The instant he arrived at Hargreave House, he called for his secretary. Within the hour, the entry hall was filled with tradesmen, solicitors, various men of the cloth and the most fashionable modiste in the city, all waiting for their audience with the duke.
His wishes were unequivocal and to the point when he met with them, each personage given their instructions and dismissed. He was traveling north the following afternoon. He expected all his purchases and orders to be fulfilled and in his coach by then.
He didn’t relish traveling for three days in the company of the minister he required, but his secretary, Gore, suggested a young cousin of his he felt would be inoffensive. A younger son of a younger son, it wasn’t as though the man had chosen the church as his profession for love of the Lord.
“My cousin likes to race most of all, Your Grace, but can’t afford the bloodstock.”
“Capital. Have the grooms ready Templar and Castor. We’ll ride ahead and have the coach follow. He’s not churchy, now. You said he wasn’t.”
“Not in the least, sir.”
“He is able to read the correct marriage service though? He knows that much, does he?”
“I’m sure he does.” But Gore made a mental note to mark the appropriate pages in the Anglican liturgy just in case. Cousin Aubrey hadn’t seen the inside of a church since he’d been granted the stipend for the honorary bishopric of Coultrip four years ago.
“Good.” Simon nodded. “Excellent” He glanced out the study window at the twilight sky. “It’s still early, isn’t it?”
“Nearly six, sir. Would you like the chef to speak to you about dinner?”
Simon cast his eyes about the room, tapped his fingers on his desktop. He suddenly smiled. “Why not.”
The chef was so alarmed when he received his summons, his knees went weak. Quickly sitting down, he wondered what disaster had precipitated his being called upstairs. He’d never personally spoken with the duke. On the rare occasions when a dinner was given at Hargreave House, the dowager duchess or Lady Adele gave him his instructions.
Mounting the stairs to the main floor, he was certain he was about to be sacked and trembling, he entered the duke’s study.
Simon looked up and smiled. “Good evening- er-”
Fenellon, sir,“ Gore interposed.
“Ah, yes, Fenellon. May I compliment you on your fine work.”
“Thank you, thank you, Your Grace.” The chef’s hands were tightly clasped in an attempt to repress his agitation.
“Gore tells me you might make some suggestions for dinner tonight.”
Fenellon almost fainted on the spot. It was already six o’clock. “For… how many… guests, Your Grace?” he whispered.
“Just myself. Don’t take alarm.” The man’s face was chalk white. “Anything will do.”
The duke never ate at home. Never. Fenellon had no idea what he liked. Meat, fish, game? Did he eat salads, ices, vegetables? How important was presentation? And the wine list? He had no notion what the duke preferred.
“Maybe a sandwich,” Simon suggested, kindly. The man appeared distrait.
“A sandwich!” The chef’s face turned from white to red in an instant. “Impossible, Your Grace! A sandwich! It would be a disgrace to my kitchen!”
Moving to the chef’s side, Gore spoke quietly to him as he guided him from the study.
Returning to the study a few moments later, Simon’s secretary rendered clear the chefs sudden explosion. “I believe you startled Fenellon, sir. But rest assured, we’ll find you something you like for dinner.”
“It’s not a concern. I could go out.” Simon leaned back in his chair, rested his head against the tufted leather. “On the other hand, I have no interest in going out.”
“Very good, sir. Should I have Manchester bring you a brandy?”
Simon sat up. “Yes, please, and have the lights turned on.” He glanced at the clock. “Good Lord, it’s only quarter past six.”
“Would you like to look at your mail, sir?”
Simon surveyed his secretary with an amused gaze. “If I wanted to look at my mail, I wouldn’t need you, now would I?”
“No, sir-er, yes, sir.” Gore began backing out of the room. “I’ll call Manchester.”
The duke felt as though he were a boy waiting for class to end, the hands of the clock moving as slowly as they did when he was a young student. It took four-and-three-quarters minutes for Manchester to arrive with his brandy and nine-and-a-half very long minutes before Gore came back with a tentative menu for dinner. A minute more to glance over it and give his approval.
And then twenty-one long hours stretched before him.
He had his coach ordered for half past three.
Sipping on his brandy, he mentally reviewed the required items for his journey to Yorkshire: a ring-promised by noon; a marriage license, ditto; a wedding gown-even under intense pressure, not until three; numerous pieces of jewelry from various jewelers, ten sharp; all the papers from his solicitors, first thing in the morning. If he didn’t need that damnable wedding gown, he could leave London by noon. He frowned. Sighed. Poured himself another drink.
Women liked fripperies like gowns, though.
He’d wait until three.
But it wasn’t going to be easy.
Chapter 21
It was the last night of the holiday festivities and whether she was weary from the frantic pace of the last fortnight or touched with the amorphous melancholy that had plagued her of late, Caroline found herself fighting back tears.
The party had retired to the great hall after dinner to enjoy hot punch and the last night of the yule log. Hundreds of candles decorated the chamber, the scent of pine boughs was fragrant in the air, the sound of laughter accompanying a rowdy game of charades resonated through the room.
And Caroline felt like crying.
Pleading a sudden headache, she excused herself and left the room. Running down the corridor until she was well away from the great hall and any guest that might wander out, she leaned back against the wall, her hands against the linen fold paneling. Drawing in great gulps of air she swallowed hard, trying to quell the building pressure of tears.
She tried to tell herself it was senseless to cry; she was so much more fortunate than most. The problems she faced were trivial compared to those without the basic necessities of life. She was well treated; her employers were kind. Her teaching duties were far from difficult; her small bedroom was cozy and warm. She should be grateful for what she had. As she tallied all the positive virtues of her life, she found herself able to swallow her tears and breathe a little easier.
But just as she was feeling more composed, she saw Will coming toward her and she experienced an unsettling rush of emotion. He was always so kind and gentle, offering her the comforts of a life she’d almost forgotten existed, reminding her perhaps of all that she’d lost. Stirring emotions she wasn’t sure she wished recalled.
As he reached her, he took note of her distress, her attempt at a smile pitiful. “Tell me what’s wrong, darling,” he murmured, gathering her into his arms. “Let me help.”
Swallowing hard, she tried to reaffirm the goodness and satisfactions in her life-the man embracing her part of that good fortune and as she rested in the circle of his arms, it seemed as though she was more in control of her emotions, calmer. A bland platitude about gratitude was looping through her mind, soothing in its implications.
“You’re not alone, darling,” Will murmured. “I’ll always be here if you need me-for anything at all.”
With a hiccupy sob, she burst into tears-because she was alone no matter how she rationalized.
Drawing her nearer, he held her close, implicitly offering her his strength and understanding, his affection and she clung to him and cried as though her heart were breaking.
“Let me take care of you, darling and you’ll never have to cry again,” he murmured, gently stroking her back. “I’ll keep you safe always and ever,” he whispered, brushing away her tears with the back of his hand. “Just give me the chance.”