The Duchess Read online

  “I have one last question to ask of you, Quinton.”

  “And that is, my dear?” She was so serious, and so amusing.

  “When are you going to kiss me again?” Allegra queried him.

  “Why right now, my dear,” he answered her, pulling her into his lap. Taking her chin between his thumb and his forefinger, his lip met hers in a rather fierce kiss.

  She gasped, surprised. His finger caressed her jawline for a brief moment, and then he kissed her again; this time slowly, slowly until she felt as if her bones were melting away. His eyes looked into hers. Allegra felt a wave of heat wash over her and her heart hammered wildly.

  “Do you think I kiss well enough for you, my dear?” he asked her wickedly. Actually he had quite enjoyed it himself.

  “Quite well enough,” she admitted to him. “I will swear that my toes curled, sir.”

  “You are flattering me, Allegra, and I will quite confess to liking it,” he told her.

  The Duchess is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  An Ivy Book

  Published by The Random House Publishing Group

  Copyright © 2001 by Bertrice Small

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

  Ivy books and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  www.ballantinebooks.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-55578-6

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part Two

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Four

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Other Books by This Author

  England 1794

  Prologue

  “Damn me, there is no other way! I shall have to take a wife,” Quinton Hunter, the Duke of Sedgwick, announced to his assembled friends. He was a very tall man, standing over six feet in height, with a lean hard body, and a shock of black hair.

  “We all do eventually,” his friend, Viscount Pickford replied with a cheerful grin.

  “I don’t notice you in any great hurry, Ocky,” the duke said.

  Octavian Baird, Viscount Pickford, grinned again. “I’ll tell you what, Quint, we’ll do it together. We’ll go trolling for brides this coming season, eh?” His blue eyes danced mischievously.

  “I think we should all do it,” Marcus Bainbridge, the Earl of Aston announced. “My family would be delighted to have me bring a pretty heiress home.”

  “By God, Bain, what a splendid idea!” Viscount Pickford laughed.

  The three friends looked to their fourth companion, Lord Adrian Walworth.

  “Well, Dree?” the duke said.

  Lord Walworth shrugged. “If I don’t, and you do, I’ll not have anyone left to play with,” he grumbled somewhat petulantly. “Wives don’t like their husbands having single gentlemen friends.” He was thoughtful for a brief moment, and then he continued. “We’ll not be able to play our little games in France any longer if we take wives. I suppose it is better that we don’t. We were almost caught the last time. I don’t relish having my head on some Frenchie’s pike.” He grinned. “If only all the fashionables in London knew that they had us to thank for their favorite dressmaker. We were at our zenith when we rescued Madame Paul and her people,” he waxed nostalgically, but then he agreed, “Aye if you three plan to marry then I must out of necessity, or lose your company. It will certainly make my mama happy. All she talks about when I’m down at the hall is her lack of grandchildren.”

  Viscount Pickford chuckled. “When we appear this season all the mamas will go wild with delight. Frankly I don’t know of four more eligible gentlemen in the ten thousand. I hear Lord Morgan’s daughter is going to make her bow under the sponsorship of her aunt, the Dowager Marchioness of Rowley. Now there’s the girl for you, Quint.”

  “I shall have a harder time than any of you finding a wife,” the duke responded seriously. “While my blood is the bluest in England, even bluer than the king’s, my purse is virtually empty. My antecedents had the rather romantic notion of marrying for love, and by God, they did! Far worse, most of them had a passion for gambling. This estate of mine is intact by some miracle, but look around; Hunter’s Lair is falling down about my ears. The lady I choose must be wealthy enough to put it all back together again, and bring me enough income so I may get on my feet. Unlike my father, and those before him, I have no desire to gamble, nor necessarily marry for love. I must wed for practical reasons. Then I will put my estate back in order and make it prosper. If I can find a lady noble enough, and rich enough to have me,” he concluded.

  “Then it’s Lord Morgan’s daughter for you,” Viscount Pickford insisted. “She’s quite the heiress.”

  “Her blood is barely blue,” the earl noted. “Her father is only the second to hold his title. The family were London merchants, and he is still involved in business. Her mother, however, was the old Duke of Arley’s youngest child. Ran off with some Italian count when the daughter was two, and her brother eight. It was quite a scandal at the time. Lord Morgan divorced her, of course, but has never remarried. Then the son was killed a few years ago. Lord M. has devoted himself to his remaining offspring ever since. She is indeed fearfully rich, Quint, but her pedigree ain’t good enough for you.”

  “Don’t be such a snob, Bain,” the viscount said. “With a father as rich as Croesus, and a duke for a grandfather, she will surely pass muster. The bluer-blooded gels ain’t got dowries big enough to help Quint. This could be a perfect match.”

  “I knew her brother slightly,” Lord Walworth said helpfully. “A nice chap, exquisite manners and always paid his debts promptly.”

  “Did you ever see her?” the duke asked.

  Lord Walworth shook his head. “She’s a country mouse, I’m given to understand. Never been up to London although her sire has a big house on Berkley Square.”

  “I wonder if she’s pretty,” the duke mused.

  “All little kitties purr the same in the dark, Quint,” the earl noted practically.

  “True, but one must sit opposite them at the dinner table,” the duke quickly riposted, and his friend laughed.

  “So we are agreed then, gentlemen,” the viscount said. “We are to seek suitable brides next season, and marry at long last. Just think, Quint, when Hunter’s Lair is in prime condition again, what parties you will give for us all!”

  “What parties his wife will give,” Lord Walworth said gloomily, “and our wives had best be in her favor, or we won’t get invited.”

  “You will always be welcome at Hunter’s Lair, Dree; and Ocky and Bain, too. Remember, a man is master of his own house. You are my best friends, and have been since our days at Eton. That is not going to change because of a mere woman. Now,” he banged his goblet upon the scarred oak table and shouted, “Crofts! Where is dinner?”

  “I’ll bring it right in, Your Gra
ce,” the manservant said with a bow. “Mrs. Crofts didn’t want the venison to be overcooked.” He hurried out of the paneled old Great Hall where the dukes and earls of Sedgwick had dined for centuries.

  Hunter’s Lair was a large house, but it had never been modernized, not even in the Stuart era when almost every great house in England had been redone to include large public dining rooms with marble fireplaces. Quinton Hunter was the ninth Earl and the fourth Duke of Sedgwick. The first duke had been created in 1664, several years after Charles II’s restoration. The earldom had come to them in the time of King Henry VIII. Prior to that, fourteen Baron Hunters descended from the year 1143, and before that the heads of the family were baronets; Saxons who had wisely supported William of Normandy over Harold Godwinson only to find their thanedoms turned into baronetcyes, and fair Norman wives in their beds. It was a long and proud heritage.

  The present house was built upon the ruins of the original Saxon hall, and a second house which had burned in the reign of Henry VII. The third house had stood in its present incarnation since the year 1500. It was built of red brick, although the stones were generally obscured by the shiny green ivy growing over it. The ancient leaded paned casement windows remained lovely, but had become, with time, very fragile. They were opened rarely, and then most carefully. It was, despite its antiquity, a very elegant house that had been home to many generations of Hunters, and the duke loved it.

  It had always been expected that he would marry, although his late father’s wishes in the matter seemed to lack a sense of reality. Who was going to marry a blue-blooded pauper? the duke thought to himself; but marry he must if Hunter’s Lair was not to fall into further decay. And then there was his younger brother, George. Without a rich wife’s monies the duke could not buy his brother a commission in the army, or even a pulpit in some small church.

  “I shall have to sell some horses if I am to have a fashionable wardrobe and pocket money,” Quinton Hunter said aloud.

  “And we shall all stay at my father’s London house,” the viscount decided. “The old man don’t come up for the season anymore. He scarcely goes to Parliament, but he keeps the house open for family and friends from September through June.”

  “Damned generous,” Lord Walworth said.

  “Yes, thank you, Ocky,” the earl agreed. “We ain’t never had a house in town. I hope the lady I find to marry has a family with one.”

  “I shall be glad to accept your invitation, Ocky,” the duke said.

  “We have two months to prepare,” the viscount said. “Tomorrow we part, and we shall meet again on March fifteenth to travel up to London together, gentlemen.”

  “Agreed,” the earl and Lord Walworth replied simultaneously.

  “Agreed,” the duke said.

  Part One

  A.D. 1795

  A Very Successful Season

  Chapter One

  “At best we can bag an earl, or perhaps an earl’s heir for Allegra,” Lady Olympia Abbott, Dowager Marchioness of Rowley, told her brother-in-law, Lord Septimius Morgan. “Pandora’s behavior ain’t helped her daughter, but there it is. My sister was always selfish, and do not glower at me, Septimius; it is the truth even if you have never faced it.” She sipped her tea from a Wedgwood saucer thoughtfully. “We won’t know what opportunities we have until the season begins, and we see what unmarried young men have come; but I can guarantee that Allegra’s extraordinary beauty and wealth will attract only the best. The bluest of bloods, of course, will ignore her, but we’ll do very well nonetheless. This tea is delicious, Septimius. Who is your importer? I must have some for myself.”

  “The tea comes from my own plantations, Olympia. I will see you are supplied with it from now on,” Lord Morgan said.

  “Your own plantations in India? I never knew,” his sister-in-law replied, surprised. She slurped from her saucer appreciatively.

  “Ceylon. My holdings are quite diverse,” he explained. “It is not wise to put all of one’s eggs in a single basket, Olympia. I have taught my daughter that lesson.”

  “I don’t know why you bothered,” Lady Abbott responded. “Allegra is going to be someone’s wife, m’dear. She needs little knowledge other than how to manage a household efficiently, how to direct her servants to live moral lives, how to paint pleasing watercolors, play a musical instrument, sing, dance prettily, and of course give her husband an heir as promptly as she can do so. After that she must raise her children as God-fearing and mannerly, with a strong sense of their English heritage.”

  “Allegra is my heiress, Olympia. She should know how my many businesses are managed else she lose them one day,” Lord Morgan told his sister-in-law, who only shook her head at him.

  “Septimius!” said the exasperated lady. “Allegra’s husband will be in charge of her inheritance. You know that we women are not capable of such things.” She laughed. “How you dote on that girl, but she is still a girl.” Then she grew serious. “I know you miss James Lucian, but your son is gone, Septimius. Allegra cannot replace him.” The Dowager Marchioness of Rowley’s soft blue eyes filled with tears, and she put a comforting hand on her brother-in-law’s arm. “He was a great hero, my nephew, God rest him. A hero, and a true gentleman.”

  “Do not speak on it!” Lord Morgan said harshly. “While Allegra is indeed just a girl, she is extremely intelligent. Whoever her husband is to be he must appreciate that. Until the day I die my daughter will have a personal allowance from me of two hundred and fifty thousand pounds a year. And after I am gone my estates will continue to see Allegra receives those monies. I don’t intend my daughter be at the mercy of some charming blue-blooded wastrel who will mistreat her after he has captured her heart, use her dower to pay for his vices and his mistresses, and then drink himself into an early grave leaving her and my grandchildren helpless to his family.”

  “Septimius!” his sister-in-law cried, shocked. “What kind of men do you think we are offering Allegra to, for mercy’s sake?”

  “I know the kind of men who inhabit the ten thousand, my dear Olympia. Most of them are useless, and all of them are snobs. As Lord Morgan’s daughter, Allegra must of necessity choose one of them for a husband, but I will not leave her unprotected.” His fist slammed upon the mahogany side table causing Lady Abbott to start.

  “But whatever you give her the law says is her husband’s,” she protested. “You cannot circumvent the law, Septimius.”

  He looked at her, amused, thinking that Olympia was a good soul, but entirely too naive for a woman of her years. “Of course I can skirt the law, my dear. That is one of the advantages of being the richest man in all of England.” He chuckled. “When I want something there are those only too glad to accommodate me. My occasional gratitude is both known and appreciated. No husband will be able to confiscate Allegra’s monies for his own purposes. Now, let us speak on more imminent subjects.

  “You will, of course, be staying at the house in town for the season.

  “Allegra is to have the finest wardrobe that can be made. She is not to be outshone by lesser lights, Olympia. It is very good of you to take her under your wing, especially considering the youngest of your daughters is also making her entry into society. I hope you will allow me to cover the cost of Lady Sirena’s wardrobe as well. It will help you to get Allegra to stand still for the modiste if her favorite cousin is also suffering the same fate.” Lord Morgan smiled. “Do not stint on either girl, my dear. Charles Trent, my steward and secretary, will see that they have the proper jewelry. The safe in the London house is full to overflowing.”

  “You are very kind, Septimius,” Lady Abbott said gratefully. Her son, the young Marquis of Rowley, was married. His income was adequate, but hardly allowed for a generous allowance to be expended on his youngest sister. And worse, when she had returned home from Morgan Court, his wife had voiced objections to Sirena having a season at all.

  “Augustus,” Charlotte had said pettishly to her husband while in his mother’s presen
ce, “Sirena’s dowry is hardly worth mentioning. I don’t know who will have her. Couldn’t we find a husband for her here in the country? I understand Squire Roberts has a fine son who is ready to take a wife. It seems foolish to expend our monies on a season in London for your sister.”

  The dowager marchioness had been outraged by her daughter-in-law’s mean words. She had always tried to keep a good relationship with Gussie’s wife, but this was intolerable. “My dear Charlotte,” she said in icy tones that sent a shiver down her only son’s spine. “Your dowry was not particularly overgenerous I recall, and yet you managed to attract my son’s affections. You are married five years now, and have produced no heir. Still, I do not complain. Sirena’s dowry was set aside by her father, God rest my darling husband, as were the monies for Sirena’s debut in London. My daughter shall have her season!”

  “And where will you reside?” the foolish Charlotte demanded. “We may go up for the season.”

  “I am sponsoring my niece, Allegra Morgan. Lord Morgan has invited us to live in his house on Berkley Square,” Lady Abbott replied silkily. “Everything is already arranged, and we shall leave for London on the first of March.”

  “You could stay at Abbott House, Mama,” her son said generously, to his wife’s pique.

  “Good heavens, Gussie, I should hope not!” Lady Abbott said loftily. “It is much too small, and not on the most fashionable of streets, I fear. We do want Sirena to make a good impression, don’t we? Besides, I expect you and Charlotte will be filling the house with all your friends. It will hardly be the place for a young girl.” She smiled at the couple.