Page 11 of Destined to be a Duchess
Anthony knew ‘all’to mean their closest friends: the Marquess of Hindborough, the Earl and Countess of Carlston, and the rest of the East Anglian enclave.
“Warren and Edward were placing bets back and forth, and eventually, one of them had the brilliant idea of using the course once the races were done.” She paused, and Anthony didn’t dare look at her. “I told them that it was too hot to ride and that they were too old, but they were adamant. You know how they were, like two boys when they got ideas in their heads.”
Anthony nodded. Warren Webb, the Marquess of Hindborough, had been his father’s closest friend since boyhood. Over the years, Warren had become like an uncle to Anthony.
He was an artist as well, except he was twice as talented as Anthony and three times as well-connected. Warren had organized Anthony’s tour of the Continent, using those connections to get Anthony into even the most private galleries, when his prestige hadn’t cut it. Warren had joined him one spring in Italy, and it had been one of the most educational, fulfilling moments of Anthony’s life.
“Word travelled around the boxes that the duke and the marquess were going head-to-head in a private race, and before long, some of the other gentlemen had thrown their hats in the ring. Edward had never been competitive, as you well know, but on that day …”
When she trailed off, Anthony finally looked at her. Catherine’s brow was creased in pain. “There was something different about him. He felt the need to prove himself. I wonder now whether it was his upcoming birthday. Perhaps he was starting to feel like an old man and wanted to prove to himself that he was still young.”
Anthony interrupted. “Who were they even riding?”
“They borrowed from the jockeys they had sponsored.” Catherine rolled her eyes, then shook her head in disapproval. “Those poor horses were exhausted. It was a miracle that none of them collapsed, though I suppose the race was over too soon for that … They all set off, and there must have been a hundred people watching, if not more, egging them on. I could see your father riding harder than ever before.
He was red in the face, doubled over on that horse like he was completely indestructible. They had just come around the first bend when he stopped suddenly and bolted upright.” She squeezed her eyes shut before continuing. “His eyes went wide, and he clamped a hand over his breast … Doctor McMillan suggests his heart gave out from the effort and the heat, and I’m inclined to believe the same.”
His own heart clenched in his chest. Anthony wished he had been there, knowing that the likelihood of him having been able to prevent his father’s death was low but not null. The story didn’t provide him with the closure he had hoped. It only made him regret his absence more.
“But he was so healthy,” Anthony murmured. “Even approaching sixty, he had been strong as an ox—don’t you think? I can scarcely believe that he simply … He had ridden hard before.”
His mother smiled tenderly. She cupped his cheek, forcing Anthony to look at her. “You are so much like him. And just like him, you thought that he was immortal. No one can blame you for that. It was his time, Anthony. I’m not sure what more there is to say. We can only distract ourselves and trust in God. Time will alleviate our grief like it heals everything else.”
Even though he wanted to believe it had been Edward’s time, even when it made no sense to think that something else had happened, he couldn’t. He supposed his mother was right. That was Anthony’s burden to bear, as a son, to think that his father hadn’t been a mortal like the rest.
“Perhaps thereisnothing. Nothing more to say, nothing more to do,” he replied, stepping back as Catherine released him. He searched for another topic of conversation, not wanting to give his mother the chance to question his feelings. “Is that why you invited Miss Buller here, to distract yourself?”
Finally, his mother smiled. “Am I so terribly transparent?” She laughed softly. “No, that’s not the only reason. I promised her mother long ago that I would protect Marianne should the worst come to pass. I will be in mourning for the next year, and while I’m certain some will baulk at Marianne’s presence here when I should be grieving, I will not spend the next ten months wallowing when I could be of use to someone.”
“You have failed to tell me why you owed the mother anything. I have never heard of the Bullers.” He thought back to Miss Buller’s lack of decorum and her pretty face, grateful for the distraction. “She is not exactly cut from the same cloth as you.”
“I thought I raised you with a more open mind than that, Anthony.” She laughed when he tried to protest, assuring him she was only teasing. “I suppose it is only a matter of time until you learn the truth for yourself. Miss Buller is actually Marianne Chambers. Do you remember Nicholas Chambers, or perhaps his father Graham, the late Earl of Foxburn?”
Anthony searched his memories only to come up short. “I recall the name, but I’m fairly certain I’ve never met any of them.”
“You would have been too young to remember, Nicholas, but you did meet him. He was a dear friend of mine. The short of it is this: Nicholas eloped with one of his father’s maids, and Marianne was born of their union. I have known of her existence for years.”
It seemed far-fetched, but his mother had no reason to lie. Anthony tried to picture Miss Buller—or was that Lady Marianne now?—as a gentlewoman. He supposed she had a natural beauty that some would deem aristocratic.
Everything else about her, especially that strong spirit, was anathema to theton. If this story was true, and if she decidedto claim her heritage, she was going to be eaten alive by them—unless his mother could educate her properly.
“And you have proof of this?” Anthony asked. “Thetonwill not likely accept a newcomer on hearsay alone. And what about the rest of her family?”
For whatever reason, Catherine looked pleasantly surprised. “I had expected you to tell me that I was mad and order me to send that poor girl packing. How glad I am to know that I have your support in this. Could it be that you are as charmed by her as I am?”
Anthony refused to dignify that question with an answer. He barely knew the girl.
“But, yes, you’re right. This will be an uphill battle for both of us. Her resemblance to Nicholas alone should be proof enough. She has the Chambers’ eyes. Should that fail, I have decades’ worth of letters from both Nicholas and her mother, and I have already tasked someone with finding a record of her baptism. I have knowledge of their wedding location, too. It was a poorly kept secret that Nicholas had a child … But youwillallow her to remain here?”
“It’s of little consequence to me.”
“How practical of you, darling.” His mother beamed, glancing at the door. “I shall leave you in peace now.” She paused once shereached the door, looking lighter than when she had entered. “You should make the most of these quiet moments. We will have to call the agents around soon to settle you in, and then you must make for London to meet your peers as a duke and …” She stopped herself, dismissing the list with a wave. “Well, I’m hardly helping matters. Rest well, Anthony.”
He didn’t have the chance to wish her the same before she was gone.
Left alone in his studio, Anthony turned back to the discarded painting. The slate blue sea split in two, frothing where the canvas was peeling back around the cut. He crossed his arms, mind wandering to his mother, to Marianne Chambers, to himself and his new title …
Moorhaven Manor, he thought,a port for lost souls at sea without an anchor.
