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L ord Winston Chamberlain, the Duke of Hertfordshire was greatly frustrated with his son. He wanted Archibald to marry, but he had given him his word he would not force the issue until he turned thirty, and on his past birthday, his son had reached the age of seven and twenty.

He was sitting in his study in Hertfordshire House on Grosvenor Square.

It was a large and very comfortable home.

His darling Grace had decorated with comfortable, liveable, understated elegance rather than the showy opulence many in the Ton preferred.

They thought it showed off their wealth and status, and his late Grace had thought it showed their bad taste in décor.

His brother-in-law, Bedford, had told Hertfordshire of his plans to develop a parcel of land he owned and create Russell Square.

To that end, his fellow duke had employed James Burton to design the Square and Humphry Repton for the gardens.

Francis Russell, the Duke of Bedford, told him it was still some years off, but he was determined to make it an exclusive address with a low number of homes to be built.

Hertfordshire had committed to purchasing one and moving Hertfordshire house there when the houses were ready.

He knew that if his beloved Grace had been alive, she would have been happy to live next to Lady Rose Russell, her younger sister, the Duchess of Bedford.

It would have been hard for her to move away from Matlock House, where her best friend lived, but living next to her sister and it being only a mile between the new and old houses would have made the move palatable to his late Grace.

The Duke was snapped out of his reveries when his son and heir entered the study. “Father, you summoned me?” Hertford asked as he took one of the seats across the enormous mahogany desk from his sire.

“Why is it you are seven and twenty and have not found an acceptable woman to marry yet?” Lord Hertfordshire demanded. “You have less than three years before I make the choice for you.”

“Because, Father, I am keeping my word to Mother. I will not settle for someone I neither love nor respect,” Hertford stated evenly.

“Before the illness took Mother, she made me promise I would not settle for someone I do not love. Yes, I know of our agreement. I am seeking one who will be acceptable to you as well as my late mother.”

“And I have countermanded her wishes. As much as I loved my Grace, and because of the hole which has been left in my heart from losing her, I will not sit idly by and allow you to experience the same pain, or heaven forfend, worse.” Lord Hertfordshire slammed his fist down on his desk.

“I regret I gave you until thirty to find a wife. Do not forget that part of our agreement is that, if you find a potential wife, I must approve of the lady. I will not allow you to make an unwise choice. Am I understood?”

“You are, Father. Like you, I will keep my word. Is there anything else, any other business we need to discuss?” Hertford stood and waited for his father’s reply.

“You may go.” Lord Hertfordshire waved his son away.

On receiving the message from his father, Lord Archibald Winston Chamberlain had made the short ride from Hertford House on Portman Square.

As he walked back to where his horse was being held for him in the semi-circular drive which allowed coaches to disgorge their passengers closer to the house, he was questioning the wisdom of the agreement he had made with his father.

He remembered the conversation as if he and Father had just had it.

~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~

Early 1781, six months after Lady Grace passed away

“You asked for me, Father,” Hertford said after he knocked on his father’s study door at Falconwood, the primary estate of the Hertfordshire Dukedom.

The very large estate straddled the Buckinghamshire and Hertfordshire borders.

On the former county’s side, the closest town was Chesham, and in the latter shire, it was the market town of Meryton.

“It has been more than six months since your mother was taken from us, and as such, I want to decide on your marital future. We must secure the future of the dukedom, and more importantly, I will not have you experience the pain of losing one you love,” Lord Hertfordshire stated emphatically.

“Father, even if I do not marry and beget a son, the dukedom is secure. My sister and brother-in-law have Anthony. I know he is but one, however, I also know that the title will flow through Leticia and her son if I never have any children.” Hertford paused as he cogitated over the words he needed to use.

“I know that the loss of my mother has left you in pain, but surely you prefer to have had the more than two decades you shared with her rather than none at all?” His father scowled but said nothing, so he proceeded.

“I gave Mother my word that last time I spoke to her on her deathbed. Are you telling me to go back on my word?”

“I am indeed! Your mother loved you and Leticia deeply and would not want to see either of you be tormented in the manner I am now. It is too late for Leticia; she married Barrington for love and will one day experience the pain of loss to some degree, but you are still young enough, so I can do something about your future. Yes, my grandson could inherit if there is no choice, but I refuse to believe that you or I will be the last Chamberlain to bear the title. I will select an appropriate bride for you when you are old enough. You will have an arranged marriage and never experience the anguish I feel.”

“Please, Father, can we not table this discussion for when you are not grief-filled?”

The Duke slammed his fist onto his desktop again. “No, we will decide this now. By the time you are thirty, I will arrange a marriage for you. You are my son and will obey me in this.

Knowing he needed to be very careful with the next words to come out of his mouth, Hertford took a deep breath. He prayed his father was still willing to compromise as he had been in the past. “Father, may I propose an alternative solution?” he requested.

His father extended his right arm, hand palm up, in a gesture to tell his son to proceed.

“My compromise is that you allow me until I am thirty to find a bride on my own. If I reach my thirtieth birthday, and I am not married, or at the very least, engaged, I will marry whosoever you select as my wife.”

His first inclination was to reject his son’s compromise out of hand. Rather, Hertfordshire took some time to mull over what Archy had proposed. He sat back in his chair; his hands interlaced over his portly belly as he considered the pros and cons of what had been suggested.

The Marquess remained stoic and did not attempt to disturb his father’s thought process. He was certain had he done so, Father would have decided against him without a second thought. He kept his features schooled and waited.

The Duke put his hands on the armrests of the enormous, very comfortable chair and used his grip on the wood to sit forward.

Then he placed his arms on the desktop and steepled his fingers.

“I will agree to your plan.” He held up his hand to stay the excitement he saw building on his son’s countenance.

“There is a caveat. The only way I will agree to this is if I have the right to approve of or deny your choice, if you find one.” Hertfordshire saw his son about to protest. “It is non-negotiable. If you refuse me on this, I will arrange your marriage for you no matter what.”

Hertford took some deep breaths as he considered his father’s condition.

At least this way he still had a choice.

He could not see his father vetoing a choice, if he found one he wanted to marry, unless she was wholly inappropriate.

“I accept your terms, Father. Do you want to have Mr Marylebone draw up the agreement, or do you trust me to honour my word as I believe you will honour yours?”

The Duke lumbered out of his seat and extended his hand. “We will shake on the agreement as gentlemen. As such, we are both bound by our words of honour,” Hertfordshire said as he looked into his son’s eyes.

“So decided,” Hertford stated when he shook his father’s hand.

~~~~~~~/~~~~~~~

On arriving back at his home on Portman Square, the Marquess was fighting to maintain his equanimity.

He handed his outerwear to Mr Greaves, his butler.

After leaving instructions he was not to be disturbed, he marched to his study where, even though he normally would only drink a little at night, he poured two fingers of cognac and threw it down his throat in one gulp.

The burning sensation as it coursed down his gullet helped some of the anger he felt towards his sire burn off.

The truth was that his father had not forced him to agree to the deal.

He had done so willingly because he was sure that he would find his match.

Now with closer to two than three years left, he was no nearer to his aim.

He had not found any lady who was not empty-headed and possessed any original thoughts in her head.

He loved to read and study, and was interested in the world around him and the people within it.

So far, almost all the women he had met were similar to that Lady Catherine Fitzwilliam who had attempted to force his hand.

He then remembered she was a de Bourgh now.

When word circulated that not only would a compromise not be gratified, but that the Duke of Hertfordshire would ruin the woman who made the attempt along with her family, ladies became wary.

When the Dukes of Bedford and Devonshire said the same, as did a number of other peers, thoughts of entrapment were driven from most ladies’ minds.