Page 240 of Desires of a Duke Collection

The following day, Fenwick House, Mayfair

Her fork hovering over her breakfast plate whilst she held a letter in her other hand, Violet Cummings gasped softly and looked up to stare at her brother.

Philip, Earl of Crawford, tore his attention from that morning’s edition of The Times to regard his sister with a curious expression. “What is it?”

“Father,” she breathed. “He’s coming to London.”

Setting aside the newspaper, Philip stared at his sister for a moment before asking, “Does he say when?”

“Well, according to this, he ordered the groom to prepare the traveling coach for the following day. Says he’s grown tired of rusticating in the country and wants to join us here at Fenwick House.”

For a moment Philip seemed at a loss for words. “He misses you,” he finally said.

“He misses Mother,” Violet countered, dropping the letter onto the mahogany table. She dipped her fork into coddled eggs and sighed. “Can’t say I blame him. They seemed…” She paused as she considered how their parents had behaved with one another. Not as a couple deeply in love, but rather as two people who found one another so amiable, they could have been best friends.

“Friendly,” Philip stated. “Which I suppose is the best they could hope for given theirs wasn’t a love match.”

Violet scoffed softly. “Why do you say it like that?”

For a moment, her brother seemed reluctant to respond, then leaned back in his chair. “Did you ever ask him about Mother? While you were still living there?”

Although Philip had moved to London after finishing university, Violet had remained with their father, Michael, at Fenwick Park in Shropshire, acting as his hostess when he held an occasional dinner party for the local landed gentry or hosted a district ball.

“We talked about Mother frequently,” she replied. “Mostly because I wanted to talk about her, though. Not because… not because he wanted to.” Indeed, for the first year after Barbara Fulton Cummings’ death, their father didn’t speak of her at all. Not unless Violet mentioned her. Not unless she told him how much she missed her.

Lady Fenwick had been a rather attentive mother. Loving. Determined to see to it her children were worthy of the marquessate into which they had been born.

“Did Father ever tell you how they met?”

Violet lifted a shoulder. “Only that he knew her because her family lived at the Brougham estate during the summers.” The neighboring country house frequently hosted visitors from the capital, including the eldest daughter of Charles, Earl of Montaine. Barbara had been expected to wed the son of an earl, but when that young man died of influenza in the winter of 1815, Michael had asked Charles if he might court her. The earl was happy to give his permission—Barbara would be a marchioness if they married. “I think they knew one another from when they were children,” Violet responded. “They used to play together as children.”

Philip furrowed a brow. “She died of the same ailment that took the man to whom she was originally betrothed,” he remarked. “I wonder if she loved him? Or if it was an arranged match?” At Violet’s sound of protest, he added, “Aristocrats used to do that, you must know. Arrange marriages for their children. For political reasons, I suppose.”

“Father said it was for the money.”

Philip winced. “I suppose that could have been the case for some. Certainly not for Father. Not for me, either. I’m going to marry for love.”

Helping herself to a toast point, Violet regarded him with a mischievous grin. “I do like the thought of having a sister.”

“That’s good. Let’s hope you two will get along,” he countered.

“Oh, we already do,” Violet said in a quiet voice.

Philip blinked and then glanced around the breakfast parlor before he said, “How can you possibly know who it is I plan to marry?”

Violet had trouble suppressing an unladylike snort. “Because she and I have already discussed our future as sisters. And I must say, Lady Amelia is a joy to be with. However did you convince her to be your wife?”

The newspaper forgotten, Philip shrugged. “I didn’t have to. We’ve been in love since the first time we danced together. At the beginning of last Season, in fact,” he said. “Before she had to go into mourning for her father.”

“Love at first sight?” Violet asked, incredulous.

“Not exactly. I mean… we talked for a time. Walked in the gardens. Danced together again.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I kissed her goodnight, and ever since… well, I just know I want her to be my marchioness.”

“So… love at first sight,” Violet accused with a grin. “Have you two already been playing house together?”

“Is that what she said?” he asked in a whisper.

“Not exactly. But… she was rather concerned when she fell so hard for you. She feared you would think her fast.”

He scoffed. “I never once thought that,” he claimed. “In fact, for a time, I feared she might be playing me, that she didn’t return my affection.”

It was Violet’s turn to scoff. “She did from the moment she met you.” She sighed with contentment and then suddenly sobered. “I wonder if it will be like that for me?”

Philip winced. “You’ve only been to two balls so far,” he remarked. “I take it no one has yet caught your eye?”

Not about to tell her brother there had been someone she thought rather handsome, Violet merely shook her head. “Not yet.” She hadn’t even been introduced to the aristocrat, but given his relationship to Amelia, she supposed it might be soon.

“Well, don’t give up hope,” he said absently, his gaze on an article in the paper. “Judging from the pile of invitations Browning delivered to my study this morning, we’ll have an entertainment to attend just about every night for the next eight weeks.”

“I’ll collect them and write responses later today,” she replied. Violet resumed eating her breakfast, her attention going back to the letter from her father.

For a moment, she felt guilt at having left the marquess alone at Fenwick Park. She might have continued to live there, but at the age of eighteen, she had asked him if she could be allowed to have a Season in London.

There wasn’t a single bachelor in Shropshire who appealed to her, nor was there an aristocrat under the age of forty her father could recommend.

As a result, Michael, Marquess of Fenwick, arranged for his aunt, Katherine, Duchess of Pendleton, to be Violet’s sponsor for the Season. A fortnight later, and Violet had joined her older brother at Fenwick House in Mayfair. Aunt Katherine had obviously informed everyone she knew of Violet’s arrival, for invitations to entertainments began arriving at Fenwick House the same day she did.

Now that her father was on his way to join them in London, Violet wondered if he would be amenable to attending some of those same events.

If so, she supposed a visit to Aunt Katherine might be in order for the day.

She was fairly sure her father hadn’t sent a letter to his aunt informing her of his impending arrival, and she knew her great aunt would appreciate the advance notice.

Katherine could no doubt use her connections to gain invitations for her father. He was long out of mourning, after all, and it was time he be reintroduced to London society.