Page 30 of The Derbyshire Dance (Kendall House #3)

Chapter twenty-one

Offer

B el barely slept the night following the Boxing Day ball.

Aunt Lucy had chattered happily all the way home from the Jester’s Arms while Jack Ferris teased them about their dance partners.

“And both of you partnered by a duke, no less!” But Bel had refused to join in on the banter.

Her nerves, as strong as they were, had been frayed to the quick by Lady Maltrousse’s tittering laugh and poisonous tongue.

How many other women of that ilk figured in Nigel Lymington’s past?

If he walked into a London ballroom, would there be a half-dozen, disaffected married women ready to recommence a dalliance with him?

He intimated that he regretted that way of life, but did he have the wherewithal to give it the cut direct?

Or would he be perpetually finding some new chère amie to kiss in the dark corner of assembly rooms?

The future looked bleaker than ever. She knew with certainty now that her flirtation with the Duke of Warrenton had been a mere distraction to keep herself from thinking about the impending verdict on Charlie’s existence.

If there was no Charlie to return to Derbyshire, then her tidy ledgers, her profitable market days, her yield per acre were all for naught.

And yet, what if Charlie did return? She would keep house for him as a spinster sister until he married.

And what then? She would be in the same position as Aunt Lucy, an indigent relative looking for a place to live out her declining years.

Aunt Lucy was right—duty was all well and good, but was it possible that her unflinching pursuit of it would leave her loveless and alone?

The best course of action was for her to marry and marry soon.

But what options were open to her in Derbyshire?

There was the vicar, who intended to call on her tomorrow.

She already knew that she had little sympathy of mind with him, but he was a God-fearing man with a respectable reputation.

Perhaps she could grow to care for him and not mind letting go of her “levity” to be the wife he wanted.

There was also Nigel Lymington, the Duke of Warrenton.

He was a man who made her laugh—but she had a fear that he would make her weep as well.

He would make her weep over his debts at the card table, his associations with moneylenders, his overfamiliarity with other women.

She knew she could help him untangle his knotty business affairs; she could talk to his steward, analyse his lack of farming income, and straighten out his estate.

But she could not fill that need he had to be accepted into the ton, to be the “equal” of his brother and father in the eyes of the world.

In a few months—or a few weeks! —he would see her as just another steward to ignore.

No, if she was to ever find happiness with Nigel Lymington, he would have to find happiness first on his own.

He would have to patch his leaky ship, and then she could board it.

He would have to find the right road, and then she could walk it beside him.

He would have to learn the steps of the dance, and then he could lead her onto the dancefloor.

With thoughts like these racing through her mind, it took Bel half the night to fall asleep. And when she woke in the morning, she had made up her mind. Charlie Morrison, Horace Townsend, Nigel Lymington—she knew what she had to do in every single case.

The following morning, Nigel packed Simpson off to Mullhill Manor with a notice of dismissal, a parcel containing Callista Fernley’s lost things, and a kennel’s worth of fleas in his ear.

“And don’t expect a reference from me,” said Nigel with feeling.

“You can ask Lady Maltrousse to find you a new place with some other poor simpleton she wishes to spy on.”

Archie, as predicted, resumed his position with nervous apologies about the mischief created and stammering gratitude for another chance. “I lost my head, yer grace. It won’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” said Nigel, feeling hypocritical to the hilt.

He had made more mistakes than Archie. Mistakes more serious than sabotaging a carriage wheel.

Mistakes far graver than stealing the contents of a noblewoman’s reticule.

Mistakes so damaging that they might destroy any chance he had of gaining the good opinion of a gentlewoman farmer in Derbyshire .

The very things he liked about Bel Morrison were the very things that would keep her from regarding him with any favour—her good judgment, her sense of duty, her straightforward manner of speaking.

He knew she was attracted to him, but he also knew that her good sense would forestall any imprudent folly.

In the eyes of society, his status as a duke made him immediately and eminently desirable.

In the eyes of Bel Morrison, he had nothing to recommend himself—nothing beyond a failing estate, a threat of danger from his chief creditor, a reputation as a womaniser, and no earthly idea how to get himself out of any of those predicaments

Still…that question Callista had cast in his face still niggled at him. “Are you really considering marriage?” Yes, he was. But would Belinda Morrison consider it? That was the question.

Nigel tried to relax his nerves on the keys of the pianoforte and waited till mid-afternoon to call on the Morrison ladies.

He walked there, disregarding the fine mist of rain.

Jenny, the maid, gave him a cold glare when he lifted the knocker—no doubt on account of her friendship with Archie—but he paid it no mind.

As he waited by the door, he heard Jenny’s voice in the hallway announcing him.

"Another caller, miss.” Apparently, someone else had been there before him.

When he entered the parlour, he saw that, this time, Aunt Lucy was inconveniently present. Blast! Why was it that chaperones were always absent when you needed them and present when you didn’t? Placing his beaver under his arm, Nigel pasted a smile over clenched teeth.

He caught Miss Morrison’s eye and nodded outside toward the barn. A walk would be just the thing if he were to get her alone and say what he really needed to say .

“Aunt Lucy,” said Miss Morrison, understanding him perfectly, “would you mind if I were to have a private audience with our visitor?”

“Another one?” Aunt Lucy’s cap flopped wildly. “Good gracious. Whatever you think best.”

She vacated the room and left the door open a mere quarter inch behind her. Enough for propriety’s sake, but also enough for privacy unless they raised their voices.

“Another one?” said Nigel quizzically. Did Aunt Lucy know of their private audience in the stone barn two days ago? If so, it was strange that she was leaving them alone once again.

“Mr. Townsend asked for a private audience this morning too,” said Bel with a shrug.

“Oh?” said Nigel, trying to tamp down the bile rising in his throat. “And what did the good vicar want?”

“He informed me that he means to call on me once a week so that we can become better acquainted, and that if we suit, in three months’ time he means to make me an offer.”

Nigel’s dark eyes flashed. How dare the vicar presume so much. “And what did you tell him?”

“I said I would allow it.” Her tone was flat. “And I will. He’s a sensible man with a respectable position. I believe my parents would have supported the match if I were agreeable to it.”

“He would bore you to tears,” growled Nigel.

“But he wouldn’t gamble away our money, or seduce the neighbour’s wife.”

Nigel winced. He deserved that, of course, but it still stung.

“Yes, but you might receive a few more sermons than you have patience for. By all appearances, he would treat you honourably, and yet, there’s something in his past that smacks of subterfuge.

The unknown father, the excessive navy pension—”

“Oh, pooh! You want to make something out of nothing, simply because you don’t like the man—or don’t like how his sermons cause you to squirm.”

Nigel said nothing. Once again, Miss Morrison’s perspicacity pointed at a flaw in himself that he could not deny. He had been about to put his own question to Miss Morrison—now it would seem like a childish reaction to Mr. Townsend’s request.

“I did not think you wished to marry,” he said with bravado.

“Didn’t you?” Her face was unusually disquieted. Vulnerable, even. Her grey eyes widened. “Then what was it you wanted to speak to me about?”

Of course, she had to ask him that! With a woman as plain-speaking as Bel Morrison, he could never put his tail between his legs and quietly slink away.

“Er, I wanted to apologise for my behaviour the past couple days. It was ungentlemanly of me to…flirt with you in such a way when I don’t intend to—that is, when I cannot—”

She lifted her left eyebrow, that ironic arc of dubious disbelief, and Nigel was completely undone.

“Confound it, Bel! You know what I want to say to you. And you know why I can’t do it.

I’ve nothing but my title and a load of debts and that dashed Solomon Digby hanging like a millstone round my neck.

My wretched estate’s getting more wretched by the day.

My niece Louisa—my last relative in all the world—is lost and ruined, and I’m to blame for all of it.

And now I’ve gone and made an enemy of Callista, and she’ll rip whatever reputation I have to shreds when she gets back to London.

” He took a ragged breath. “I wish I’d met you five years ago, when I was only Lord Nigel Lymington and not the devilish Duke of Warrenton.

But now it’s too late. I’ve nothing to offer that you would care about, and I’ve made a mull of everything in my life. ”

She kept her distance from him across the parlour and looked him full in the face. Her steady eyes shone on his desperate ones like light from a lantern.

“Then fix it, Nigel,” she said, slowly and clearly, her voice punctuating each word with the force of her whole person.

“Fix it?” he repeated, bewildered.

“Yes, fix it,” she said. “I know you can.” Walking to the door of the parlour, she pushed it open and then stood next to it, hands folded.

“Will you wait for me while I do?” he blurted out. What he really wanted to say was, “Promise me you won’t marry that self-righteous bounder Horace Townsend!” But a simple promise that she would wait for him would suffice.

She lifted her chin. “That depends.”

He swallowed. That would have to be enough. It was unfair of him to ask for more.

“Good day, your grace,” she said.

“Good day, Miss Morrison,” he said simply. And putting his beaver on his head, he went down the narrow hallway into the grey December air.