that he was rising to the challenge she represented.
By the time he pulled the curricle to a halt before the front steps, he was no longer frowning. Because he’d formulated a plan.
His groom jumped down and went to take the horses’ heads. His butler opened the door before he’d reached the top step. His head footman took his hat, coat and gloves, and then an under-footman opened the door to his study where a third, more junior servant was engaged in pouring him out a tankard of fresh ale. Perceval, who’d been sitting at his own desk, working through a pile of correspondence, got to his feet, ready to attend him.
Oliver took a pull of his ale and let out a sigh as his life resumed its orderly pattern, with everyone knowing their duties and performing them like clockwork.
Except...
He put down his tankard. ‘I have been having some thoughts about the house party we are to hold at Theakstone Court next week.’
Perceval blinked.
Oliver turned and walked round his desk. He didn’t like the reminder that normally, at this point, he would have been asking his secretary if there were any urgent matters that had cropped up while he was out that needed attending to before they got down to the vast amount of estate matters to which he devoted this hour of the afternoon.
He sat down, steepled his fingers under his chin and leaned back in his chair. Now that he’d decided to take a bride, he’d worked out that the most obvious way to determine which of this Season’s crop of debutantes would best fit the role would be to invite a select few to his principal seat. During the week they would stay there, he would be able to observe them more closely than he’d been able to do in town.
Because, on the face of it, there was little to choose between the handful of the most eligible, in the eyes of society. They were all well born, with perfect society manners and the usual feminine accomplishments. Which was just the trouble. He had no idea what lay behind the façade of good manners...if anything at all. At times he suspected they might all be just empty shells.
At least Miss Underwood was transparent. She said whatever popped into her head without thinking. Even when she was thinking, he could practically see her thoughts flitting across that expressive little face. Some people, he reflected, might describe her as a breath of fresh air.
‘I wish you to add another family to the guest list.’
‘At this late date?’
Oliver raised one eyebrow in affront.
‘The staff at Theakstone Court are well able to make the necessary arrangements in time. Or they should be,’ he concluded repressively.
‘Your Grace has possibly not taken into consideration the time required to contact the family in question, as well as awaiting a response from them before notifying Mrs Manderville,’ said Perceval apologetically.
‘Are you implying that anyone would be likely to turn down an invitation to spend a week at Theakstone Court?’ Most people would give their right arm to receive such an honour. ‘Especially not once I inform them of what is at stake.’
‘Then you would wish me to send the invitations to the, ah, fortunate young lady and her family at the same time as I notify Mrs Manderville to make rooms ready for her family’s arrival?’
‘That would be the most efficient course to take,’ said Oliver, wondering why his secretary had not thought of that in the first place.
‘And the, ah, young lady in question?’ Perceval went to his desk and dipped his pen in his inkwell.
‘Miss Underwood. She is eligible,’ he added, when Perceval’s pen hovered in mid-air for long enough to let a drop of ink splash on to the blotter. ‘As you yourself pointed out, she is the niece to the present Earl of Tadcaster as well as being the granddaughter of the former holder of that title.’ And more to his taste, physically, than any of the other, better-born young ladies he’d considered taking as his Duchess. She might have many flaws, but at least he wouldn’t find it a chore to produce the necessary heir, were she to become the bride in his bed.
Nor was she likely to bore him, the way the other candidates for the position already did.
What was more, he’d already discovered that she had a compassionate nature. True, all the other girls on his list had a reputation for being caring, but he hadn’t actually seen any of them rushing to the aid of an injured woman of the lower classes. Nor had they any idea what it was like to be torn from the only family they’d known and sent to live among strangers. Which would mean she would know exactly how his own little daughter felt. The daughter whose existence he’d only recently discovered.
In fact, he couldn’t imagine why he’d only just decided to consider Miss Underwood as a potential bride. The others might fill the role of Duchess more smoothly, but she was exactly the kind of woman he’d hoped to find to become a mother for Livvy.
Yes, no matter what the rest of the ton might think of his choice, in many ways she was exactly what he was looking for.
‘You will never guess what that Duke of Theakstone has in mind with regard to Sofia,’ said Uncle Ned as he lopped the head off his boiled egg at breakfast the next morning. ‘He’s taken the queerest notion into his head to consider looking her over to see if she’d make him a suitable bride.’
Sofia struggled to swallow her mouthful of tea, rather than spraying it all over the tablecloth. Suitable bride? It couldn’t be true.
‘Sofia?’ Aunt Agnes appeared as shocked as Sofia felt.
‘I know.’ Uncle Ned shook his head with a bemused air. ‘Thought he must be castaway when he said it, but see, here,’ he said, tossing a stiff cream card across the table to Aunt Agnes. ‘The invitation came first thing.’
Invitation?
Aunt Agnes let out a little shriek. ‘Theakstone Court! He’s inviting us all to spend a whole week with him at Theakstone Court.’
‘Yes, he’s inviting a whole gaggle of girls with their families for the week to see how they manage there.’
What kind of man invited a whole gaggle of girls to his house, to see how they managed, rather than courting and proposing to just one woman? Why...why...he was going about it as though he was conducting a week-long interview for paid employment.
‘Of course, you will write and send our regrets, and so forth,’ said Uncle Ned, applying himself to his egg.
‘What? Why?’ Aunt Agnes looked at him as though he’d lost his mind.
‘Well, naturally we shan’t go,’ retorted Uncle Ned.
‘Why ever not?’
Yes, why wouldn’t Uncle Ned let her go there? Typical. Whenever she...
She took her teacup in both hands and took another sip, guiltily aware that until Uncle Ned had said she couldn’t go, she hadn’t actually wanted to go to Theakstone Court. It was only when he started telling Aunt Agnes it was out of the question that she was remembering all the other things she had wanted to do and not been allowed. The entire trip to Burslem Bay had been a series of disappointments. Uncle Barty had painted a picture of the kind of seaside holiday which would have been the perfect tonic. But Aunt Agnes hadn’t let her attend any assemblies, so she hadn’t danced with any dashing men in red coats, let alone acquired a coterie of beaux.
‘Waste of time,’ said Uncle Ned, waving his butter knife in Sofia’s direction to emphasise his point. ‘Sofia’s going to marry Jack. Been settled for some time.’
Oh, no, it hadn’t. Jack hadn’t proposed. They were not officially betrothed. The two families had just always assumed that one day Jack