“You are not . . . angry with me, Your Grace?” Miss Muirhead asked as she moved toward her.
“Oh, perhaps I ought to be,” the duchess said as she hugged the younger lady and then held her at arm’s length to look at her. “Certainly the countess, Ralph’s mother, will expect me to be furious, as will all the highest sticklers of the ton, stuffy lot as they all are. But why should I be swayed by vulgar gossip? Or by the naughtiness of your sister? You have the look of Clementine, your grandmother, you know, even though your coloring is quite different. She had hair of the darkest, most lustrous brown and blue eyes and a rose-petal complexion. She was the most dazzling beauty of our day and I would have hated her with a passion if I had not loved her so dearly. Does not Chloe look like Clemmie, Worthingham?”
“How would I know?” the duke asked with deliberate meekness as he prepared to drink the last drop of his brandy. “You forbade me to look at her ever again when you and she were both eighteen and I complimented her on the beauty patch she had placed so artfully next to her mouth. I never did look again after that.”
Her Grace clucked her tongue and tossed her glance at the ceiling.
“Now tell me, Chloe,” she said, “do you love this rogue of a grandson of mine? He claims that all his ability to love was left behind on the battlefield when he almost lost his life too, but I say that is so much nonsense and all he needed was to meet the right woman.”
“I am deeply honored by Lord Berwick’s offer, Your Grace,” Miss Muirhead said. “I shall do my very best to make him comfortable and . . . and h-happy.”
The duchess patted her hand, which she had taken in both her own.
“Of course you are honored,” she said. “What girl would not be when a future duchess’s title is dangled before her? I can remember how I felt. I would have had to be very averse to His Grace’s person to have found the courage to say no. Fortunately I was not averse at all. Quite the contrary. You are right, though, to avoid answering my question about loving Ralph. That is a private admission to be made when the two of you are alone together.”
The duke harrumphed again. “I think the occasion calls for champagne,” he said. “Have Weller send some up to the drawing room, Berwick. And have him send Bentley to help me up there. No, forget that. You can give me your arm since I daresay your betrothed can get herself up the stairs without needing to lean upon you. And tell Weller that if that quack should come within the hour, he can wait and kick his heels in the hall.”
“Yes, champagne in the drawing room,” the duchess agreed. “We have a betrothal to celebrate and a wedding to discuss. Give me your arm, Chloe, if you please. And Ralph, tell Weller that he is to come and inform me the very minute Dr. Gregg arrives.”
No, Ralph thought, he had not made a mistake. His announcement had distracted his grandmother in a positive way. And it had taken some of the focus of attention away from his grandfather, who had rallied, though he still looked far from well.
6
The first fence had been cleared without mishap. Ralph was less hopeful about the second. Weller had brought the champagne to the drawing room and poured them each a glass before withdrawing. Ralph broached the subject of the wedding before his grandfather could propose a toast.
“I think it best that we marry as soon as possible and with no fuss,” he said. “I have brought a special license with me.”
“A special license?” The duke was clearly outraged. His bushy white eyebrows met above the bridge of his nose. “You are suggesting a havey-cavey wedding for the Earl of Berwick, boy? It is out of the question. The eldest male of the line has always had the grandest of grand weddings in London at St. George’s, Hanover Square, with the whole of the ton in attendance. Even some of the royals usually put in an appearance.”
“And a grand wedding breakfast always follows at Stockwood House,” the duchess added. “It is what we had, and it is what your mother and father had, Ralph. However . . .”
Miss Muirhead’s pale complexion had turned paler, Ralph saw when he glanced at her. His grandmother’s eyes were resting upon His Grace, and she looked troubled again.
“It would take a month for the banns to be called,” she continued. “It would mean a move to London and endless visits to dressmakers and tailors. It would mean dinners and parties and the prewedding ball we had and your father had, Ralph. And Stockwood House would be turned topsy-turvy for the ball and then for the wedding breakfast. I am not sure I would be able to summon the energy to do it all.”
As though, Ralph thought, she would be the one called upon to do the planning and the hosting, not to mention the scrubbing and polishing and cooking. As though she and His Grace could not simply arrive in London the day before the wedding and leave again the day after. But he understood what she was up to and held his peace. Miss Muirhead was holding the sides of her dress. The folds of her skirt failed to disguise the fact that two fingers on each hand were crossed for luck.
“Eh?” his grandfather said inelegantly. “A ball? And a wedding breakfast? Both at Stockwood House?”
“They always have been held there,” Her Grace said. “It would be expected of us. It would be considered not at all the thing if we broke with tradition.”
“Harrumph. I’ll not have you bothered with all that fuss and faradiddle,” His Grace said. “It is out of the question, Berwick. You will have to be married here.”