxiety, and what caused her the most distress, though she tried to conceal it, was Edward himself, and the uncaring way he treated her.