Page 7 of The Heiress Gets a Duke
“Simon Byrne. William Phelps.”
“Someone spoke to you of Byrne and Phelps? They both died decades ago.” Evan could hardly imagine any of her society matron friends knowing their names.
She blinked and procured a sudden interest in the chairhe had vacated as she refused to meet his gaze. “The point is that deaths happen.”
It would be a lie to claim otherwise. Though it was not a prominent worry in his mind, there was always the risk that someone like Wilkes could take losing badly and retaliate outside of the match. Instead of addressing it, he asked with a smile, “Did Lady Dragonbottom tell you about them?” He used the name he had invented for the surly matron in his youth. The lady in question was one of the most straitlaced and boring of his mother’s generation. While only in her mid-fifties, she could easily pass for a woman bordering on seventy-five, primarily due to her expression of perpetual disappointment. “Does she have a secret gambling habit that she confessed to you?”
The corner of his mother’s mouth tipped up in a reluctant grin, which is exactly what he had hoped would happen. “Her name is Lady Diginbotham, as you well know, and no, it was not her, more’s the pity.” She sobered as she continued, “If you must know, I had a footman explain the rules to me and, when pressed, he admitted that death was not out of the question.”
Evan resisted finding out which footman had told her that. It was not the servant’s fault. His mother could be quite forceful when it was called for. “You needn’t have worried yourself. Rules have changed since their day. Besides, I have men who go with me for protection. They make certain things do not progress so far.”
“And the eleven previous men who held the title Duke of Rothschild roll over in their graves to see one of their rank brought so low. Every night I ask why your father left us this way. After William died... he seemed to give up.” She touched his hair, brushing it back from his forehead to soften the words. “None of this is your fault. You do know that?”
Rising to his feet as gracefully as his leg would allow, he hobbled over to the window to escape the tenderness in her gaze. The day was gray and dreary, and a light rain fell onto the cobblestones. Appropriate given his mood. “It hardly matters who is at fault, nor does it change the fact that I have done nothing to improve things.”
The silk of her gown rustled as she rose and walked up behind him. “You are right. The fault does not matter when we are the ones cleaning up the mess.” Her hand came to rest on his back, and she rubbed a small circle between his shoulders. He closed his eyes, remembering how she would visit the nursery every night to give them a kiss. William was always asleep, but Evan would lie there until she came so that she could rub his back.
“Believe me when I say that I understand how it feels to have a marriage arranged for you. I hardly knew your father. It was like marrying a stranger.”
He remembered the often-strained silences between his parents. They had not been enemies, but neither had they been friends. The Duke of Rothschild had been a forbidding man in the best of times. “And, yet, I will have a stranger for a bride,” he muttered.
Her hand came to a stop, but she kept it in place. “I am so terribly sorry. Your father should have done better, but...” Her voice drifted off. What was there to say? There had been no money set aside anywhere. He should know, because he had looked. Clark had looked. There was nothing. “If you choose not to marry now, then the task will fall to your sisters. Only, I shudder to think of the offers they shall receive next Season with no dowries.”
Evan shook his head. Once the extent of their debts, along with their inability to pay them, became publicly known, there would be no offers. Hell. There were already rumors. It was no secret his terrace had been sold. Had he allowed his sisters to come out this year, he had no doubt their only offers would be from scoundrels and perverted lechers. He had spent the past year in denial, but it was time to face the future. He had to marry to save his family.
He had grown up naively assuming that the task of marriage to form an alliance with a noble family would fall to William. His older brother would have faced the duty with honor and selected a woman capable of becoming the next duchess. He would have married her gladly and spent the rest of his life dutifully begetting children with her all the while continuing to write his papers dissecting Aristotle’sNicomachean Ethicsor the finer points of Hellenistic astronomy. And he likely would have never so much as looked at another woman.
When faced with the same prospect, Evan was fighting a knot in his belly the size of his fist. Swallowing against the thickness of his throat, he turned to face his mother. “Who did you have in mind?”
“Have you met the Crenshaw family of New York City?” He was not surprised that she already had someone picked out for him; he was only surprised that he knew her. An image of the Crenshaw heiress as he had seen her last night sprang to mind. Evan had been shocked to see her at the fight. Her wide eyes had held an intriguing mix of sharp-witted integrity and questioning innocence. She had clearly been both dismayed and scandalized by the brutality of the fight, but she had also been curious. Curious enough to stay.
Curious enough to kiss him.
“Not formally. I saw the family at the ballet last week.” Everyone had been talking about the wealthy American family who had been making the social rounds. They had shared a box directly across from his, which is how he had recognized Miss Crenshaw at the fight.
“Did you by chance notice their daughter Violet?”
Violet. He vaguely remembered other people with the Crenshaws in the box, but she had to be Violet. “I saw her,” he said.
“She is the prettiest young woman I have seen this Season. While I have yet to meet her formally, she appeared very mannered. Not quite as brash as that other American, so obviously from quality stock. I spoke with Mrs. Crenshaw extensively about her and have concluded that she will make you a perfect match.”That Americanwas how many had begun to refer to the Duchess of Hereford; the poor woman had barely stood a chance when she had made her debut in society. The matrons had eaten her alive.
“You do realize that you could be describing a horse?”
She gave him a sharp glare. “I would prefer grandchildren who refrain from running wild across Hampshire, but your father did not leave us much choice, so we have tomake do. If we have to become involved with an American heiress, then I would prefer it to be a woman of a fine disposition.” Hurrying over to his desk, she opened a drawer and pulled out a piece of parchment. “We will have to come up with a way for you to meet formally... a dinner, I think, and if all goes well, a ball to formally announce your intentions. Of course, you will have Clark investigate their actual holdings, but I have heard that the Crenshaws have a net worth that far surpasses the Bridwells’. We have to move fast before someone else latches onto them.”
“You’ve heard that as well, have you? Perhaps you missed your calling and should look into a position at Scotland Yard.”
She waved him off and started scribbling on the paper. “Miss Crenshaw may very well have other offers in hand already. But I guarantee you they will not be from a duke.”
Evan nearly laughed as he watched his mother come alive with excitement for the first time in years. “No, fortunately, we have a title to recommend us.”
And little else.
Chapter 3
Women are the real architects of society.
Harriet Beecher Stowe
