Five

“His Grace, the Duke of Torringford,” the footman intoned.

Marcus’s stomach clenched with nervous anticipation as he entered the small sitting room.

“Miss Hastings, I appreciate your agreeing to see me,” he said.

“Your letter was most insistent, Your Grace.” Her gaze drifted to the footman behind him. “That will be all, Robin. And kindly shut the door,” she said firmly.

He sat on the edge of a chair, hoping he did not look as uneasy as he felt inside. He had not felt this nervous in years. But then again, it was not every day you called upon a virtual stranger and attempted to convince her to become your wife.

Especially when the lady in question had already made it quite clear that she had no interest in marrying him. It was an ironic twist of fate. Out of the seven candidates James McGregor had presented for his inspection, there had been only one with whom he felt any sort of connection. And she was there only because of a mistake.

Perhaps his attraction was because of that very mistake. Perhaps it was the fact that unlike the others, Miss Hastings had not been trying to curry his favor. Instead she had been dignified, and honest to the point of bluntness. That was a trait that he could admire.

And her appearance was pleasing as well. Her dark auburn hair curled softly around her face, bringing attention to her inquisitive hazel eyes. And the green of her dress, the green of the newly sprouted corn, emphasized her creamy complexion.

All things considered, he could do far worse for himself. Much worse. Now if only he could convince her the marriage would be in her best interests as well.

“Your Grace?” Miss Hastings prompted.

He flushed, realizing that he had been lost in his own thoughts.

“Please, call me Marcus. Being called Your Grace makes me feel as if I am an ancient, and surely there is no need for formality,” he said with a smile.

“Your Grace,” she said, pointedly rejecting his overture. “I thought we had said all that we had to say to one another.”

“I came to make my apologies to you, and to your family,” he said.

“Apologies?”

“Surely you have seen the newspaper reports.”

“Indeed we have. But unless you were the one who gave my name to the correspondents, I do not see that you have anything to apologize for,” Miss Hastings said.

“It was not me. I do not know how they learned of our meeting,” he said. James McGregor suspected one of his clerks had been gossiping with the newspaper correspondents. But there was no proof, and so he would keep his suspicions to himself. “Nonetheless, the situation is of my making, and I bear the blame for dragging you into this.”

“The blame is not wholly yours. A portion must be laid at the door of the newspapers, who are so quick to report scandal without pausing to verify the truth. Not to mention that we would never have met, had not a false friend decided to send in my name as a jest.”

He had come here expecting anger and condemnation, but her reasoned civility surprised him.

“You are generous, but still it falls upon me to make amends. I realize your reputation has been damaged, and I can offer no amends other than to suggest that we be married.”

“No,” she said, rising to her feet. “If that is what you came to say, then this conversation is over.”

“Wait,” he said, reaching out to clasp her hand. “Hear me out.”

She looked at him, and then nodded. He released her hand, and she took her seat.

He felt a faint shimmer of hope. If she was truly set against the match, his light touch would not have stopped her from leaving. So at least a part of her was willing to listen to his proposal.

“By now the entire kingdom knows that I must marry within the week, in order to fulfill the conditions of the late duke’s will.”

“And is securing that fortune so important that you made a fool out of yourself with that ridiculous advertisement?” she asked.

“No, the advertisement was a mistake. A poor jest, scribbled in drunken folly, and sent to the newspaper by accident. By the time I learned of it, the newspapers had decided on their own version of the truth and would not listen to reason.”

“So why continue the charade? Why seek to interview those women who had responded?”

How could he explain without making himself sound more of a fool than he was?

“Once the story was out, it seemed I had no other choice. The scandal caused all other doors to be barred to me.” He shrugged helplessly. “I let McGregor pick the best of the lot. He knew of your family, so the letter with your name on it was among them.”

“And would you really marry a stranger? Is the wealth that important to you?”

“Of course not. For my sake I would refuse the inheritance. I never wanted great wealth or a title. I would give it all back if I could. But I can’t.” He hesitated, then realized that only complete honesty would serve. “It seems I also inherited substantial debts, from my cousin George Wallace who had been in line for the dukedom. Over a hundred thousand pounds, at last reckoning.”

“A hundred thousand pounds? Surely you are mistaken.” Her hazel eyes widened in shock, just as his had when he first learned the news.

“A hundred thousand pounds,” he repeated. “A monstrous sum to be certain, but only a small fraction of the duke’s estate. So you see I have two choices, neither of them good. I can refuse the inheritance and go bankrupt trying to pay a fraction of my cousin’s debts. Or I can give in to Torringford’s whim and marry.”

“And you have decided I will do as well as any other?” she asked. “Surely there is some woman of your acquaintance you could ask.”

“There was, but she had found someone who suited her better. And I have no time in which to court another,” he explained. “I promise you, this folly notwithstanding, I am considered to be of good character, an honorable landowner who cares for his family and tenants. My friends can attest to my virtues.”

“But they will not offer their sisters or daughters in marriage,” Penelope pointed out.

“What was I to do? Write to each of my acquaintances, telling them that I was desperately seeking a wife?”

Given time, he was certain he could have found a suitable bride among the women of his acquaintance. But that was the problem. There had been no time. And he had been so certain that Alice Dunne would accept him, more fool he.

“Is there another gentleman you planned to marry?” he asked, remembering his awkward meeting with Alice Dunne.

“No, I had no plans of marriage. Ever,” Miss Hastings replied.

Such was unusual, in a woman of her age and class. She might be in mourning for some lost love, and had dedicated herself to spinsterhood in his memory. Perhaps she was one of the free thinkers, like Mary Shelley, who held that marriage represented a fatal compromise for a woman. Perhaps her parents’ marriage had been infelicitous and had set her against the institution.

Or mayhaps there was another reason for her reluctance. Perhaps she was being kind, not stating the obvious. That she had no wish to marry him.

“In that case, I offer myself. A marriage of convenience, for both of us. I, to secure my inheritance, and you to reclaim your good name.”

“Do you really think marriage will restore my reputation?”

“All things are possible, in time. Especially since as the Duchess of Torringford, you will be in a position to lead society. And to be a true patroness of the arts and sciences, if you so wish.”

He could see her turning the idea over in her mind. He held his breath, hoping her answer would be yes.

“Then I agree,” she said. “It seems my choices are marriage, or a dilapidated cottage in Selvay Firth.”

Relief flooded through him, and he released the breath he had been holding. He realized that he had been unconsciously expecting her to reject him.

“A cottage?” he asked, as he gathered his thoughts.

“My brother’s suggestion,” Miss Hastings replied.

“I am pleased to find that you hold me in higher esteem than a mere cottage,” he said.

“It was a difficult choice, to be certain.” She smiled, inviting him to share in the jest.

It was amazing how a simple smile could transform her appearance, and he realized for the first time that his intended was indeed out of the ordinary. He wondered what it would have been like had they met under ordinary circumstances. Would he have even noticed her? Would she have noticed him?

He knew himself for a lucky man. His intended was pretty, intelligent, and had a dry sense of humor. It was possible that they could indeed make a success out of their marriage. For the first time in a fortnight he felt hopeful about his future.

Now that he had secured her permission, he saw no need to delay. Better that they be married in haste, before Penelope had a chance to change her mind.

“A civil ceremony is required. I will ask McGregor to make the arrangements. Is Saturday acceptable to you?”

She swallowed nervously, but maintained her composure. Saturday was just three days away. “Saturday will be agreeable.”

“Until then,” he said, rising and taking her hand. He bowed over it.

Her slim hand tightened its grip on his. “Until Saturday,” she replied.

“The sash is crooked, I can feel it,” Penelope declared, twisting herself around as she tried to see the back of her gown.

“The sash is fine,” Harriet Lawton said, coming to stand beside her friend. “The gown is perfect. You look beautiful.”

Penelope frowned doubtfully, wishing there was a mirror so she could check her own reflection. But the small antechamber held nothing except a small table and a half-dozen chairs.

“I should have worn the yellow silk that I had made for Easter,” she said.

She had hesitated up until the last possible instant, before deciding upon the pale blue gown with lace trim that she now wore.

“Sit,” Harriet urged her, “you are fretting over nothing, and you will wear a hole in the carpet with your pacing.”

Harriet took a seat, and after a moment Penelope followed her friend’s example.

“I know you well enough to know it is not the gown that has made you so nervous. If you have doubts about this arrangement, then now is the time to speak. There is still time to call this mad scheme off,” Harriet said.

Trust Harriet to see through her. Indeed, Penelope was nervous, more nervous than she had ever been before. A part of her felt that this was a bizarre dream, and that at any moment she would wake up and laugh at her fanciful imagination. But the rest of her knew that this was all too real. In a mere quarter hour’s time, she would be Penelope Hastings no longer. She would be the Duchess of Torringford, having pledged herself to a gentleman who was still very much a stranger.

“I suppose I am nervous,” she confessed. “But are not all brides nervous on their wedding day?”

“Yes, but generally they are at least acquainted with their prospective husbands. You know practically nothing about this man you are to marry. For all you know, he could be a rake and a lecher.”

“He is nothing of the sort,” Penelope said. “It is true that we have only spoken briefly, but I feel he is a kind man, a gentleman who will behave with honor.”

“Honor,” Harriet echoed. “Is that all you wish for from your marriage? What about those things we used to talk of? True love? A joyous union of souls?”

Penelope shrugged, trying to pretend that she was unconcerned. What matter that this was hardly the type of union that inspired the poets? Hundreds of women across England married for convenience, and they were no worse off than many who married for love. And it was not as if she had chosen this of her own free will.

“This is a business arrangement, not a love match. As long as both parties enter into the marriage with open eyes and a spirit of accommodation, I see no reason why we should not make a success of this marriage. Indeed, we will likely fare better than many who marry in impetuous haste, only to later regret their decisions,” Penelope said.

“As your friend, I must say that I do not like this. If you were to be married, it should be to someone you love with your whole heart. Someone like Stephen Wolcott.”

Penelope winced. Even after five years, it still hurt to hear his name. “Perhaps there was a time when I dreamed of a different kind of marriage. But I am older and wiser now. And having given my heart once, it is not in my nature to fall in love again.”

She smiled ruefully. “Now that sounded like I was asking for pity, but I am not, I assure you. You must wish me happiness instead. This will all turn out for the best, you will see,” she said, reassuring herself at the same time as she reassured her friend.

“I wish you all the happiness you so justly deserve,” Harriet said.

There was a soft rap at the door, and then it opened to reveal Mr. McGregor. “His Grace has arrived. If you ladies are ready?”

“Of course,” Penelope said. There was no point in delay. She was as ready as she would ever be.

She followed Mr. McGregor into his office, where the duke was waiting, and was introduced to his brother Reginald Heywood, who would act as one of the two witnesses, with Harriet serving as the second. Under Scottish law, a couple could be married simply by stating the fact of their marriage in front of two witnesses.

James, for all his insistence on this marriage, had refused to accompany her. She was grateful that no one thought to question his absence.

Prompted by the solicitor, she stated her intention to be wed in a clear firm voice, and was echoed by the duke. Then they each signed the documents that Mr. McGregor had drawn up, and the witnesses affixed their own signatures.

In less than five minutes it was over. Her life had changed irrevocably.

“Your Graces, may I be the first to congratulate you,” Mr. McGregor said. “I wish you every happiness.”

Penelope and Marcus thanked him for his sentiments, and then Reginald Hastings and Harriet Lawton added their own wishes for the couple’s future happiness. The exchange of compliments took far longer than the wedding vows.

Everyone was doing their best to appear as if there were nothing out of the ordinary in this marriage. It was all so civilized and polite. A part of Penelope appreciated their courtesy. And another part wanted to scream in frustration, and tell the others that there was no need for such pretense.

She glanced over at the duke, who wore a mask of grave courtesy. She wondered what he was thinking. Did he harbor regrets of his own? She knew how far this wedding was from her own imaginings as a young woman. Had he, too, imagined a different future for himself? A love match, perhaps, or a marriage of affection and mutual regard?

Enough, she thought to herself. Such musings had no place. What was done was done, and now she and her new husband would learn to make the best of their future.

“If you are ready, I think we should take our leave,” the duke said. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Indeed,” Penelope agreed, meaning not just the wedding trip stretching out before them. It was the rest of their lives.